The Goldfish Funeral

My hair was a disaster. Mom's attempt at saving twenty bucks on haircuts had left me looking like I'd lost a fight with a lawnmower, and now I had to face eighth grade looking like a human chia pet. I'd spent the morning in the bathroom, trying to fix it with gel and hope, but ultimately settling on a beanie that I wasn't technically allowed to wear inside.

But that wasn't even the worst part.

"Bubbles died," Maya announced from the doorway, not even looking up from her phone. My little sister stood there holding the glass bowl like it was evidence. The goldfish inside floated sideways, its orange scales catching the morning light in a way that felt weirdly beautiful and totally devastating at the same time.

"What? No way. He was fine yesterday."

"Ghost fish," Maya said with a shrug. "Also, we're out of Cheerios."

I stared at Bubbles, this stupid fish that I'd won at the school carnival last year and somehow kept alive through sheer negligence and occasional sprinklings of those stinky fish flakes. He'd been there through my braces phase, through that time I cried watching a Hallmark commercial, through everything. And now he was just... gone.

"We should have a funeral," I said, surprising myself. "A proper one."

Maya snorted. "You're so dramatic. Just flush him."

"No!" I grabbed the bowl. "He deserves better. He was a warrior. He survived that time I forgot to feed him for two weeks. He's basically immortal."

I carried Bubbles outside to the backyard, digging through the garage for the old sandbox shovel. The spring air was crisp, the kind that smells like possibility and also, weirdly, like my neighbor's freshly-cut grass. I found a spot under the oak tree, right where the sunlight dappled through like tiny spotlights.

That's when I heard it – this soft, pathetic mewing sound from behind the bushes.

I froze. Please no. Please don't let it be what I thought it was.

A cat crept out – this scraggly, patchy-calico mess with one ear that looked like it'd seen better days and eyes that had definitely seen some stuff. It blinked at me, then at the fish bowl, and I knew immediately that this was about to become a problem.

"No," I whispered, clutching Bubbles closer. "He's not for you. He's in transition."

The cat took a step forward, tail twitching like it was plotting something. This was it. This was how my goldfish funeral would go down – not with dignity, but with a feline heist.

But then the cat did something weird. It just sat there, watching me with what looked suspiciously like understanding. Like it knew. Like maybe it had lost something too, once.

"You want to come to the funeral?" I asked, feeling ridiculous.

The cat blinked slowly. I took that as a yes.

So there I was, hair disaster hidden under a confiscated beanie, digging a tiny grave under the oak tree while my possibly-feral feline guest watched respectfully. Maya eventually came out, rolling her eyes but holding an old shoebox she'd decorated with markers – R.I.P. BUBBLES, WARIOR FISH written in bubble letters.

We said nice things about him. How he never judged me for talking to him when I was lonely. How he was orange like my favorite hoodie. How he'd basically carried the entire aquarium ecosystem on his tiny fish shoulders.

By the time we finished, the cat was curled up in a sunbeam next to the grave, looking totally comfortable. Like it lived here now.

"I think he's staying," Maya said, already scratching behind its ears.

"We are not keeping that cat."

"You're right," she agreed. "HE is keeping US."

The cat opened one eye, almost like it was laughing at me. And for the first time all day, I didn't hate my hair. I didn't even care that I'd be the kid with the bad haircut who conducted a goldfish funeral with a stray cat witness. Some things are bigger than hair.

"Fine," I sighed. "But we're naming him Fish. It's poetic."