The Last Goldfish of Junior Year

The fluorescent lights of 4th period biology were doing their job — turning my brain into complete mush. I shuffled through the hallway, zombie mode fully engaged, barely registering the chaos of high school around me. Junior year was eating me alive, one AP class at a time.

"You look dead," said Jordan, falling into step beside me. "Like, actually deceased."

"Thanks, J. Really boosting my confidence there." I adjusted my backpack, wishing caffeine came in vitamin form. "Just tired. The science fair is killing me."

We pushed through the double doors into the courtyard, where seniors were already clustered around the prize booth from the carnival that'd somehow taken over our school for the week. Because apparently, nothing says "educational environment" like rigged games and overpriced food.

"Watch this." Jordan handed me a ping pong ball. "Land it in that fishbowl, win a prize. Easy."

"I have zero coordination. You know this."

"Just throw it. Worst case, you win a goldfish." He winked. "Best case, you win a goldfish."

I groaned but tossed the ball. It bounced off the rim, then — against all laws of physics — dropped straight into the center bowl.

"NO WAY!" Jordan practically shouted. "You actually did it!"

The carny working the booth sighed, dramatically disappointed, and handed over a plastic bag containing exactly one goldfish. Its orange scales caught the sunlight as it swam in tiny, frantic circles.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I held up the bag like evidence.

"Name him Zombie," Jordan suggested. "Since that's basically your current state."

"Zombie the goldfish." I looked at the fish, who stared back with zero judgment. "Honestly? Same, little dude. Same."

Something about winning that ridiculous prize snapped me out of my zombie fog. Maybe it was the absurdity of carrying a fish through the rest of the school day. Maybe it was Jordan laughing so hard he snorted. Maybe it was just that for once, something unexpected and good happened in the middle of all the stress.

"So," Jordan said as we walked to my house, "you think Zombie needs a vitamin supplement? For, like, optimal fish health?"

"You're the worst."

"But you're smiling now."

I was. And somehow, carrying that goldfish home in a plastic bag, junior year didn't feel quite so overwhelming anymore.