Palm Sweats and Pyramid Schemes

Maya's palms were sweating. Again. She pressed them against her jeans, leaving two dark patches on the denim.

"You're our spy now," Chloe had said that morning, flipping her perfect hair. "Sit with the theater kids at lunch. Find out who's hooking up with who."

Maya had nodded, desperate to climb the social pyramid at her new school. Freshman year was half-over, and she was still invisible.

Now, wedged between two theater kids discussing Hamilton, her phone buzzed. Chloe's insta story: *Report back.*

Maya's stomach twisted. These kids were nice. They'd let her borrow a pen when hers died. They'd complimented her hoodie.

"So," she whispered, hating herself. "Anyone... dating anyone?"

The boy beside her, Marcus, raised an eyebrow. "Why? You writing an exposé?"

"No! I just—"

"Relax." He grinned. "Unlike some people, we don't make our lives into a pyramid scheme of drama."

Maya froze. He knew.

"Chloe and her group think they're top of the food chain," Marcus continued, not unkindly. "But it's all manufactured. They collect secrets like trading cards. It's sad."

Maya's palms were soaked. She wiped them on her jeans again, leaving darker patches.

"I don't want to be a spy," she said quietly.

"Then don't." Marcus tapped her hand. "Your palm's sweating like crazy, by the way. Nervous?"

"Terrified."

"Join the club." He pushed his tray toward her. "We're all terrified. Some of us just don't pretend otherwise."

Maya looked at Chloe's table across the cafeteria. The pyramid scheme of popularity suddenly seemed exhausting.

She typed into her phone: *Found nothing. Sorry.* Then deleted it.

*Actually,* she typed to Chloe, *I'm good here.*

Her phone stayed silent. Maya's palms finally dried. She took a bite of Marcus's fries.

"These are gross," she said.

"Yeah." He laughed. "That's why I'm sharing them."