Pyramid Schemes and Eyeliner

The social pyramid at Northwood High had twenty-seven levels, and I occupied the basement. That's what my friend Santana called it anyway, as she flopped onto my bed and gestured vaguely at my ceiling where I'd taped a diagram of the entire hierarchy. jocks at the top, then theater kids, then skaters, then everyone else, and finally us: the band kids who sat at the table near the trash cans.

"You're overthinking it," Santana said, scrolling through her phone. "Just ask Leo to formal already."

"Leo Martinez?" I snorted. "He's literally dating Chloe, whose eyeliner wings could cut glass. Meanwhile, I look like a raccoon who lost a fight."

My cat, Pyramid (yes, I named him after the geometry unit I was failing when I found him behind the dumpster at El Toro, the Mexican place downtown), chose that moment to knock over my entire makeup collection. Black eyeshadow exploded across my carpet like I'd murdered a.

Santana sat up. "That's it. We're fixing this."

Two hours later, I stood in front of my mirror. My eyeliner was actually decent—Santana had YouTube-taught herself during quarantine and was surprisingly good. But my stomach still twisted at the thought of talking to Leo at the baseball game tonight. He played center field and I'd been attending every home game since freshman year, sitting in the same bleacher seat, wearing my lucky hoodie (which I'd never actually washed, so it smelled like anxiety and.

"You're going," Santana said, reading my mind. "And you're going to tell him he's bull for not noticing you sooner."

"That's not how that phrase works—"

"IT DOES NOW."

The game was already in the third inning when I arrived. Leo was at bat, and I watched in that way you do when you've memorized someone's stance, the way they adjust their helmet, how their back muscles shift when they swing. He struck out, slamming his bat into the dirt, and my heart did that stupid flutter thing.

After the game, I found him near the dugout, alone for once. Chloe was nowhere in sight.

"Hey," I said, and my voice came out way shakier than I'd intended.

He looked up, and his face did this thing where it softened. "Hey! You came."

"Always do."

We stood there for a second, the stadium lights humming, the distant sound of parents cleaning up popcorn. Pyramid scratched at the back door at home, but here, everything was suddenly, terrifyingly possible.

"So," Leo said, scratching the back of his neck. "I was gonna ask you something."

"Me?" I said, because apparently I was fluent in being.

"Yeah, you. You're at every game, and I always look for you in the stands, and—" He laughed, this nervous sound I'd never heard from him before. "I was wondering if you'd want to go to formal with me?"

Santana's voice echoed in my head: tell him he's bull. Instead, I just said, "Yes."

Later, I'd text her a photo of us, his arm around my shoulders, my eyeliner somehow still perfect. She'd reply with twenty fire emojis and a message about how we'd officially ascended the pyramid. But in that moment, under the lights, none of it mattered—the hierarchy, the categories, the years of watching from the bleachers.

Pyramid was probably eating my houseplants, but I'd deal with that tomorrow.