The Goldfish Funeral Protocol

The cafeteria smelled like regret and overcooked vegetables. Maya sat across from me, meticulously picking through her salad, removing every single piece of spinach like it was radioactive.

"My mom says I need more iron," she muttered, pushing the offending greens to the side. "But honestly? I'd rather be anemic than eat whatever sad leaf this is."

I laughed, but it came out nervous. Because exactly three leaves of spinach were currently wedged between my front teeth, and I hadn't spoken to Jayden — the cute sophomore who'd been leaving comments on my posts — in forty-five minutes.

"Hey," Jayden said, sliding into the seat beside me. His backpack bumped my chair. "You coming to the thing?"

"The thing?" I managed, doing that tight-lipped smile people do when they're hiding a social disaster.

"The goldfish funeral." He looked at me like I was supposed to know. "Tyler's pet died this morning. Apparently it's a whole vibe now. We're doing it behind the bleachers at 4:20."

The goldfish. Bubbles. The one Tyler won at the carnival and kept in a tiny bowl on his dresser until it went belly-up. Of course this was happening. Of course my crush was inviting me to a memorial service for a fish that had lived maybe three weeks.

"So... are you?" Jayden prompted.

"Um, yeah? Maybe?" I felt my face burning. The spinach situation was becoming critical.

"Cool." He grinned. "I'll save you a spot next to the, like, ceremonial area."

He left, and I immediately grabbed my phone. Maya was already filming a TikTok about how schools need better trauma support for deceased classroom pets.

"What am I supposed to wear to a fish funeral?" I whispered.

"Black," Maya said without looking up. "It's what grief demands. Also, bring flowers."

I spent the next period panicking in the bathroom, extracting the spinach with my fingernail. By 4:15, I was standing behind the bleachers with thirty other people, watching Tyler dramatically pour a whole bottle of vitamin D supplement into the ground — "so Bubbles can grow strong fins in fish heaven," he explained, eyes suspiciously red.

Someone was playing acoustic guitar poorly. Someone else had made a tiny coffin out of a tissue box. It was simultaneously the most ridiculous and most genuine thing I'd ever witnessed.

Jayden found me in the crowd.

"You came," he said, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, well." I shrugged. "Couldn't miss Bubbles's big send-off."

He laughed, and it was better than anything I'd imagined. "You want to get food after? I'm starving."

"Only if we don't go anywhere that serves salad," I said.

"Deal."

As we walked away from the most bizarre funeral I'd ever attend, Tyler was still pouring vitamins into the dirt, and I realized this was exactly what high school was supposed to be: ridiculous, overwhelming, weirdly meaningful, and completely unexpected — kind of like a goldfish that somehow managed to change everything.