Poolside Pyramids

The neighborhood pool party, and I'm hovering near the deep end, nursing a lukewarm soda. My iPhone buzzes with notifications—people posting about this exact party, documenting the night instead of living it.

"Pool selfie!" someone yells, and suddenly everyone's arranging themselves near the water. I slip away, not sure why I feel like I'm underwater even when I'm dry.

In the backyard, I catch snippets of conversation about Tyler's "investment opportunity"—a social media pyramid scheme that's been circulating through school. "Get three friends to invest, they get three friends, everyone climbs the pyramid." He's recruiting freshmen, juniors, anyone who'll listen.

I watch a goldfish swimming in a bowl on the patio table, going in endless circles, and wonder if that's us—just following patterns, not getting anywhere.

"Hey." Maya from my English class appears beside me, holding a slice of papaya. "Want some?"

"I've never had it," I admit.

"Live a little." She grins, and I try it. The sweetness surprises me, like something I didn't know I needed.

Tyler's pyramid collapses by the end of the night. Someone's dad called it out as a scam, and suddenly people are demanding money back, accusations flying across the pool deck.

Maya and I sit on the edge of the pool, feet in the water. "You know," she says, "goldfish actually have better memories than people think. They remember for months."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. They're just small, so people assume they're stupid."

I think about how I'd been feeling small all night, like I didn't belong, like everyone else knew something I didn't. But maybe that's the point—nobody knows anything. We're all just pretending.

"I'm deleting Instagram tonight," I say, surprising myself.

Maya nods. "Good. The pool's better without filters."

We sit there until the stars come out, and it's not perfect, but it's real, and somehow that's enough.