Three Seconds at the Bottom

The bathroom stall was my sanctuary. Third period lunch, and I'm hyperventilating because Jason Torres—the actual Jason Torres—just posted a pic with my ex-best-friend Riley at Starbucks. The caption: "latte + this one ☕" I'm staring at the pyramid of toilet paper rolls on the shelf, wondering when my entire life turned into a crashing mess of middle school drama.

Someone knocks. "Occupied," I choke out.

"Maya? You good?"

It's Jordan from my history class. The one who sits in the back, always drawing anime characters in his notebook. The one nobody really notices.

"Fine," I lie. My voice cracks.

"You don't sound fine. Also, you've been in there ten minutes, and fourth period starts in three."

I unlock the door. Jordan's standing there, holding this tiny plastic bag with an orange goldfish swimming inside it like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"What—is that—is that a fish?"

"His name is Bubbles," Jordan says completely seriously. "Won him at the spring carnival. My mom said absolutely not. I was gonna ... release him into the wild? But the toilet seemed kinda messed up."

"Dude, you can't—"

"I know, I know. That's why I'm still here. Anyway, you looked upset earlier. Everything good?"

And somehow I'm spilling everything—Jason, Riley, the Instagram post, how I feel like the entire school's social pyramid is crumbling beneath me and I'm free-falling through the debris. Jordan listens. Actually listens, not just waits for his turn to talk.

"That's trash," he says when I finish. "Riley's been weird to everyone since she got that TikTok verification. You're better off."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one being meme-d in the group chat."

"True." He holds up the fish bag. "Want to help me find Bubbles a home?"

We end up at the park behind the school, digging a hole near the pond with Jordan's math textbook. Bubbles swims away like he's been planning his escape for months.

"He's probably gonna get eaten, right?" I ask.

"Yeah. But like, he died free. That's kinda heroic, don't you think?"

I crack up. I actually laugh for the first time in days.

"Wanna come over after school?" Jordan asks. "I have this pyramid project I'm building for AP World. It's legit. And my mom makes really good empanadas."

Jason posts another story with Riley. I don't even open it. Some friendships are goldfish memory—here today, gone tomorrow. But the ones that matter? They stick around.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I'd like that."