Three Strikes and a Goldfish

Maya pressed her forehead against the bus window, watching her reflection blur past. The baseball field loomed ahead—where Kyle would be, where everyone who mattered would be. She wasn't supposed to be there. She was the girl who sat in the back of algebra, the one with the cheap backpack and the dog that barked at nothing.

"You coming?" RJ nudged her. Her best friend since fourth grade, back when winning a goldfish at the spring carnival felt like the biggest achievement in the world.

"I shouldn't," Maya said, but her feet were already moving.

The stands were packed. Kyle was at bat, looking effortless in a way that made Maya's chest tight. She'd been working up the nerve to talk to him for weeks—asking him about his dog, maybe. Anything. But words always seemed to dissolve before they reached her tongue.

Then her phone buzzed. MOM: Buster got out. AGAIN.

Maya froze. Her dog, the one her dad brought home as a "we're a family now" gesture three months before he left. The dog she loved more than she should, probably.

"You okay?" RJ asked.

Maya stood up. "I have to—"

A collective gasp. Kyle had hit it—a home run, arcing high and impossible. And then: something gold flashing in the sky, catching sunlight as it fell. A plastic bag, Maya realized. A goldfish bag. Someone's prize from somewhere.

It landed near the dugout. Kyle jogged over, picked it up, and suddenly he was looking right at the stands, right at her.

"Hey!" he called. "This yours?"

Maya's brain short-circuited. "What?"

"The fish." He grinned, jogging up the steps. "Someone said you were looking for a fish."

"What?" she said again, brilliant and articulate as always.

"I'm kidding." He held up the bag. "But seriously—my dog's obsessed with fish. Think your dog would be into it?"

Her dog. How did he know she had a dog?

"How'd you know—"

"I see you walking him sometimes," Kyle said. "The old golden one? He's chill."

Maya's face burned. That was the word. Chill. Her dog was chill. She was... she was working on it.

"Buster," she said. "His name's Buster."

"Cool." Kyle shifted his weight. "Hey, some of us are going to the creek after this. Bring Buster?"

Maya's phone buzzed again. MOM: FOUND HIM. He was chasing the mailman. Again.

She typed back with shaking fingers: ON IT.

"Yeah," she heard herself say. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Kyle fist-bumped her air. "Sick."

As he walked away, Maya sank back onto the bench, heart racing. Buster was safe. Kyle knew her name—or at least, he knew she had a dog. And for the first time in forever, she wasn't just the girl in the back of algebra.

"You're welcome," RJ muttered.

"For what?"

"For pushing you into coming. That goldfish? Total coincidence. But Kyle's been asking about you since you started walking Buster past his house."

Maya stared. "Since when?"

"Since forever." RJ grinned. "You're so oblivious, it's honestly impressive."

Behind them, someone screamed as the goldfish bag burst open. Somewhere, a very confused fish was experiencing its first taste of freedom.

Maya laughed until her sides hurt. Sometimes the universe was weird like that. You lost a fish, gained a moment. Strike out, then hit it out of the park.

Three strikes? More like three chances. And she was just getting started.