Pyramid Schemes and Snapbacks

I sat at the third table from the back—middle of the cafeteria pyramid, exactly where the social hierarchy placed us. Not the popular kids' domain near the vending machines, not the total outcasts by the bathrooms, but the vast, undefined middle where most of us existed in comfortable mediocrity.

"You're doing it again," Maya said, sliding her tray onto the table. "The thing where you overanalyze everyone's seating like it's actually meaningful."

"It's called observation," I said, adjusting my dad's old trucker hat. The brim was curved perfectly, a shield against fluorescent lights and unwanted eye contact. "Besides, you're literally at a table with me. What does that say about your social standing?"

Maya rolled her eyes, but I saw the smile she tried to hide. We'd been friend-locked since sixth grade, when she'd moved here from Seattle and I'd accidentally knocked over her lunch tray trying to look cool. She claimed she only sat with me out of pity, but we both knew it was because I was the only one who'd laugh at her terrible jokes.

"Whatever, social theorist," she said. "Did you finish Mr. Harrison's worksheet? I barely started it because I was up until 2 AM watching that new show everyone's talking about."

I froze. I'd spent my entire weekend filling out college applications and rewriting my personal statement for the tenth time, trying to sound like someone who had their life together instead of someone who still panicked when teachers called on them unprepared.

"The worksheet?" I stalled, taking a suspiciously long time to open my backpack. "Mostly. I mean, I have some questions about—"

"Jackson." Maya's voice dropped. "You didn't do it, did you?"

"Maya, I had three tests last week AND my mom's been on my case about—"

"Pass it here," she said, sliding her notebook toward me. "I copied half of it from Tyler anyway, so it's probably wrong. But it's better than a zero."

I stared at her. This was new—Maya, who'd gotten straight As since kindergarten, was copying homework? From Tyler, whose highest academic achievement was figuring out which vending machine gave the most snacks for the least money?

"Since when do you copy homework?" I asked.

"Since I realized that nobody actually cares about worksheets in sophomore year," she said, suddenly fascinated by her cafeteria pizza. "Nobody's watching us as close as we think they are. The whole pyramid thing? It's not real. We're just making ourselves crazy."

I looked around the cafeteria. The popular kids weren't actually doing anything interesting. The outcasts weren't suffering in visible misery. Everyone was just eating lunch, some laughing, some zoning out, all of us trapped in this building together for reasons that had nothing to do with where we sat.

"You know what?" I said, pulling off my hat and running a hand through my hair. "You're right. We're literally in high school wasting energy caring about things that won't matter in six months."

"Exactly," Maya said, stealing a fry from my tray. "Also, Tyler definitely got number seven wrong, so we should probably redo that one together."

"Deal," I said. "But we're not sitting here anymore. This table has bad vibes."

"Where are we going?"

"By the windows," I said, grabbing my tray. "I need natural light, and I'm done being part of the pyramid."

Maya laughed, and for the first time all year, the cafeteria didn't feel like a minefield. Just a room with bad food and okay company, and somehow that was enough.