The Goldfish Summer

Maya's hair was betraying her. That was the only explanation for why it puffed out like a frizzy cloud on the first day of sophomore year, despite three different products and forty minutes with a straightener. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror and sighed—the curly mop was basically a middle finger to her attempt at reinvention.

"You look... intentional," said Leo, her next-door neighbor since forever, leaning against her doorframe with that annoying grin that meant he was about to roast her.

"Intentionally homeless? Thanks, Leo."

"Nah, intentional like 'I'm too cool to care.' It's a vibe." He handed her a tangled mess of cable. "Dad said you wanted this back."

Right. The coaxial cable she'd secretly borrowed last month to hook up the ancient TV in her room after her parents banned streaming during the school week. Desperation for late-night reality TV had led to larceny.

"Your dad knows?" Her voice went squeaky.

"Nah, I found it behind the couch. But seriously, May, you need to chill about the hair thing."

"Easy for you to say. Your hair doesn't announce your presence before you walk into rooms."

"True." He ran a hand through his sandy waves. "But Goldfish didn't care about appearance, and she was the best of us."

Goldfish—their childhood pet, a spectacularly unathletic orange tabby cat who'd lived nineteen ridiculous years. Goldfish had been chunky, perpetually confused, and completely unbothered by societal expectations. She'd once spent three months convinced a printer was her mortal enemy, and another period refusing to acknowledge the existence of the vacuum cleaner.

Maya felt something loosen in her chest. "Remember when she got stuck in the refrigerator?"

"I spent twenty minutes convincing Mom we hadn't accidentally eaten her," Leo said. "Point is, nobody loved Goldfish because she was sleek or graceful. We loved her because she was Goldfish."

She looked at him—really looked. They'd spent countless hours in her room, watching terrible shows on that illegally-hooked-up TV, eating snacks, complaining about teachers and crushes and their parents' weird rules. Leo had seen her through braces, awkward growth spurts, and that time she tried to cut her own bangs.

Maybe her hair wasn't a betrayal. Maybe it was just... hers.

"You're annoying, but you're right," she said, grabbing her backpack. "And Leo?"

"Yeah?"

"Keep the cable. I think I'm done with the late-night TV anyway."

She walked into the hallway with her frizzy, glorious hair leading the way. Some things you couldn't control, and maybe that was the point.