Wild Things, Us

The mascot costume smelled like every middle school dance sweatfest combined, but I'd bear it. Being the **goldfish** at Northwood High was practically membership in the Invisible Kids Club—nobody noticed the goldfish. We weren't fierce like the Wildcats or regal like the Eagles. We were just... there, swimming in circles, forgetting our own mascot's name half the time.

That changed when Maya **fox**-ed her way into student government.

Okay, foxed as a verb wasn't real, but Maya was slippery like that. She could charm teachers into extending deadlines and talk security guards into letting her onto the roof at midnight. Her real name was Maya Chen, but everyone called her Fox because she was cunning and impossibly cool. She wore combat boots with sundresses and had a Instagram aesthetic that was basically "I don't try, I just exist."

"We need rebranding," she announced at the first Spirit Committee meeting, tapping her acrylic nails on the gymnasium floor. "Goldfish are basic. We need something that roars."

I wanted to **bear** my soul right there—to say that some of us weren't meant to roar, that swimming quietly in our lane was fine. But I was too busy suffocating inside the polyester suit.

The first Friday night game, Maya orchestrated a mascot mutiny. While I wobbled in my goldfish head, trying to pump up the crowd, she unleashed three actual live **goldfish** in the principal's decorated fountain. Then she streaked across the football field wearing nothing but a **fox** tail and body paint, SPIRIT scrawled across her stomach in Sharpie.

The student section went absolutely feral.

Monday morning, Principal Gaines summoned us. The goldfish fountain thing was whatever, but the streaking? That was a crisis.

Maya sat there unbothered, scrolling TikTok. I sat there sweating through my hoodie, my stomach doing somersaults like my anxiety was training for the Olympics.

"You two need to learn that actions have consequences," Gaines said, his face that specific shade of disappointed adult. "Detention for two weeks. And you're banned from all mascot duties."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to explain that I wasn't even part of the plan, that I was just the poor sucker in the costume. But I caught Maya's eye and she winked—slow, deliberate, like she knew something I didn't.

Later, behind the bleachers during our detention cleaning duty, she passed me a gummy worm.

"You're not a goldfish person," she said, leaning against the chain-link fence. "You're quiet, but you're not forgettable. You're like... I don't know. Something that hibernates but wakes up roaring."

"A **bear**?"

"Sure. A bear. Something that's chill until you mess with it."

I laughed, but it felt like being seen for the first time in forever.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked. "The streaking thing? You could've just, like, made posters."

She shrugged, all practiced nonchalance. "Because sometimes you gotta go feral to feel alive. Also, my dad's a lawyer. I knew I wouldn't get expelled."

We sat there as the sun set, orange and electric, and I realized maybe I didn't want to be the quiet kid in the goldfish suit anymore. Maybe I was done bearing other people's expectations.

"Teach me to be a fox," I said.

She grinned, sharp and wicked. "Oh, we're gonna get you canceled so hard."

And that was the autumn I learned that growing up isn't about becoming someone new. It's about realizing you were never just a goldfish in the first place. You were a whole ecosystem waiting to wake up.