Pyramid Schemes and Morning Zombies

The first week of sophomore year, I discovered that Roosevelt High operated like a pyramid. At the top sat the varsity cheerleaders and TikTok-famous juniors. Somewhere in the middle lurked the AP kids and band geeks. And at the bottom? That would be me, the new girl who'd already tripped in the cafeteria twice.

By Friday, I was functioning on serious zombie energy. Three days of trying to decode the lunch table seating chart + zero hours of sleep = a brain that felt like microwaved mac and cheese. I dragged myself through the front door after school, ready to collapse into bed for approximately forever.

Then I saw him.

Caleb, the cute skater boy from my English class, was across the street, struggling with his dog—a chaotic golden retriever mix that was currently attempting to drag him toward a squirrel.

"Need help?" I called, before my brain could process that I was wearing my grungy after-school hoodie and my hair definitely looked like a bird's nest.

Caleb's face lit up. "Please. Buster thinks he's a sled dog."

Together we managed to wrangle the enthusiastic furball. Turns out Buster was a rescue—he'd been found abandoned behind a convenience store, skinny and scared. Now he was living his best life, entirely unconcerned with social hierarchies or whether his owner was cool enough to sit at the good lunch tables.

"Wanna walk him together?" Caleb asked. "I usually go down to the park."

So we walked. And talked. About how much we both hated gym class, about our favorite bands, about how exhausting it was trying to climb the social pyramid when nobody at the top seemed particularly happy anyway.

"You know," Caleb said, watching Buster chase leaves like they were personal enemies, "dogs have it figured out. They just are. No pretending, no performing. They're just out here living their truth."

Something in my chest loosened. Maybe I didn't have to have it all figured out by next week. Maybe I could just be—a tired, slightly awkward girl who walked dogs and liked indie music.

Monday morning, I sat at a table near the back. Not the cool table, not the bottom-of-the-pyramid table. Just my table. Caleb waved from across the cafeteria, and I waved back, feeling weirdly, wonderfully awake for the first time in days.