Pyramid Schemes and Palm Readers

Maya stared at the cafeteria's social pyramid—literally. Someone had taped a diagram to the wall showing who sat where, and yeah, sophomore year was already exhausting enough without the anthropology project.

"You're overthinking it," Carlos said, stealing a fry from her tray. "Just sit somewhere."

"Easy for you to say. You're like, the only chill person here."

Carlos was the kind of guy who called everyone "dog" unironically and somehow pulled it off. They'd been neighbors since Maya moved to California three months ago, and he was basically her lifeline.

"What if I just... don't?" Maya said. "What if I eat in the courtyard like yesterday?"

"With the palm trees?" Carlos laughed. "You're not solving your social anxiety by communing with nature, Maya."

They were interrupted by Zoe, the junior who ran the school's biggest secret: the palm reading booth at the annual carnival. Every year, she allegedly predicted who would date whom, and her track record was suspiciously accurate.

"Hey," Zoe said, sliding into the seat across from Maya. "I heard you transferred because you got expelled."

Maya's palms went instantly sweaty. "What? No. I moved for my dad's job."

"Hm. That's not what the pyramid says." Zoe gestured at the diagram. "Word travels fast when you're interesting."

After lunch, Carlos found her sitting under a palm tree, cheeks burning.

"She was messing with you," he said. "Zoe does that. Tests people."

"Why does high school feel like a psychological experiment?"

"Because it is." Carlos's phone buzzed. "Hey, my aunt needs help with her dog. She's old, can't walk far anymore. Want to come?"

The dog—a golden retriever named Biscuit—jumped on Maya the second they walked in, leaving muddy paw prints on her white jeans. Carlos's aunt laughed so hard she started coughing.

"Sorry," Maya said, trying to wipe it off. "I should go change—"

"No," Carlos said. "Stay. We'll order pizza."

They ended up sitting on the aunt's back porch for three hours, watching Biscuit chase squirrels while she told them stories about every person she'd ever known. The social pyramid at school felt suddenly very far away.

"You know," she said, squinting at Maya's palm at one point. "You're going to be just fine."

"Can you actually read palms?" Maya asked.

"No," she said, "but I've been alive long enough to know who's going to make it. You've got good hands."

On Monday, Zoe sat next to Maya at lunch.

"So," she said. "Carlos told me about Biscuit. That's cool you help with his aunt."

"It was just one time."

"Still." Zoe smiled, actually smiled. "You're not as mysterious as everyone thinks. That's good."

Maya looked around the cafeteria. The pyramid diagram was gone, replaced by a flyer for the spring carnival. Her palms were dry for the first time all week. Some things, she realized, you couldn't learn from a chart—you had to live them.