The Goldfish Conspiracy

Marcus pulled his **baseball** cap lower, sweat already slicking his **palm**s as he stood in the cafeteria line. Three weeks at Northwood High and he was still practically invisible—a ghost drifting through the hallway **pyramid** of cool kids in the middle, weirdos at the edges, and everyone else fighting not to slide down.

"Hey, New Kid."

Marcus turned to find Riley Chen leaning against the lockers, grinning like she knew something he didn't. She was that sophomore who always wore the same beat-up beanie and carried a Ziploc bag containing a tiny **goldfish** named Gerald.

"You're doing it wrong," she said.

"Doing what wrong?"

"The trying-to-be-cool thing. Your **hat** is tilted at exactly forty-five degrees. That screams 'I'm trying too hard.'"

Marcus felt his face burn. "Who are you, the style police?"

"No, I'm your savior." Riley fished a crumpled flyer from her pocket. "Gaming club meets Thursday. We're short a healer for our raid team."

"I don't even know what that means."

"Perfect." She winked. "See you there, Marcus."

He watched her walk away, Gerald's bag swishing with each step. Something about her confidence—how she owned her weirdness instead of apologizing for it—stuck in his chest.

Thursday came, and Marcus showed up. And the week after that. By month's end, he'd tilted his **hat** back to its natural angle, stopped caring about the cafeteria **pyramid**, and learned that the **goldfish** wasn't even Riley's—she'd won it at a carnival and somehow became the weirdest person there by actually keeping it alive.

Some friendships start with fireworks. Others start with a sweaty **palm** and a very confused **goldfish** named Gerald.