The Goldfish Protocol

Steve the goldfish lived in a bowl on my nightstand, swimming in circles like he knew something I didn't. Mom swore those gummy vitamins would help me grow, but at sixteen, I'd already stopped growing outward and started growing awkward in every other direction.

"You're staring again," said my best friend Ben, nudging me in the cafeteria.

I wasn't staring. I was conducting research. There's a difference.

Maya Lin sat across the lunchroom like a sphinx—mysterious, unreadable, and somehow knowing everyone's secrets without speaking a word. She transferred in three weeks ago and had already established herself as the kind of person who existed in her own orbit while the rest of us scrambled around like confused planets.

"I'm not staring," I lied. "I'm observing. There's a scientific method involved."

"Right." Ben popped a vitamin C supplement from his lunchbox. "Because that's definitely what this is. Not you having a crush."

"I don't have a crush. I have questions."

"About what?"

"About how someone can be that effortlessly cool while eating cafeteria pizza." I nodded toward Maya, who was indeed consuming the questionable pepperoni slice with dignified resignation.

That night, my cat Miso judged me from the foot of my bed as I lay on my ceiling, overthinking everything. Miso had that special feline talent for making you feel like your emotional crisis was personally inconveniencing her.

"You think she'd notice if I actually talked to her?" I asked Miso.

Miso yawned, exposing needle-sharp teeth.

"Right. Helpful as always."

The next day, fate—or whatever cosmic entity controls high school social dynamics—intervened. I'd somehow been volunteered to help set up for the spring dance, which meant hanging streamers in the gym while Maya painted banners with artistic precision that made my finger-spaced letters look like they'd been done by a particularly uncoordinated kindergartner.

She caught me watching her work for the third time.

"You know," she said, not looking up from her brush, "if you're going to spy, you should at least be subtle about it."

My face burned hotter than the gym during prom season. "I wasn't—"

"You've been observing me all week." She finally looked up, and her eyes were this impossible shade of brown that made thinking difficult. "It's cool. I've been observing you too."

Wait, what?

"You have?"

"You're interesting." She wiped paint on her jeans like ruining perfectly good clothing was no big deal. "You think I don't notice you watching, but you're actually kind of cute about it. Like my goldfish. He just swims around and stares too."

"That's the weirdest compliment I've ever received."

Maya grinned, and suddenly the sphinx wasn't mysterious anymore—she was just a girl with paint on her hands and a really nice smile. "Take it as a win. Most people just stare at my hair."

"Your hair is nice," I said, then immediately wanted to dissolve into the gym floor.

Her grin widened. "See? Cute."

That night, I lay in bed replaying every second of our conversation. Miso jumped onto my chest, purring like she'd personally orchestrated the whole thing.

"You're a genius," I told her.

Miso closed her eyes, satisfied with my improved judgment.

Steve swam in lazy circles around his bowl. I took my vitamins without Mom having to remind me. And somewhere in the distances between observation and actually living, between sphinx and goldfish and spy and cat, I'd somehow managed to start becoming someone who did more than just watch from the sidelines.

Tomorrow, I'd actually ask Maya for her number. Probably. Maybe after I practiced exactly what to say approximately three hundred times.

Miso opened one eye, like she knew exactly what I was thinking, and approved.