The Sphinx's Orange Summer

The bull of tenth grade, Jason Chen, had cornered me by the gym lockers again. His orange basketball jersey practically glowed under the fluorescent lights. Same routine: knock my books out of my hands, call me "goldfish brain" because I'd spaced out during history—again. His crew laughed like they'd rehearsed it.

"What's today's lesson, goldfish?" Jason smirked. "Maybe if you paid attention, you wouldn't need extra credit."

I hate how he's right.

That afternoon, I trudged home to find my little brother Leo crying over our goldfish, Bubbles, floating sideways in its bowl. Dead. Just like my social studies grade.

"It's okay," I said, kneeling beside him. "Goldfish don't live forever."

"She was my friend," Leo sniffled.

So I did what any decent sister would do: we gave Bubbles a proper burial in the backyard, complete with an orange origami crane I'd folded in art class. Something about the orange paper against the gray afternoon sky felt weirdly profound.

Monday's English class changed everything. Ms. Rivera was teaching us about the Sphinx—how it asked riddles no one could answer, devouring those who failed. I sat there, my purple hair hiding my face, while she wrote OEDIPUS on the board in thick letters.

"Life's full of sphinxes," she said. "Riddles you can't solve. Unless you're brave enough to face them."

Jason passed me a note: bet you can't even spell sphinx, goldfish.

Something snapped. Maybe it was Bubbles' grave. Maybe it was the origami crane decomposing in the rain. But I stood up, walked to the front of the room, and wrote: RIDDLE ME THIS: WHY DOES THE BULL ALWAYS PICK ON THE ONE WHO ACTUALLY SHOWS UP?

Silence.

Then Jason's face went as orange as his jersey. But you know what? He never messed with me again. Some sphinxes, I learned, don't need to devour you—they just need to see you stand up to them.

And maybe goldfish don't have three-second memories after all. Some things, like that moment, you remember forever.