The Goldfish Sacrifice

Marcus's life was officially over. He stood in the school cafeteria, holding a tray with the world's most unfortunate lunch arrangement, while Savannah—the most perfect human being to ever exist—sat three tables away.

She'd won a goldfish at the carnival last weekend. A regular goldfish that probably didn't even have a name, but Marcus had spent three days researching fish care because that's what happens when you're sixteen and helplessly obsessed with someone who doesn't know you exist. The goldfish represented everything he wasn't: effortless, carefree, the kind of person who wins things.

"Spinach again?" Tyrell raised an eyebrow as he slid into the seat across from Marcus. "Your mom still on that health kick?"

"Whatever, man." Marcus poked at the green mess on his plate. "At least I don't look like a bear that just rolled out of bed."

Tyrell smoothed his hoodie, completely ignoring the burn. "Tryouts for baseball are Friday. You coming or what?"

Baseball. The one thing Marcus was actually good at, the one thing that made him feel like maybe he wasn't invisible. But last year, after he'd thrown up in the dugout during finals, he'd sworn he was done.

"I don't know."

"Dude, you've got a cannon. Coach was literally asking about you yesterday." Tyrell stole a tater tot. "Savannah's gonna be there. She's doing stats for the team."

Marcus's heart did something embarrassing. Of course she was. Of course the universe was conspiring to make everything simultaneously terrifying and perfect.

That afternoon, he found himself at the pet store, staring at rows of fish tanks. The clerk watched him with mild concern as Marcus stood there for twenty minutes, finally leaving with a small bag of fish food and zero goldfish.

"Why?" the clerk asked.

"Long story," Marcus said. "But sometimes you realize you're not the guy who buys the fish. You're just the guy who figures out what they eat."

Friday came. Marcus showed up to tryouts with spinach stuck between his front teeth, discovered by the bathroom mirror five minutes before he was supposed to take the field. He considered skipping. Considered faking sick. Considered transferring schools.

Then he remembered the goldfish—how some things just weren't meant to be forced.

He picked the spinach out. He walked onto the field. Savannah looked up from her clipboard and smiled—not at him, but near enough that it counted.

"Number 42," she called out. "You're up."

His hands shook. His stomach did that bear-waking-up-from-hibernation thing. But when the ball left his hand, it was perfect.

"Whoa," Tyrell said from behind the backstop. "Since when do you throw like that?"

Marcus didn't answer. He just watched the ball soar, thinking maybe some goldfish were worth chasing, even if you never caught them.