The Goldfish in the Palm of My Hand

My palm was sweating so much I thought the baseball might slip right through my fingers. Not that it mattered—Chase was watching from the bleachers, probably laughing his perfect laugh with his perfect friends.

"You good, Maya?" Lena asked, tossing me a water bottle.

"Obviously," I lied. "Just warming up my arm."

We were at the park for Jordan's birthday thing—basically an excuse to hang out and act like we knew how to play sports. The real reason I'd come? Chase said he might show up.

Suddenly, the sky went purple-gray. Lightning crackled across the clouds like something out of a movie.

"Storm's coming!" someone yelled.

We all scrambled toward the covered pavilion. I ended up squished next to Chase at a picnic table, which was exactly where I wanted to be and exactly where I didn't know how to act.

"Nice arm," he said, and my stomach did this whole gymnastics routine.

"Thanks," I managed, trying to play it cool. "I was totally gonna crush that home run."

He laughed, and I noticed he was holding something—a clear plastic bag with a goldfish swimming inside. One of those carnival prizes that never survives the week.

"My sister made me win it," he explained. "She's obsessed with those games. Said this guy's name is Fish Sticks."

"Fish Sticks," I repeated. "Bold choice."

The rain started hammering the pavilion roof. We sat there for an hour, talking about nothing and everything—school, his weird obsession with ancient Egypt (he had a pyramid tattoo on his ankle, which was unexpected), my disastrous attempt at baking cookies last week. It was the kind of conversation that felt like lightning, like something rare and electric.

"Hey," he said suddenly, as the rain slowed down. "My band's playing at The Garage next Friday. You should come."

I held his gaze, feeling the weight of the goldfish bag between us like it was something sacred.

"Yeah," I said. "I will."

And just like that, the storm broke.