The Goldfish Relay

I wasn't supposed to be at Petco on a Tuesday afternoon when I should've been at baseball practice. But here I was, clutching a plastic bag like it contained the Holy Grail instead of a fantail goldfish that cost three ninety-nine.

"You're gonna get cut from the team, Maya," Liam had warned that morning, spinning his baseball bat like he owned the dugout. "Coach is already talking about calling up freshmen."

I'd rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my brain, but the truth was, he wasn't wrong. I hadn't hit anything since the season started, and my batting average was currently winning medals for Most Disappointing.

But the goldfish wasn't even for me. It was for Josh—the quiet kid in AP Bio who sat behind me and drew fish in the margins of his notes. When I'd asked why fish, he'd mumbled something about how they were underrated. How people thought they had three-second memories but that was a myth. How they remembered everything.

"Weird flex, but okay," I'd said, and then somehow I'd offered to pick one up for him because his parents were strict about pets and I had my older sister's ID.

Now I was power-walking—practically running—down Main Street with this plastic bag swaying like a pendulum of doom. The late bell had rung twenty minutes ago. My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably my mom wondering where I was, probably Coach Miller wondering why his star outfielder (ha) was ghosting practice.

But then I saw Josh waiting outside the pet store, looking like he expected me to bail. His face lit up when he saw the fish, and I felt something weird in my chest—like maybe this random, impulsive decision mattered more than batting practice ever could.

"Thanks," he said, taking the bag carefully. "I named him Bubbles."

"Original," I deadpanned, but I was smiling.

We sat on the curb watching Bubbles swim circles in his temporary home, and Josh told me about how he wanted to be a marine biologist. How his parents wanted him to focus on "practical things." How he felt like he was swimming upstream all the time.

"Same," I said, and I meant it. Baseball wasn't practical either—not for girls, not in my family, not when I could barely hit the ball. But it was mine.

"Wanna come over?" Josh asked. "I have cable. And, like, snacks."

We watched nature documentaries and made fun of the narrator's dramatic voice. We skipped practice and expectations and just existed. For the first time in forever, I wasn't running from something—I was running toward something. Even if it was just a goldfish and a boy who drew fish in his notes and made me feel seen.

Coach cut me from the team the next day. But Josh Bubbles and I started a YouTube channel about underrated pets. And honestly? Best trade I ever made.