Three Seconds of Courage

The goldfish—Carlos, because eighth grade me thought naming fish after people was hilarious—stared at me through the glass with his mouth opening and closing like he was trying to say something important. Probably that my hair looked like I'd lost a fight with a highlighter.

"You look... different," Maya said from my bed, where she was sprawled scrolling through TikTok. "Different like 'I respect your journey' different, not 'what happened' different. Unless this is about Brandon."

"It's not about Brandon." I touched a neon-purple strand. "It's about how my mom's pyramid scheme of the week is selling hair vitamins that are supposedly 'revolutionary' but actually just taste like disappointment."

Maya sat up. "Wait. The vitamin lady? I thought she was doing those essential oils that made your house smell like a yoga studio."

"That was last month. This month it's these gummy hair vitamins that cost forty dollars and she's trying to recruit everyone. She literally asked Mrs. Henderson at the grocery store if she wanted to be a 'wellness entrepreneur.'"

Carlos swam to the front of his bowl.

"Anyway," Maya said, "I dig the hair. It's giving 'I'm done with everyone's nonsense.'"

"That's exactly the vibe."

My phone buzzed. A group chat notification: freshman formal committee meeting in twenty minutes. I'd been voted sophomore representative because nobody else wanted to do it, and suddenly I was responsible for decorations, budget, and somehow making a gym look like something other than a gym.

"You going?" Maya asked.

"Yeah. But here's the thing—Sarah and her friends are gonna be there. And they're gonna look at me like I'm crazy because I'm not part of their—" I gestured vaguely "—whole social pyramid thing where they're at the top and everyone else is just... existing."

"So?" Maya shrugged. "Let them look. You're the one with purple hair and a fish named Carlos. You're objectively more interesting."

I looked at Carlos, who was doing his third lap around the castle in his bowl. Goldfish have this reputation for having three-second memories, but I'd looked it up once—they don't. That's a myth. They remember. They form attachments. They recognize the person who feeds them.

Maybe three seconds of courage is all you need anyway.

"Yeah," I said. "Okay. Let's go."

"You sure you're ready for the pyramid people?"

"Maya, my mom is literally trying to build a downline selling vitamins that make your hair grow faster. I think I can handle some sophomore girls who think homecoming is the most important event in human history."

She laughed. "Fair. Also, your hair is gonna look so good in the gym lighting."

"That's literally the opposite of everything anyone has ever said about gym lighting."

"Yeah but it's YOU, and it's PURPLE, and sometimes things just work even when they shouldn't."

Carlos did a little flip.

I grabbed my bag and checked my reflection one more time. Purple hair, fish named Carlos, a mom who was definitely going to try to sell hair vitamins to my entire grade before the semester ended.

Whatever. Let them stare. I had three seconds of courage, and a fish who remembered my face, and a best friend who thought I was objectively more interesting than the top of the social pyramid.

That was enough.