I'd Rather Be Surfing

3| RIP Jimmy's Fish

I stand with my two feet together, looking not too far down the school's bright hallway, witnessing a tragically slow death. An orange goldfish squirms on the floor, and this poor kid (who we'll call Jimmy) is trying to shovel the fish back up in his hands.

You see, Jimmy had a little accident. I watched it happen. Jimmy is the kind of kid who you'll pretend to trip, but he'll ignore you and trip all on his own. The bag of water clenched in his hand was not heading down a good-looking path considering the clumsy hands it had been placed in. It smashed on the floor, water spraying in every direction and the fish? Left to die on the dirty tiled floor. A shame, really.

Who said the swim team couldn't have a carnival toss, a live goldfish as the prize, without accidents? Everyone, actually. Literally everyone said that.

Back to Jimmy. He's still struggling, but another girl has joined in the rescue efforts. Coach Wilson pulls out his cell phone and I hear him say, "My wife is gonna love this," as he laughs to some varsity athletes in jerseys, looking seven feet tall beside him.

The fish is still going strong, wiggling like Jimmy is trying to touch him. But then-- I see it as the formed crowd does-- the fish stops. Just like that, I've witnessed my first death (more so a murder on Jimmy's end). The girl starts crying and disbelieved Jimmy holds the fish in front of him, laying his open palm.

"Twenty bucks if you eat it!" One of the varsity players shouts to his friend, snatching the fish from Jimmy as he starts to protest. The girl cries harder.

His friend downs the dead goldfish in one gulp, and that's when I turn away, walking to anywhere but here. Still, I laugh a little and can practically feel my vegan mother glaring at me.

I hear the ecstatic Coach Wilson from behind my back, "I got that on video!" Send my regards to your wife, Coach.

I decide to walk back to the gym and look at some more clubs. Not that I would join them, I'm just curious. I mean, who knew Cheese Society was a thing?

I steer clear of the cheerleading table (thanks to the ice cream boy), and pretend to be interested in the Wrestlettes for about five minutes when a girl approaches me.

"Hi, I saw your t-shirt and was wondering if you'd be interested in joining the surf team?" Her hair is a ratty bun directly on the top of her head. I wonder if she has dreadlocks.

"Oh, no," I decline, glancing down at my first place, championship shirt from freshman year. Good mems. "I don't do teams." Ever since the lacrosse slash suspension incident of my eighth grade year, I've sworn off team sports for the rest of my life.

Aside from this Billabong internship I'm trying to nail, it's just me and the waves, baby.

"It's not a lot of commitment and it looks good on your resume. Here," She says, handing me a flyer. "Think about it. I'm Lola, I'll be here if you change your mind."

I take the flyer and look up to reluctantly thank her but she's already back at her booth, standing with two long haired boys.

After crumpling and throwing away the informational paper in a nearby trashcan, I roam aimlessly around the gym and into the cafeteria, bored and looking for some form of amusement. Where's Jimmy when you need him?

Glancing down the rows of tables and makeshift booths, I accidentally make eye contact with Cole, surfer boy at his side. Cole nudges his elbow into his friend and starts walking toward me.

My eyes widen and fight-or-flight kicks in. I choose the latter, and casually book it down an opposite row, sticking my hands in my pockets and blending in with some people listening to a presenter talk. I notice the boys walk pass the row I'm hiding in and I let out a breath of relief. Phew.