The Goldfish Monologues

My hair looked like a sentient being had a party on my head and died. Again. I stood before the bathroom mirror, smoothing gel over the frizzy rebellion, pretending this was normal preparation for talking to Tyler at lunch.

"You've got this, Fin," I whispered to my goldfish. He hovered in his bowl, orange fins shimmering like he actually understood my social anxiety. Fin was my therapist, my confidant, the only one who knew about my crush on Tyler since seventh grade. When I'd practiced asking him to the spring fl—actually, just asking if he'd sit with me at lunch—Fin had listened through three rounds of rehearsal.

Then Barnaby happened.

My cat, a furry agent of chaos with personal space issues, leaped onto the sink. His tail flicked with calculated mischief. I turned to grab his treats—distraction technique 101—and heard the splash.

Water everywhere. Fin flopping on the counter. My scream shattered something deep and primal.

I snatched Fin between my palms—slimy, desperate, alive—and bolted for the kitchen sink. Barnaby yowled like I'd personally betrayed our friendship. I dumped Fin into a mixing bowl I'd vaguely remember filling earlier that day, watching his gills flutter.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" My mom appeared in the doorway, still in her work blazer.

"Barnaby. Fin. Almost. Death."

"I see that." She surveyed the disaster zone: wet counter, traumatized cat, me with algae-stained hands and hair that had gone from carefully styled to something resembling electrocuted seaweed. "So, does this mean you're not nervous about lunch anymore?"

I stared at her. Then at Fin, recovering like the tiny champion he was. Then at Barnaby, who was now aggressively grooming like nothing happened.

"Actually," I said, laughing until my stomach hurt, "I think I'm good."

Because really, if I could save my goldfish from assassination by my own cat while looking like a drowned rat, I could handle sitting next to Tyler Holland.

Probably.