Palm Sweat & Pyramid Schemes

Maya's palms were sweating so much her iPhone nearly slipped from her grip. Three drinks in and she was still the only one standing alone in the corner of Jake's basement, watching the social pyramid form around her. The popular crew—top of the pyramid, obviously—was crowded by the makeshift bar, laughing at something she couldn't hear.

"You look like you're about to bolt," said a voice behind her. She turned to find Marcus, that quiet kid from AP Calc who always sat in the back row. "No offense, but you've been clutching that phone like it's a life raft."

Maya almost dropped her phone. "Is it that obvious?"

"Pretty much," Marcus shrugged, actually smiling a little. "I'm Marcus, by the way. The guy who's been avoiding eye contact with you all year because last semester you called him out for making up random stats about climate change."

"Oh my god, I am SO sorry about that. I was on my high horse about... honestly, I don't even remember what." The alcohol was making her bold. Or maybe just honest.

"Nah, you were right. I was totally talking out of my ass. It was kinda impressive you called BS on me actually." Marcus gestured toward the popular group. "What's your deal with them anyway? You keep looking over there like you're planning your heist."

Maya surprised herself by actually answering. "I promised my friend Chloe I'd put myself out there tonight. She's in that group somewhere and gave me this whole pep talk about how high school is the time to take risks and not play it safe. But honestly? I've been standing here hyperventilating for forty-five minutes and the only thing I've actually accomplished is memorizing the basement ceiling's stain patterns."

Marcus laughed. "Okay, that's literally the most relatable thing I've heard all night. Last month I did karaoke at my cousin's quinceañera and spent the entire song staring at my shoes instead of the audience. My mom still won't stop talking about how I 'have the voice but lack the stage presence.'"

"Wait, you can actually sing?"

"I mean, I'm no Chris Brown but I can carry a tune. You?"

"I once did a solo at my church and the pastor told me I had a 'gift' but my little sister recorded it and said I sounded like a dying cat. So... mixed reviews."

They were both laughing now, the tension in Maya's shoulders finally loosening. For the first time all night, her phone stayed dark in her pocket, no Instagram story to post, no photo to prove she was living her "best life."

"You know," Maya said, realizing something, "I'm having way more fun over here than I would have trying to force myself into that circle over there. Is that pathetic?"

"Nah," Marcus shook his head. "Sometimes the best thing you can do is find the one other person who also doesn't buy the hype. Also, I'm pretty sure that pyramid over there is about to collapse anyway. Jake's sister just got caught throwing up in the bathroom and everyone's pretending not to notice."

Maya glanced over and saw the popular group's carefully curated chaos starting to unravel. "You know what? I'll take the corner with the honest conversation over the pyramid any day."

"Agreed." Marcus paused. "Hey, if you're not doing anything tomorrow, my band is practicing. We're terrible but we get free pizza afterward if you want to come... totally no pressure though."

Maya felt her palms sweating again, but this time it didn't feel like panic. "I'd love to. But only if I can bring my phone and document your terrible playing for future blackmail material."

"Deal."