“I mean, he was my brother’s, but…yeah.” I hear what sounds like movement on the other end of the phone. “So, listen, Kev is spending the day at his friend’s place and he doesn’t know yet. And I thought maybe you’d like to help me find an exact replica of Goldie Hawn before he gets home. I hate to overhype it, but it’s going to be pretty mundane.”
I laugh. “I don’t know. I was going to spend the day doing nothing and maybe practicing for a bit and then going back to doing nothing,” I say. “But I guess I might be able to take some time out of my busy schedule.”
“Excellent,” Zach says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
When he picks me up, half an hour later, he’s wearing a faded green T-shirt with a tiny hole in the neck, and his hair is exceedingly messy. The whole effect is so hilariously disheveled that it makes my stomach flutter. I run my fingers through his hair, becauseI can,when I kiss him hello in the car.
“I have to work at four,” Zach says, glancing at the clock on his dashboard. It says 9:12, which I’ve figured out means it’s roughly twelve-something, as it tends to run three hours behind no matter how often Zach resets it. “So we’re going to have to make good time.”
I shoot him a confused look. “I thought we were picking out a goldfish, not a house. We have three hours.”
But Zach is right; three hours does leave us pressed for time. Because, as it turns out, we are not looking for a goldfish. We are looking for Goldie Hawn’s identical twin. In the first pet store we go to, there are dozens and dozens of fish, and we press our faces up to the glass and Zach shakes his head in dissatisfaction. “No, he had this one white stripe just under his eye.”
“White stripe? You’re sure it’s not aclownfish you’re looking for?” asks the spiky-haired teenager who is helping us.
Zach gives him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, I’m sure. It wasn’t a long stripe. Not even a big one. Just, like, a white mark.”
We try another store, where the manager is this super tall guy, like quarterback big, except in his forties. He is very knowledgeable about all things goldfish, and maybe even a little judgmental. “Sure,” he says after we explain what we’re looking for. “I’ll show you our troubling and we’ll see if there’s one that meets your very specific criteria.”
“Troubling?” I echo.
“A group of goldfish is a troubling. Like a herd of cows.” He flicks his gaze over us, like he’s not sure what they even teach in school anymore. I’m not, either; I thought all groups of fish were called schools. “I bet you didn’t have him in a big enough tank. That’s always it. And to think some people put them inbowls.They can grow to be over a foot. How wouldyoulike to live in a bowl all your life?”
I know he means “you” in the general sense, but it sounds pretty accusing. Zach and I exchange a glance, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I wouldn’t like to live in a fish tank, regardless of the size, but I don’t see the point in saying this out loud.
Being in a pet store reminds me of how animal-crazy I used to be in elementary school. Before music, horses were the great love of my life—my room and notebooks were covered in cutouts of ponies. Since I couldn’t have a horse, I’d drag Dad into a pet store whenever I could and try to convince him I desperately needed a gerbil or rabbit or parrot. We owned a tiny gray Lhasa apso for a whopping twenty-eight hours once. Mom freaked out because Caleb was allergic and the dog wasn’t hypoallergenic, so we returned it, and there was talk of going back in the next few months and getting one that shed less. I’m not sure why we never did.
Zach peers into the giant aquarium full of goldfish that look, to me, exactly the same as the fish I saw in his house.
“What do you think?” I ask when the guy goes to attend to another customer, leaving us to decide. Personally, I am starting to wonder if Zach is crazy. Maybe it’s too good to be true that I would like a normal, well-adjusted boy who likes me back.
“They just seem very obviouslynotthe same fish.”
He sighs and walks around to the other side of the aquarium to look more closely at a particular fish that is in the process of eating something.
“Zach,” I say, realization dawning on me as to why a person could possibly be this obsessed with replacing a goldfish. “Did you do something to Goldie Hawn?” I drop my voice so Judgy McJudgerson doesn’t overhear, even though he’s about two aisles away. “Didyoukill him?”
Zach’s eyes widen. “What? No!” he says, and I laugh, not believing it for a second.
“No, I swear,” he insists. “I just found him that way this morning.”
“Right. Well, you seem awfully invested forjusthaving found his body.”
Zach shakes his head and looks at me. “It really had nothing to do with me,” he says. “I just…Kev—for how annoying and mouthy he tries to be—is actually kind of a sensitive kid. He is. Don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
He straightens to his full height now and runs his hand through his hair, which just makes it look even more like he might have been electrocuted. “I mean, Kevin isfourteenand obviously knows about the circle of life and all that, but even I was sad when I saw Goldie just lying there floating at the top of the tank. It just sucks to watch something go from being alive to being dead. No warning, no in-between. And we’ve had him for three years. I just hoped Kev wouldn’t have to know.”
Zach shakes his head when the manager comes back to ask if we’ve found what we’re looking for.
We leave and try another store, the last pet store in town, and the fish area is close to the loud, squawking bird area, which doesn’t seem like the best idea if those birds ever get free, and we circle the tanks over and over again, looking for the right fish, but Zach keeps coming back to one that has sidled up to the glass and is peering right back at us. With our heads pressed close together, I can smell citrus laundry detergent and sweat and the slightest hint of cigarette smoke on Zach. I watch him while he nods at this fish. He runs his hand through his hair worriedly as he leans against the counter while he’s paying, continuously looking back at the water-filled bag we’re taking Goldie Hawn’s twin home in and asking if I think it’s fine thatthisfish’s mark is closer to the mouth than the eye. I think it’s kind of the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
But when I mention this to him, he says, “Nah, you’d do the same if you had a younger sibling,” but he’s smiling a littlebit.
And I don’t know if it’s true—what I’d be like as an older sister—but I remain firm in my conviction of his sweetness.
Later, once Goldie Hawn II has been acclimated to the tank and Zach has gone to work and I’m back at home, arguing with Caleb about cleaning the bathroom, I get a text from Zach.
