The Goldfish That Survived Junior Year

My hair was absolutely wrecked. Three hours at Jess's pool party will do that to you, especially when you spend most of them underwater avoiding Dylan, who decided now was the perfect time to confess his feelings. I'd spent the whole year **running** from that conversation, and apparently I wasn't above holding my breath literally to escape it.

The chlorine situation was dire. My curls had gone from aesthetic tousle to electrocuted poodle. "You look like you just survived something," Chloe said, eyeing me in the bathroom mirror while I attempted to salvage my dignity with conditioner.

"Junior year," I said. "That's what I survived."

"More like barely. You've been moving like a **zombie** since finals."

She wasn't wrong. Between AP exams, college applications, and my parents' divorce finalizing last month, I was operating on minimal sleep and maximum anxiety. I looked dead behind the eyes. The bags under my eyes had luggage.

Then she pointed at the glass bowl on my windowsill. "Except for him."

Bubbles was still alive. Somehow. Against all odds. I'd won him at carnival last September, and everyone said he'd be dead in a week. My mom said he'd be dead in a month. The internet said goldfish had no memory span and died in dirty bowls.

Bubbles was out here thriving in his tiny ecosystem, swimming circles like his life depended on it, completely unaware that he was defying statistics with every bubble.

"I respect him," Chloe said. "He's doing better than any of us."

I watched Bubbles navigate around his plastic castle. He had no idea about AP Biology or college essays or Dylan's feelings or my parents selling the house. He just kept **swimming**, same routine, different day, making it work.

"Same," I said, and finally rinsed out the conditioner. "Let's see if I can make it through tomorrow without looking like I died halfway through."

Bubbles did a little flip. Whatever works, right?