Why would anyone need more?
The next morning, the fish was alive and well, swimming in circles in the vase under a book Sawyer had put on top.
I sipped my coffee and checked my email, clicking on one from the residence life office at Arizona State University, where Sawyer will go in the fall. It explained all the options for dorm living and meal plans — and how much they would cost. I sighed.
Sawyer wants to live on campus. But we live so close to ASU, I can see it from my house. Students live on each side of us and catty-corner across the street, and they ride their bikes to class.
“Whatcha looking at?” Sawyer asked, coming into the living room. Before I could answer, he asked if we could go to the pet store to buy an aquarium for the fish.
In the car on the way, we talked about him living on campus. I argued that he has an ideal set-up, a bedroom and a man cave. Why would he want to room with another guy, not to mention sharing a bathroom with four other guys?
I lived at home when I was in college. I was the first in my family to go, and it saved a lot of money. It’s even more expensive now.
Sawyer spoke of being minutes from his classes, meeting other students and being able to study together, going to the library, working late in labs, and joining in on campus life.
And then, the ultimate jab: “You won’t be there.”
“Sorry, Mom,” he added quickly.
No, no apology necessary (though he could have sounded a little less excited about it). This is what almost 18 years of parenting have been all about. Raising an independent young man who could stand on his own two feet.
Isn’t that a bit ... small?
Sawyer shifted back and forth from one foot to another in the fish section of the pet store. He picked up a small aquarium in a box, the Aqueon 1 Gallon MiniBow Desktop Aquarium Kit for $24.99. It seemed to have everything we needed: an aquarium, filter and pump and LED lighting.
A woman wearing a blue shirt and a nametag suddenly appeared and asked, “What kind of fish is it?”
“It’s a goldfish,” I said, smiling back at her.
That aquarium isn’t big enough, she said. She pointed to one a little larger for $49.99 and one the size of an ice chest for $99.99.
“It’s just a goldfish,” I said.
“What kind?” she asked. Sawyer and I looked at each other.
“A g-o-l-d fish,” I repeated.
Apparently there are lots of kinds of goldfish. She pointed to a wall of aquariums.
There were Fancy Goldfish for $31.99 each. ( Thirty bucks for a goldfish? Then again, I suppose people spend that on the ring toss at the school carnival trying to win one.)
Ryukin and Oranda goldfish, both $5.49 each. Black Moor Goldfish, $5.99 to $7.49, depending on size.
It’s probably one of those, I said, pointing to the Fantail Goldfish ($3.19 each). Well, but without the fantail, I added helpfully.
(I’d learn later that it was a Comet Goldfish, 29 cents each.)
She frowned at me and waved over a man also wearing a blue shirt and nametag. A fish expert, she said.
“It’s just a regular goldfish,” I said. “You know, like the ones you win at the school carnival?”
Now they both frowned at me.
“Like the ones people keep in glass bowls on their desks at work?” Silence. “Just a goldfish,” I finished weakly.
Goldfish need at least 2 gallons of water per inch of fish, the fish expert said. “How big is the goldfish?” he asked. The more room the fish had, the more he would grow.
I hadn’t thought to measure him. We were buying an aquarium, not an outfit.
The woman in the blue shirt and nametag crossed her arms. “You could relinquish the fish,” she suggested.
Relinquish the fish? You mean, give Heath Ledger to the pet store? She nodded. You would think the 6foot-tall living, breathing, well-fed human child beside me would attest to my suitability to own a goldfish. Seriously, if a classroom of first-graders can keep a goldfish alive, so can we.
“No,” Sawyer said firmly. He would not give up this fish. Not if his love depended on it.
We took the aquarium in the box and tiny bottles of food and water conditioner to the register to pay. The woman in the blue shirt and