The Goldfish Incident

Max's summer gig at Pet Paradise wasn't exactly where he pictured himself at sixteen, but whatever beats mowing lawns for his dad. Most days, he floated between the fish aisles, zoning out while toddlers pressed their faces against the glass tanks. But today, SHE walked in—Chloe, the junior who sat two rows behind him in AP Bio and never once noticed his existence.

She was heading straight toward the goldfish section. Max's brain immediately went into panic mode. His hands were already sweating, and he hadn't even said hello yet.

"Hey, Max, right?" she asked, and yep, his name was on his nametag but still.

"Uh, yeah. Hey." Smooth. "Looking for a fish?"

"My sister's birthday. She wants a goldfish but my parents are totally against it." She leaned against the tank, and Max's stomach did this weird fluttery thing that had nothing to do with the fish swimming in circles beside them. "What's the deal with goldfish anyway? Don't they just, like, die?"

"Actually," Max said, suddenly finding his confidence, "people think goldfish have three-second memories, but that's a total myth. They can remember stuff for months." And then he was off, explaining proper tank cycling and pH levels, and Chloe was actually listening, nodding like he wasn't being a complete nerd about fish science.

But then—the incident.

He'd been gesturing with the fish net while making a point about swimming patterns, and somehow managed to catch the display tank's power cable with his foot. The whole fish tank system went dark. The bubble wand stopped bubbling. The water filter went silent. And somewhere in the chaos, he knocked over the little cup of fish food, which went everywhere.

Chloe stared at him. Then she started cracking up. "Did you just manslaughter an entire fish ecosystem?"

Max's face was burning. He was ready to teleport out of existence, but then Chloe was still laughing and NOT leaving.

"That was honestly the most epic thing I've seen all summer," she said, pulling out her phone. "Here, put your number in. Maybe you can help me not kill whatever fish I end up getting."

Later that night, Max lay in bed replaying everything, his phone buzzing with a text from an unknown number: goldfish guy. His summer wasn't turning out so lame after all.