The Goldfish Manifesto

The social pyramid at Northwood High had Zeke at the apex, naturally. I occupied base level—somewhere near the cafeteria leftovers and lost gym uniforms. Basic geometry, really.

"You need a glow-up, Maya," Chloe declared over lunch, scrolling through Zeke's story. "Your hair's giving..." She waved a hand. "Whatever the opposite of main character energy is."

I'd cut it myself two weeks ago. Big mistake. Now I looked like a startled poodle.

Friday, Zeke's house. The pyramid of red Solo cups grew taller with every crashing wave of bass. Somewhere between floors three and seven, someone handed me a cup. Everything got swimmy.

By midnight, I found myself on the roof with Finn, whose haircut defied gravity and possibly physics. We watched his prize from earlier—a single goldfish in a mason jar—swim confused circles.

"Bloop," the fish said, with its whole body.

"That's us," Finn nodded. "Just. Swimming. In circles."

"Profound,"

"No, seriously. Zeke's whole pyramid scheme—it's just..." He gestured vaguely. "Everyone trying to climb over everyone. For what? To be at the top of some invisible tower that doesn't exist outside of Northwood?"

My hair chose that moment to escape its ponytail, exploding into whatever shape it wanted.

Finn grinned. "There it is."

"What?"

"The glow. It's been there the whole time."

We didn't hook up. That's not this story. Instead, we started a club. The Goldfish Alliance. Our manifesto: No climbing. No pyramids. Just swimming in whatever direction feels right. Membership included: me, Finn, his goldfish (President), and eventually Chloe, who dyed her hair blue on a Tuesday because she "felt like it."

Zeke stopped being the apex when everyone stopped treating him like he was. Turns out, pyramids only work if people agree to stand on each other.

My hair's still weird. But weird is having a moment.