Three Second Memory

The **goldfish** cracker shattered against my forehead like tiny, orange confetti. Jake burst out laughing from across the **padel** court, his racket still swinging from the serve that had launched the snack attack.

"My bad!" he called out, though his grin screamed otherwise. "Thought you'd want a snack before I destroy you."

I brushed cheddar dust from my hair, grateful the sunscreen would hide my blushing. Three weeks of crushing on Jake Matthews, and this was our most direct interaction. Pathetic.

I'd been playing detective all summer, **spying** on his Instagram stories like my life depended on it. Jake at the beach. Jake eating tacos. Jake's golden retriever being cute. I had his routine memorized better than my own AP Bio notes.

"Your serve," I managed, gripping my racket like a lifeline.

We played another set before Coach blew the whistle. Water break. My chance.

I followed Jake to the fountain where he splashed **water** on his face, droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Why did everything have to be so unfairly hot?

"Hey," he said, wiping his face with his forearm. "You live on Birch Street, right? Near that house with the insane Christmas lights?"

"Yeah, that's me. Clark Griswold's neighbor."

"Dude! I love that house. My friends and I literally do a walking tour every December. No joke."

We talked for ten straight minutes. About the neighborhood, about how much **padel** sucked compared to tennis, about how Coach made us run laps if we were late. I was floating. This was it. The moment. Maybe he'd ask for my number. Maybe—

"Anyway," Jake said, "you coming to Jordan's pool party tonight? Everyone's gonna be there."

"I... I wasn't invited."

"Bro, it's Jordan. The entire grade is invited. Just show up. There's gonna be a DJ." He checked his phone. "Unless you have plans?"

"No plans!" I said too quickly. "I'll be there."

I walked home on clouds, already planning my outfit, mentally **spying** on my own reflection in storefront windows, practicing cool. This was everything.

Then I remembered.

The **bear**.

My childhood pillow pet. The fuzzy brown monstrosity I'd slept with every night until sixth grade and still kept on my bed because I was "sentimental" but really because I couldn't let go. The same bear that had witnessed me practicing asking Jake to prom in my mirror. The bear sitting on my pillow right now in full view of anyone who entered my room.

Jordan's house. Jordan, who'd been my best friend until sixth grade when she moved to the popular table. Jordan, whose pool party I hadn't been invited to since seventh grade. Jordan, who still had a key to my house from a sleepover in fifth grade that we never took back because we thought we'd be friends forever.

Jordan, who might just use that key during the party.

I bolted home, shoving past my mom in the hallway.

"Honey? Everything okay?"

"Fine! Just—bathroom!"

I locked my door and grabbed Mr. Cuddles. The bear stared at me with plastic button eyes, judgment written in every thread.

"You're a **bear** of a problem," I muttered, shoving him into my closet under three years of forgotten hoodies.

My phone buzzed. A notification from Instagram. Jake had posted a story: *Pool party tonight. Who's coming?*

I hovered over the reply button. Maybe I could play it cool. *Maybe I'll swing by.* No, too vague. *Count me in!* Too desperate.

*Just like a **goldfish***, I thought. *Three-second memory, and I'm already back to obsessing.*

I stared at Mr. Cuddles's ear poking out from under the hoodies. The bear knew. The bear always knew.

That night, I showed up at Jordan's in my cutoffs and favorite bikini top. Jake was by the **water**, challenging someone to a chicken fight. He waved when he saw me.

"You made it!"

"Wouldn't miss it," I said, stepping into the pool.

And for the first time all summer, I wasn't spying from the sidelines. I was in the picture.