The Goldfish in My Palm

The house party was already starting to tilt sideways—either the cheap punch or just the sheer overwhelming energy of three hundred juniors crammed into someone's basement. Maya had dragged me here, insisting this was THE social event of the semester, but I'd spent forty-five minutes hovering near the snack table, trying to look like I wasn't counting down the minutes until I could bail.

Then I saw him.

Jake Martinez. Junior class secretary, cross country captain, somehow made varsity lacrosse work despite never talking about it. He was standing by the back slider, nursing a soda, looking almost as out of place as I felt.

My heart did that embarrassing flutter thing. The one where you're literally sixteen going on seventeen and somehow still convinced that eye contact across a crowded room could change your entire life.

I adjusted my dress, practiced my casual cool face, and headed over.

"Hey," I said, leaning against the doorframe like it was the most natural thing in the world. " hiding out here?"

Jake laughed, and it was genuinely nice. Not mean-girl nice, but actual nice. "Something like that. These things aren't really my scene."

"Me neither," I admitted. "Maya said I had to come or I'd 'die alone and friendless,' so..."

He grinned. "Glad you didn't listen to her."

We talked for twenty minutes about nothing—AP classes that were destroying us, the new history teacher who gave pop quizzes like they were candy, how both our cats were judgy little jerks who acted like they owned our houses. His cat was named nacho. Mine was Professor Paws. We were both ridiculous, and somehow that made it better.

"My little sister won a goldfish at the carnival last week," Jake said, pulling out his phone to show me a picture. "Named it Sparkle. It lasted three days before we had to give it a funeral in the backyard."

"Dude, that's rough," I said, but I was smiling.

He held out his hand. "Wanna get out of here? There's this spot by the creek—"

"Jake!" Some sophomore girl waved at him from across the room. "Your ride's leaving!"

He checked his phone, cursed under his breath. "I gotta go. But..." He hesitated. "Same time next Friday? There's this bonfire thing at—"

"YES," I said, entirely too loudly.

He laughed, and as he squeezed past me, his hand brushed mine—just for a second, his palm warm against my fingers.

"Text you," he called over his shoulder, and then he was gone.

I stood there grinning like an idiot, and somewhere in my purse, my phone buzzed. Unknown number: hey it's jake from the party. creekgaragebonfire???

I stared at it. My hand was still tingling where he'd touched me.

Maybe I wouldn't die alone and friendless after all.