The Goldfish in My Pocket

My hair was doing that thing again — that tragic, hopeless thing where it stuck up in three different directions no matter how much water I slapped on it. Mom swore the new vitamins would help. "It's biotin, Marcus. Your uncle's barber swears by it." The vitamin was the size of a small car. I'd choked it down that morning, and now I was staring at my reflection, wondering if biotin could fix social suicide.

"You watching him?" Mia yelled from her room.

"Yeah, yeah, Goldie's fine."

The goldfish was not fine. Goldie was floating sideways, doing this unsettling little tilt that screamed existential crisis. I'd googled it — swim bladder disease, dropsy, or maybe he was just dramatic. Either way, my seven-year-old sister would lose her entire mind if Goldie went to the great bowl beyond before she got back from her friend's house.

Buster, our chocolate lab with zero chill and even less impulse control, had his nose pressed against the glass. His tail thumped against the bookshelf. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* Like a countdown.

"Don't even think about it," I warned him.

My phone buzzed. *Jenna:* *Baseball tryouts in 20. You coming?*

Right. Baseball. The sport I'd pretended to play for three weeks because Jenna, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since August, mentioned she thought guys who played baseball were cute. Now I was committed — fully trapped in my own architectured disaster. I couldn't show up. Not today. Not with hair that looked like I'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket and a goldfish that was literally about to die.

"You coming?" Jenna texted again. *Riley says you're actually good lol*

I stared at my reflection. Then at Goldie, who was now fully vertical, somehow both tragic and majestic in his rebellion against gravity.

"Fine," I said to no one. "Fine."

I scooped Goldie into a temporary travel cup, grabbed my bike, and stuffed Buster's leash into my pocket with exactly zero plan. We rode to the park — me, my gravity-defying hair, a dying fish, and a dog who barked at everything.

Jenna was in the outfield, throwing a ball back and forth with Riley. They saw me coming. I saw them seeing me. There was no recovering from this.

"Marcus!" Jenna waved. "You made it!"

I got off my bike. Goldie sloshed around in his cup. Buster immediately tried to eat a dandelion.

"This is Goldie," I said, holding up the cup like it was normal. "He's having a medical emergency."

Jenna stared at me. Then at my hair. Then at the fish.

"We were just gonna get pizza after," she said, like this was the most normal sentence in the world. "Wanna come?"

"Does Goldie like pizza?" Riley asked.

"Goldie likes PEPPERONI," Buster barked, or that's what it sounded like, and Jenna laughed, and Riley cracked up, and I stood there with my terrible hair and my dying fish and realized I'd never been more myself in my entire life.

"Only if it's the good place," I said. "Not that cheap stuff."

"Deal," Jenna said.

Goldie did a little flip. Maybe he wasn't dying after all. Maybe he was just ready for his close-up.