Goldfish at the Top of the Pyramid

The carnival goldfish lived in a bowl on my nightstand, swimming in endless circles like it knew something I didn't. My mom called it 'that poor creature' and threatened to flush it. I called him Neptune.

Neptune was the only thing keeping me sane while I navigated the social pyramid that was sophomore year. At the base? The theater kids and band geeks (my people). In the middle? The normal humans who blended into lockers. At the apex? The varsity royalty, led by Tyler, whose smile could make teachers forget homework deadlines.

I'd been crushing on Tyler since seventh grade, which was pathetic and I knew it. But then came the day I forgot my history project—this ridiculously elaborate sugar-cube pyramid of ancient Egypt—and Tyler actually noticed me running down the hall, clutching my collapsing model like my life depended on it.

"Hey, Maya!" he called out. I froze. His friends snickered. But then his eyes dropped to my sugar pyramid, which was currently shedding cubes all over the floor.

"Is that... is that for Mr. Harrison's class?" He stepped closer, genuinely interested. "My sister made one of those last year. It totally fell apart. What'd you use?"

"Sugar cubes and excessive tears," I blurted, then wanted to die.

But Tyler laughed. Not mean-laughed. Actually laughed. "Same. My sister cried for like three days."

We ended up walking together, discussing the finer points of structural engineering in confectionary form. Later that week, he caught me feeding Neptune a flake of fish food (okay, maybe three flakes—no judgment).

"Is that a carnival goldfish?" His face lit up. "I won one last summer. Named him Zeus. He lived for like two months before my mom accidentally... you know."

"Flushed him?"

"Yeah. Total trauma."

"Tyler,'' I said, "why are you talking to me? You're like..." I gestured vaguely at the invisible pyramid. "And I'm..." gestured at myself.

He shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. "Maybe the pyramid's built wrong. Maybe some of the coolest people got sorted to the bottom by mistake."

"Or maybe,'' I said, "you're just slumming it for the week."

"Or maybe,'' he countered, "you should join track with me. We're doing long distance next week. No pyramids required."

I stared at him. Then at Neptune, who'd stopped swimming in circles and was actually watching me through the glass.

"I'll think about it,'' I said. "But only if you promise not to let your mom anywhere near my fish."

"Deal." His grin was different this time—realer. "See you at practice, Maya."

That night, Neptune finally swam in a straight line. I might've imagined it, but I swear he winked at me.