The Fourteenth Goldfish

When I was in preschool, I had a teacher named Starlily. She wore rainbow tie-dyed dresses and was always bringing in cookies that were made with granola and flax and had no taste.

Starlily taught us to sit still at snack time, sneeze into our elbows, and not eat the Play-Doh (which most kids seemed to think was optional). Then one day, she sent all of us home with a goldfish. She got
them at ten for a dollar at a pet store. She gave our parents a lecture before sending us off.

“The goldfish will teach your child about the cycle of life.” She explained, “Goldfish don’t last very long.”

I took my goldfish home and named it Goldie like every other kid in the world who thought they were being original. But it turned out that Goldie
was
kind of original.

Because Goldie didn’t die.

Even after all my classmates’ fish had gone to the great fishbowl in the sky, Goldie was still alive. Still alive when I started kindergarten. Still alive in first grade. Still alive in second grade and third and fourth. Then finally, last year in fifth grade, I went into the kitchen one morning and saw my fish floating upside down in the bowl.

My mom groaned when I told her.

“He didn’t last very long,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “He lasted seven years!”

She gave me a smile and said, “Ellie, that wasn’t
the original Goldie. The first fish only lasted two weeks. When he died, I bought another one and put him in the bowl. There’ve been a
lot
of fish over the years.”

“What number was this one?”

“Unlucky thirteen,” she said with a wry look.

“They were all unlucky,” I pointed out.

We gave Goldie Thirteen a toilet-bowl funeral, and I asked my mom if we could get a dog.

We live in a house that looks like a shoe box. It has two bedrooms and a bathroom, which has a toilet that’s always getting clogged. I secretly think it’s haunted by all the fish that were flushed down it.

Our backyard is tiny—just a slab of concrete that barely fits a table and chairs. It’s the reason my mom won’t let me get a dog. She says it wouldn’t be fair, that a dog needs a real yard to run around in.

My babysitter Nicole walks into the kitchen, where I’m putting together a puzzle. It’s kind of taken over our table.

“You’ve been working on that forever, Ellie,” she says. “How many pieces is it?”

“One thousand,” I say.

It’s a picture of New York City—a street scene with yellow cabs. I love puzzles. I like trying to figure out how things fit together. How a curve meets a curve and the perfect angle of a corner piece.

“I’m going to be on Broadway someday,” she tells me.

Nicole has long buttery hair and looks like she should be in a shampoo commercial. She played Juliet in the production of
Romeo and Juliet
that my mother directed at the local high school. My mom’s a high school drama teacher and my dad’s an actor. They got divorced when I was little, but they’re still friends.

They’re always telling me I need to find my passion. Specifically, they’d like me to be passionate about theater. But I’m not. Sometimes I wonder if
I was born into the wrong family. Being onstage makes me nervous (I’ve watched too many actors flub their lines), and I’m not a fan of working behind the scenes, either (I always end up steaming costumes).

“Oh, yeah. Your mom called. She’s gonna be late,” Nicole says. Almost as an afterthought, she adds, “Something to do with getting your grandfather from the police.”

For a second, I think I heard wrong.

“What?” I ask. “Is he okay?”

She lifts her shoulders. “She didn’t say. But she said we can order a pizza.”

An hour later, my belly is full of pizza, but I’m still confused.

“Did my mom say anything about why Grandpa was with the police?” I ask.

Nicole looks mystified. “No. Does he get in trouble a lot?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I mean, he’s old,” I say.

“How old is he?”

I’m not quite sure. I’ve never really thought about it, actually. He’s always just looked “old” to me: wrinkled, gray-haired, holding a cane. Your basic grandparent.

We only see him two or three times a year, usually at a Chinese restaurant. He always orders moo goo gai pan and steals packets of soy sauce to take home. I often wonder what he does with them. He doesn’t live that far from us, but he and my mother don’t get along very well. He’s a scientist and says theater isn’t a real job. He’s still mad that she didn’t go to Harvard like he did.

A car alarm goes off in the distance.

“Maybe he was in a car accident?” Nicole suggests. “I don’t know why teenagers get a bad rap, because old people are way worse drivers.”

“He doesn’t drive anymore.”

“Maybe he wandered off.” Nicole taps her head. “My neighbor had Alzheimer’s. She got out all the time. The police always brought her home.”

It kind of sounds like she’s describing a dog.

“That’s so sad,” I say.

Nicole nods. “Totally sad. The last time she ran away, she got hit by a car! How crazy is that?”

I stare at her with my mouth open.

“But I’m sure
your
grandfather’s fine,” she says.

Then she flips back her hair and smiles. “Hey! Want to make some popcorn and watch a movie?”