The Goldfish Conspiracy

Lila stared at her phone, thumb hovering over Maya's contact. Three days since The Incident at the padel courts and still no response. Not even a dry "lol" or a passive-aggressive thumbs up.

"She's ghosting you," announced Gary, her pet goldfish, bubbling near the glass. Well, Lila imagined he would say that if goldfish could talk. Instead, he just swam in increasingly concerned circles, his orange scales flashing in the LED tank light.

Gary knew everything. He'd been there through Lila's entire padel-induced identity crisis—when she'd tried to reinvent herself as "Sporty Lila" just because Maya mentioned wanting someone to hit the courts with. Never mind that Lila's hand-eye coordination was practically nonexistent. Never mind that she'd accidentally served the ball straight into her own forehead during their first match.

The real problem wasn't the padel. It was what happened after, when Maya had invited her over for "post-match snacks." Lila, desperate to seem chill and low-maintenance, had practically inhaled the spinach dip Maya's mom made, only to spend the next hour hiding in the bathroom because apparently her stomach didn't do "chill."

Now she sat on her bed, scrolling through Instagram stories of Maya at the mall with her other friends, looking effortlessly perfect in ways Lila couldn't even fake.

"What if I just showed up at her locker with... I don't know, a peace offering?" Lila asked Gary.

Gary blew a particularly judgmental bubble.

Her phone buzzed. Maya.

"u up? wanna play padel tomorrow? bring snacks this time tho😂"

Lila stared at the screen. She'd been agonizing for three days, and Maya had been... what? Thinking about spinach dip?

She typed back: "only if u promise not to make fun of my terrible backhand again"

"deal. my place at 3? also bring more of that spinach stuff"

Lila grinned. Some things were worth the cringe moments. Even if Gary would never let her live it down.