Bottom of the Pyramid

Jordan adjusted the borrowed **cable** connecting his bass to the amp, trying to look like he belonged in Maya's garage band practice. The social hierarchy at Northwood High operated like a carefully constructed **pyramid** — seniors and varsity athletes at the top, band kids somewhere in the middle, and everyone else scrambling for footing below.

Maya's golden retriever, Buster, flopped dramatically across Jordan's feet. The **dog** had better rhythm than Jordan did, thumping his tail against the floorboards every time the drummer counted off.

"You're overthinking it," Maya said between songs, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Just feel it."

Easier said than done when your crush was watching you fumble through basic bass lines. Jordan's usual strategy involved staying invisible — a solid B- student, no sports, zero drama. But when Maya's bassist got mono and she'd asked Jordan to fill in, saying no hadn't been an option.

"One more time," the drummer said. "And Jordan, try not to look like you're solving calculus problems."

Buster chose that moment to shake his whole body, sending the cable flying. The amp squealed. Everyone stared.

Jordan's face burned. "Sorry, I'll just..." He reached for the disconnected cable, ready to grab his backpack and disappear forever.

But Maya started laughing. Not mean laughter — the real kind, doubled over, hair falling out of her messy bun. "Dude, Buster has better stage presence than all of us combined."

The drummer joined in. "Ten bucks says he's secretly a music critic."

Something in Jordan's chest loosened. He reconnected the cable, but this time when he struck the first note, he let himself grin. Buster howled along.

"See?" Maya grinned back at him. "Told you to feel it."