Goldfish

Michelle was the kind of kid my mom didn’t want me playing with. He knees were always dirty, and she said “shit!” and “damn it!” whenever the mood struck. Once, I saw her kill a toad with stick. Her father was dead.

One afternoon, Michelle came to my door with a plastic shovel in her hand, the kind you use at the beach.

“Come on,” she whispered, motioning for me to follow her. We ran through the patch of woods connecting our yards.

In her backyard she knelt down and began to dig until a hill of sandy dirt formed. She reached into the hole and pulled out a small fish, its eyes like plastic discs.

“It was my brother’s,” she said.

A call from inside the house prompted her to toss the goldfish back into the hole and quickly bury it.

I ran home, and never told a soul.