The Goldfish in the Pool

Maya floated in her backyard pool, iPhone clutched in a waterproof bag against her chest like a protective talisman. The sophomore kickback raged around her—music bumping, laughter echoing off the fence, kids doing cannonballs that splashed water into her face. She felt like a zombie, half-dead from three hours of smiling at people she barely knew, watching everyone live their best lives through a screen while she pretended to be present.

"Yo Maya, you good?" Carlos called from the pool's edge. He was her oldest friend, the one who'd known her since they were goldfish together in elementary school—tiny, forgettable, swimming in the same small pond. But everything was different now. Carlos was varsity soccer team royalty, and Maya was still just... Maya. The girl who stayed in the corner at parties, the one who didn't have the new iPhone 15, the one whose idea of "going out" was studying at the library with her one true friend—a betta fish named Orion.

"Yeah, fine," she lied, treading water. "Just vibing."

Carlos jumped in, creating a wave that pushed her toward the deep end. "You've been out here forever. Come inside. Jordan's doing karaoke and it's lowkey hilarious."

"Maybe later."

He paddled closer. "Maya. For real. You've been acting weird all summer. Ever since..." He trailed off, but they both knew what he meant. Ever since she didn't make the tennis team. Ever since her parents started talking about separation. Ever since she stopped feeling like herself and started feeling like someone wearing a Maya costume.

"I'm not acting weird," she snapped, then immediately regretted it. "Sorry. I'm just... tired."

"Of what?"

"Everything. Being fake happy. Acting like I care about who's dating who. Pretending my phone isn't blowing up with people who only want something. I'm tired of performing, Carlos. I feel like I'm swimming underwater and everyone else is breathing normally."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The party noise faded to background static.

"My uncle has this goldfish," Carlos said suddenly. "Won it at a carnival three years ago. Thing is supposed to have a five-second memory, right? But this fish? It knows when he comes home. It waits by the glass every day at the same time. It remembers."

Maya frowned. "What's your point?"

"I don't know." He splashed water toward her, and for the first time all summer, she laughed. "Maybe that sometimes people remember better than you think they do. Maybe some things stick, even when you're trying to forget them."

He looked at her, really looked at her, and Maya realized Carlos hadn't been drifting away. She had. She'd been so focused on who she wasn't that she'd forgotten who mattered.

"Hey," Carlos said. "Remember when we tried to teach my dog to swim and he just stood on the steps looking at us like we were idiots?"

"Oh my god," Maya groaned. "Don't remind me. We were such losers."

"We were like, seven. Cut us some slack." He grinned. "Race you to the other side? Loser has to do karaoke."

"You're on."

As Maya pushed off the wall, cutting through the water with sudden energy, she realized she hadn't looked at her phone in twenty minutes. The zombie feeling in her chest had faded, replaced by something lighter. The water buoyed her up, and for the first time in months, she was actually swimming instead of just floating through her life. Some things did stick. Some friendships didn't wash away like footprints in the sand. And maybe, just maybe, she could remember how to be real again.