The Goldfish Funeral

The goldfish floated sideways in its bowl, its orange scales catching the afternoon light. Dead. My best friend Maya sat on my bed, scrolling through her phone, half-watching as I stared at it.

"Dude, it's been three days," she said, not looking up. "Either flush it or bury it. This is weird."

"His name was Bubbles," I said.

"You named him Bubbles? That's so basic."

"I was twelve. Twelve-year-olds aren't creative."

Bubbles had been my consolation prize when Jessica dumped me last month. She'd said I was too immature. I'd come home with a carnival goldfish in a plastic bag, like that proved anything.

The school social pyramid had shifted again. Jessica was dating a junior now, hanging with the varsity crowd at the top. Maya and I were somewhere in the middle — not losers, definitely not popular. Solidly average. Which somehow felt worse than being at the bottom.

"Cable's out again," Maya said, tossing her phone onto my duvet. "No wifi either. My life is over."

"We could actually talk?"

"Gross."

But she grinned, and we ended up sitting on my bedroom floor with Bubbles in a Tupperware container, digging through my closet for something to use as a shovel. We settled on an old beach shovel from when I was seven.

The backyard was overgrown, my mom's garden project abandoned after she went back to work. We dug near the fence, under the oak tree that dropped leaves everywhere.

"You know," Maya said, dirt under her fingernails, "this is literally the most depressing thing we've ever done."

"Jessica's dating a college guy now," I said.

"What? Since when?"

"Since yesterday. Saw them at Starbucks."

Maya stopped digging. "Damn. The pyramid just keeps getting taller, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

We buried Bubbles. Maya made a cross out of two popsicle sticks she found in her pocket. We stood there for a minute, not saying anything, while the sun started going down.

"You know what's weird?" Maya said finally. "Jessica's climbing the pyramid, but she's miserable. I see her crying in the bathroom between third and fourth period."

"Seriously?"

"She broke up with you because you were 'immature,' but she's dating a guy who calls her 'dude' and forgets her birthday." Maya shook her head. "Pyramid's overrated."

We walked back inside, our shoes caked with dirt. The cable box showed a blue screen, still no signal. My phone had zero bars.

"We're so disconnected," I said.

"Yeah," Maya said, flopping onto my bed. "But Bubbles had a good funeral."

"Best funeral a goldfish ever had."

She laughed, and for the first time since Jessica dumped me, I didn't feel like I was at the bottom of anything. Maya was right — pyramids were overrated. Some people were too busy climbing to notice who was waiting at the bottom with a beach shovel and a Tupperware container.

"Want to play cards?" I asked.

"Only if I win."

"You always win."

"Exactly." She sat up. "Deal."

So we played cards by flashlight while the cable stayed dead and Bubbles rested peacefully under the oak tree, and somehow that was exactly enough.