The Hat That Changed Everything

The pool at the Willow Creek Country Club was basically my entire summer existence. I worked there as a lifeguard, which sounded cool until you realized most of my job was telling old people not to run on wet concrete and fishing out Band-Aids with the skimmer net. The hat—the oversized, neon-orange monstrosity they made us wear—was my personal brand of social suicide. I'd catch my reflection in the glass doors and want to evaporate.

Then there was the goldfish situation.

Some kid's pet goldfish had picked the absolute worst moment to meet its maker, right in the middle of the club's annual summer bash. The kid was bawling, his mom was panicked, and everyone was staring. I did what any self-respecting teenager would do—I grabbed the net, scooped up Floaty McFloatface (RIP), and booked it to the bathroom like I was carrying nuclear secrets.

That's when I literally ran into Chase Evans.

Chase, who played padel tournament-level and had somehow made it through seventeen years of life without ever experiencing a single awkward moment. Chase, whose perfect hair probably had its own Instagram account. He was wearing his backwards hat like it was genetically attached to his head.

"Whoa, nice sprint," he said, gesturing to my orange beacon of humiliation. "What's with the net?"

"Dead goldfish retrieval," I said, because at that point, dignity was optional. "Wanna help me give it a proper burial?"

And here's the thing about Chase Evans—he didn't laugh. He just nodded, all serious. "Absolutely. Fish deserve respect too."

We spent the next hour behind the maintenance shed, digging a tiny grave with a spoon from the cafeteria, saying words over a goldfish that had lived its best life in a bowl on some kid's dresser. Chase told me he hated how padel made everyone think he was this confident athlete when he was actually terrified of screwing up in front of people. I told him I hated how everyone at the pool assumed I was this outgoing lifeguard when I was basically an introvert in an orange hat.

"Wear your own hat tomorrow," Chase said, as we covered the grave with pebbles. "I'll wear mine forwards. Let's both be weird together."

The next day, I showed up in my dad's old baseball cap. Chase wore his backwards hat forwards. We both looked ridiculous. We both laughed until we couldn't breathe.

Sometimes the best things start with a dead goldfish and end with realizing nobody's actually watching you as closely as you think they are. And maybe that's the thing about growing up—you spend so much time trying to be cool, when the actual move is just finding people who'll help you bury a fish behind the maintenance shed.