The Goldfish Protocol

My therapist says anxiety makes me hyper-aware of everything, like a freaking radar. Which explains why I've memorized the Lincoln High social pyramid by week two. At the top: the varsity jacket crew. Middle: band kids, theater geeks, and people who bring reusable straws. Bottom: me, the new girl who talks to her goldfish.

"They're not staring, Bubbles," I whispered to my fishbowl on my desk. "You're paranoid."

Bubbles didn't answer, because he's a goldfish, but his googly eyes seemed skeptical.

I felt like a spy in enemy territory, collecting intel on who dated whom and which teachers didn't notice phones. Then came the papaya incident.

I'd brought one for lunch, fresh from my mom's failed tropical phase. As I peeled it at my corner table, the cafeteria went suspiciously quiet. Chase Miller—resident bull in both build and personality—loomed over me.

"What IS that?" His friends snickered behind him.

"Papaya," I said, voice shaking. "It's a fruit."

Chase picked up a wedge, sniffed it like a bomb, then—holy crap—ate it.

"Not terrible," he said, almost disappointed. His friends deflated. "You got more?"

We split the papaya while he complained about his messed-up ankle and how everyone expected him to be this monster just because he was huge. I learned Chase was secretly obsessed with marine biology and had three fish tanks.

"You should meet Bubbles," I said before I could stop myself.

The next day, he sat with me at lunch. The social pyramid didn't collapse, but it definitely developed some cracks. Turns out, the spy game gets way less lonely when you have someone to trade intel with—even if your first alliance forms over tropical fruit.

Bubbles still hasn't said anything, but I swear he's been swimming smugly ever since.