The Goldfish Incident

Leo had been crushing on Maya since seventh period algebra, so when her mom posted on the neighborhood list serv needing a pet sitter for the weekend, he'd responded in approximately three seconds. Now he was standing in their kitchen, staring down Biscuit—a seventy-pound golden retriever who looked at him like he knew exactly how much Leo was overthinking this.

"Just two pills wrapped in papaya," Maya's text read. "He literally won't take them any other way. Goldfish flakes are for Sir Finnick. Don't mix them up."

Don't mix them up. Famous last words.

Leo was halfway through unwrapping the papaya when his phone buzzed. MAYA: omg are you at my house?? LEO: yeah everything's under control

Everything was very much not under control. Biscuit had already eaten the papaya—pills and all—but in his defense, the dog had moved with shocking speed. And now Leo had accidentally knocked the goldfish container onto the floor while trying to clean up the papaya seeds.

Biscuit was now happily eating the goldfish flakes mixed with the remaining papaya pieces like it was a Michelin-star tasting menu.

Leo was still frantically scooping goldfish flakes into Sir Finnick's tank when he heard the front door open.

"Mom said she forgot her—" Maya froze in the kitchen doorway, taking in the scene: Leo on the floor with a handful of orange flakes, papaya seeds scattered like confetti, and Biscuit wearing what looked suspiciously like a satisfied smirk.

They stared at each other for three seconds.

Then Maya started laughing. Not mean laughing—the genuine, doubled-over kind.

"I told you not to mix them up," she said, wiping her eyes. "Biscuit literally had one job."

"He moved fast," Leo defended weakly. "Like, suspiciously fast."

Maya sat on the floor next to him, their shoulders touching. "He does that. It's why we hide our chocolate."

They sat there for a moment, Sir Finnick swimming obliviously behind them, Biscuit snoring gently from his papaya-and-goldfish induced food coma.

"You know," Maya said, "you're literally the worst pet sitter ever."

"Yeah," Leo admitted. "Yeah, I am."

"But," she added, "you're also the only one who would've panicked enough to clean Sir Finnick's tank while sitting on my kitchen floor."

"Is that... good?"

Maya grinned. "Running from your problems is so overrated anyway. Besides, Biscuit seems to like you."

Leo looked at the dog, who thumped his tail approvingly.

"Yeah," Leo said, feeling something in his chest loosen. "I guess he does."