The Goldfish Monologue

I stood outside the padel court, gripping my racquet like it owed me money. The new kid, whatshisname, kept serving aces that made my brain feel like scrambled eggs.

"You good, Maya?" asked Chloe, flipping her perfect hair.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

Truth? I was thinking about the conversation I'd had with my mom that morning. She'd dropped the bomb: we're moving to Australia. Three weeks. Gone. The padel team, my spot at the lunch table, everything—poof.

I got home and flopped onto my bed. Loki, my cat, gave me that judgy look from the windowsill like he knew my life was falling apart. Meanwhile, Buster (the family dog) was losing his mind at a squirrel, completely oblivious that his favorite human was about to abandon him.

And then there was Fin.

I wandered over to his bowl on my dresser. My goldfish, who'd survived three moves, a cat attack, and my brother forgetting to feed him for a week. Fin just kept swimming, doing his little fish thing, totally unbothered.

"You've got it figured out, haven't you?" I whispered, tapping the glass.

And then it hit me—stupidly obvious. I'd been so fixated on what I was losing that I'd forgotten what came next. New country. New school. Fresh start. Nobody at that Australian high school would know I was the girl who threw up in the cafeteria after eating suspicious tacos. I could reinvent myself.

My phone buzzed. A text from whatshisname (apparently his name was Liam): "Want to hit some balls after practice tomorrow?"

I stared at it. For the first time all day, I smiled. Maybe I'd take him up on it. Or maybe I wouldn't. But I had three weeks to figure it out.

Loki meowed, flopping onto his back. Buster finally caught the squirrel's attention and barked triumphantly. Fin did a little loop.

"Yeah," I said. "I got this."