The Goldfish in the Fountain

The first day of my summer job at the country club, I learned three things: one, never trust Chad when he says "trust me bro," two, papaya is an unholy crime against nature, and three, running in wet shoes on marble is a death wish.

I was fifteen, desperate for cash, and trying way too hard to impress Mia, who worked the snack bar and had the kind of smile that made my brain turn into static. Chad, my supervisor with the charisma of a damp paper towel, decided my initiation would involve moving the giant inflatable pool pyramid from storage to the main pool.

"It's easy," he said, already backing away toward the gym. "Just don't let it fall."

The pyramid was ten feet of multicolored vinyl tragedy waiting to happen. I made it exactly seventeen steps before gravity betrayed me. The whole thing exploded outward like a rainbow apocalypse, sending pink flamingos and neon unicorns sliding across the deck.

Mia watched from the snack bar, trying not to laugh. She failed.

"Need help?" she called, already walking over with a papaya smoothie.

"I've got it," I lied, trying to stack a llama on top of a pizza slice. " totally under control."

She handed me the smoothie. "Try this. It's literally life-changing."

One sip and I understood why people commit crimes. It tasted like soap and regret had a baby and named it papaya. My face did something involuntary and Mia absolutely lost it.

"Your expression right now—I wish I had my phone," she gasped.

But the real disaster came later. Chad's "brilliant idea" for the club's summer luau involved releasing twenty goldfish into the ornamental fountain for "aesthetic vibes." Because apparently fifteenth-century monarchs were his role models.

The fish were supposed to stay in the fountain. They did not stay in the fountain.

Whatever. Long story short, I ended up running barefoot across the golf course at dusk, chasing escaped goldfish with a butterfly net while Mia died laughing on the clubhouse patio.

"You're an idiot," she called out, but she was smiling.

"I'm chasing fish for minimum wage," I yelled back. "This is rock bottom."

But when I finally collapsed next to her on the patio steps, sweaty and defeated and somehow still employed, she handed me a different smoothie. This one was mango.

"No papaya this time," she said. "I promise."

And somehow, that made everything okay.