Market Crash at Match Point

My dad's been in a **bull** market mood all week, which basically means he's been mansplaining crypto at dinner while my mom scrolls through retirement calculators, looking like she's mentally calculating how many decades they'll need to work if his latest investment goes sideways again.

"It's different this time," he insists, gesturing with his fork. "The bears are wrong. They're ALWAYS wrong."

I nod, because acknowledging him is faster than arguing. My brain is already back at school, replaying the lunchroom's social **pyramid**—that invisible hierarchy where the varsity athletes sit at the apex and everyone else scrambles for position in the middle tiers, hoping not to slide into the basement where the kids who still wear Pokémon backpacks reside.

I've been stuck at the same comfortable middle level since freshman year. Not invisible, but not glowing either. The kind of person people remember vaguely: "Oh yeah, that's... what's their name again?"

Then Maya transferred in.

She appeared at the **padel** courts last Tuesday with a worn racket bag and this effortless confidence that made me simultaneously want to be her and be nowhere near her because my knees would definitely forget how to human if she looked directly at me.

"You gonna hit that ball or stare at it?" she'd called out when I missed an easy return during open play.

My face had burned. Everyone heard. The pyramid suddenly felt very steep, and I was sliding.

But she'd just laughed—not mean, but like she actually found it funny. "I'm Maya. Your backhand has potential, but your footwork's tragic."

We've been playing together every day since. She teaches me court positioning; I teach her how to navigate the cafeteria's territorial zones without incident. It's weirdly easy with her, this instant friendship that doesn't feel like a transaction or a performance.

Today at dinner, my dad launches into another bear-vs-bull monologue, and I catch my mom's eye across the table. She does this microscopic eye-roll that says everything: we're both exhausted, and I'm seventeen and I'm supposed to care about market indices but I really just want to text Maya about tomorrow's match.

"Dad," I interrupt, setting down my fork. "Can we just... not?"

The table goes silent. Usually, I just absorb it.

"The market's gonna do whatever the market's gonna do," I continue, surprised by my own voice. "But I made varsity padel, and I think I might actually be happy for the first time since... I don't know."

My dad blinks. My mom's eyebrows lift, but she's smiling this tiny, genuine smile.

"That's..." My dad clears his throat. "That's actually huge, kiddo."

Later that night, Maya texts: pyramid scheme: she's recruiting me for her friend group. they're cool, i promise. no hazing except you have to learn their handshake.

I'm typing back yes before I even think about it, and suddenly the pyramid doesn't feel like something to climb or avoid. It feels like something I can redesign.