Anita Lahey - The Last Goldfish: A True Tale of Friendship

In early grade nine, I teamed up with a girl named Meredith for a science project. She was quiet and skittish, like a shy rabbit. We went to the pet store together and purchased six goldfish, six bowls, then divvied them up: three to her house, three to mine. Our plan was to place the fish in different environmentsa busy kitchen, a dark closet, a bright windowsilland try to gauge their contentment level by their behaviour. Which fish were more active, more hungry? The question, mine, had been whether a fish would prefer a darker home because it mimics the experience of a more natural habitat such as a lake.

But right away I found myself troubled by the idea of keeping fish captive. Watching my three fish swim circles in their bowls, I took notes, trying to describe their activity levels. I felt like a fraud. I had no idea how to assess the happiness of a fish, nor what kind of research to undertake to better inform our experiment. I hadnt the first clue how to penetrate the mysteries of the universe. And I couldnt explain any of this to Meredith. Id roped her into this, so I put up a brave front when we sat down to compare results.

How are your fish doing? I asked.

She answered so softly I could barely hear. One of them died. I stared. She was wringing her hands. Do you think it was sick when we bought it?

It seemed like the other ones, didnt it?

I think so.

We sat in silence.

Suppose Merediths fish had come home with me instead. Say the guy at the store had pulled a different specimen from the tank. The fishs bowl had been placed in a prime location, on the windowsill in Merediths bedroom, south-facing. Maybe fish, like African violets, shrivelled in direct sunlight? I was overwhelmed by potential variables; I was so not ready for science. I was sure that none of our classmates had a dead creature on their hands. But I also doubted any of them had taken this assignment so keenly to heart.

Id picked Meredith for a partner because she didnt make me nervous. Maybe it made sense, now that I was out of the little elementary school with a graduating class of twenty-eight, to start aligning myself with more kids like me, who were into such things as books. But I was relieved when our experiment was finished, our results handed in. In the drawings for our report, Meredith had attempted to depict the dead fish, floating in its bowl. It looked like a tiny piece of driftwood.

In French class, which came right after science, I sat behind Louisa. People called her Lou for short. She had red hair, brightly inquisitive eyes, and hands that gestured energetically when she talked. Shed adopted the habit of tipping back her chair and tossing questions at me, and so I gradually came to trust she really did want to talk to me: Are you reading the Merchant of Venice for English too? I love Shakespeare. Its so dramatic. What did you do on the weekend? My moms friend took us to the art gallery. It was amazing!

Louisa was impressed by the goldfish experiment Meredith and I had embarked on. She called it ambitious.

We dont have a clue what were doing, I assured her. Its ridiculous.

One morning, gravely, but hurriedly, so as to get the details out before the fierce Mademoiselle Vachon began conducting class, I told her what had happened to Merediths fish.

She laughed. What a story!

I was startled. Then I laughed too. Sure, it was tragic for the fish, but the creatures werent exactly known for their longevity. Hadnt we all flushed one or two down the toilet, or seen a sitcom goldfish funeral, its tongue-in-cheek solemnity? I stopped noticing Meredith, stopped looking for her telltale slouch when I slipped into science class or walked, heart clenched, into the cafeteria that teemed with students I didnt know. It seems cruel, in retrospect. You might even say foolhardy. The things I might have learned, the fastidious scientist I might have become, pushing onward with that studious girl. But I didnt want Meredith anymore. Id found a better prospect, off I went.