The Goldfish Monologue

Riley's locker was the social equivalent of a biohazard zone — a mysterious ecosystem of forgotten homework, half-empty protein bar wrappers, and that one tangerine she'd mentally labeled The Forbidden Fruit because Jason from AP Chem had smiled at her right before she'd shoved it in there three weeks ago.

"You gonna eat that?" Marcus asked, leaning against the locker next to hers like he owned the hallway.

Riley jumped. "It's literally fossilized. Also, no."

"Fair." He adjusted his backpack straps. "So, about Charlie's party tonight..."

Here it came. The invite that was definitely coming. The one where Marcus, her oldest friend in the world, would casually mention that everyone was going and hadn't she heard? The social equivalent of being left behind while the rest of the grade moved on to college and jobs and whatever came after high school.

"I'm busy," Riley said, even though she wasn't. "Probably."

"Busy studying for the vitamin supplement test in Health?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Riles, that's not until next week."

She hated that he knew her schedule better than she did.

"Look," she said, closing her locker with more force than necessary. "Parties aren't really my vibe. You know this. I'm more of a 'stay home and overthink everything' personality type."

"Jason's gonna be there."

Riley's face did something extremely uncool. "So?"

"So you've been carrying around that rotting orange for three weeks because he smiled at you once." Marcus grinned. "Bro, just talk to him."

"First of all, it's a tangerine. Second, that's not —" Riley stopped. "Wait. You noticed?"

"I notice everything." Marcus's voice softened. "That's kinda what friends do.

Riley felt something in her chest shift. "Even the weird stuff?"

"Especially the weird stuff." He nudged her shoulder with his. "Like how you talk to your mom's goldfish like it's a therapist. Or how you still sleep with that stuffed octopus from third grade. Or how you pretend you don't care about parties but secretly really want to go."

She stared at him. "I hate you sometimes."

"Love you too, Riles." Marcus checked his phone. "Pick you up at eight? And please throw away that tangerine. I can smell it from here."

Riley opened her locker, grabbed the offending fruit, and aimed for the trash can by the bathrooms.

She missed spectacularly.

"Clutch performance," Marcus called after her as she walked away, grinning despite herself.

Some friends were just goldfish in a school of sharks — deceptively simple, endlessly complicated, and somehow keeping you alive when you forgot how to swim.