Goldfish at the Top of the Pyramid

The pyramid scheme started in third period, though nobody called it that. It was just The Social Ladder, The Hierarchy, The way things worked. Alexa and her squad at the apex, then the popular-ish kids, then the rest of us drifting downward like dandelion seeds in wind.

I was somewhere in the middle, which was fine. Until my iPhone screen shattered during gym, and suddenly I was the girl with the cracked phone living in 2019. The memes wrote themselves.

"Just get your parents to fix it," Cara said while we sat on the bleachers, watching Alexa receive what looked like an actual throne from her adoring fans.

"Yeah, because my parents have $200 lying around for screen repairs," I deadpanned. "Anyway, it's fine. Character-building."

It wasn't fine. My social media presence was already hanging by a thread. The cracked screen made everything worse – I couldn't even doom-scroll properly without my thumb catching on a jagged edge.

Then came the goldfish incident.

My neighbor Mrs. Chen went into assisted living, leaving behind her beloved goldfish, Neptune. Someone had to take him. That someone was me, because I was the only one home when her daughter showed up with the bowl and a look of desperation.

"He's really low-maintenance," she promised. "Just feed him twice a day. Maybe talk to him. He likes company."

So there I was, fifteen years old, having conversations with a goldfish while my Instagram followers continued their slow migration toward Alexa's pyramid scheme – she'd started some viral thing where you followed her, then had to follow three people she tagged, and somehow she was monetizing it.

"You wouldn't believe this human stuff," I told Neptune, sprinkling fish flakes into his bowl. "They literally call it a pyramid now. It's not even subtle."

Neptune swam to the surface, opened his mouth, and I swear he looked judgmental.

The turning point came when Alexa posted her "Pyramid Reveal" – a literal gold pyramid necklace from her boyfriend, captioned "Top of the pyramid, baby 💅". The comments were a worship session. Someone commented "GOALS" under it.

I stared at my cracked screen, then at Neptune swimming in his peaceful little circles, completely unaware of pyramids or iPhones or social hierarchies.

"You know what?" I said aloud. Neptune didn't respond, but the fish flakes I'd just dropped vanished quickly.

That night, I posted a photo of Neptune with the caption "My new roommate has a 3-second memory and is still the most interesting person I know. No pyramid required."

My phone buzzed like crazy. People were commenting – actual comments, not just emoji spam. Some were funny. Some were from people I'd barely spoken to, sharing their own weird pet stories or admitting they were tired of the pyramid stuff too.

Then my DM lit up. Alexa.

"U okay? You've been weird lately. Want to come over? We can fix your screen. My dad knows a guy."

I looked at Neptune, who was doing his laps, then typed back: "Yeah. Actually, that sounds great."

The pyramid was still there the next day, of course. Alexa was still at the top. But somehow it mattered less. Because I'd learned something – goldfish might have tiny memories, but they remember how to swim. And sometimes swimming in your own circle is better than climbing someone else's pyramid.