Pyramid Schemes & Morning Zombies

The school's social pyramid stood taller than the actual gym building. At the top: the varsity athletes. At the bottom: everyone else. And somewhere in the middle—that precarious spot where one wrong move could send you tumbling—sat me.

I'd been a zombie since baseball season started. 5 AM practices, school all day, then games until sunset. My mom had started leaving Gatorade by the front door like I was some kind of endangered species needing careful feeding.

"You look like death," Maya said, sliding into the seat beside me in homeroom. This was rich, coming from someone who'd spent the weekend at a music festival and had probably slept a combined four hours since Friday.

"Baseball conditioning," I mumbled, face half-pressed into my arms. "Coach says we need more speed. More running. More everything."

She snorted. "Classic. Still trying to impress Jordan?"

My face burned. Maya had this terrifying ability to call me out without even trying.

"I'm NOT trying to impress anyone," I lied. "I'm just—trying to make varsity."

"Right. Because that's totally the same thing." She flipped her phone around to show me a flyer. "Speaking of pyramids, look what Sabrina's posting now."

I squinted at the screen. Some "wellness pyramid scheme"—essential oils that supposedly cured everything from acne to existential dread. Sabrina, sophomore year's self-appointed lifestyle guru, had discovered another way to convince people to give her money.

"She's got twelve people in her downline already," Maya said, sounding weirdly impressed. "My cousin bought like three hundred dollars of lavender oil. Says it helps with anxiety."

"Or she could just, you know, talk to someone about her anxiety. For free."

"You're so pragmatic. It's annoying."

The bell rang. I grabbed my bag, brain still foggy from lack of sleep. Outside, the baseball team was jogging past the window, their cleats clicking against the pavement in this weirdly synchronized rhythm. Jordan was in front, laughing at something someone said, not even winded.

I felt this sudden sharp pang—not jealousy, exactly. More like recognition.

I'd been so busy running toward something I hadn't stopped to ask if I actually wanted it.

"You coming?" Maya called from the door.

I looked at the pyramid of textbooks on my desk. At the zombie staring back at me in the darkened window. At the baseball field outside where someone was already calling out plays.

"Yeah," I said. "But I'm thinking about quitting the team."

Maya froze. Then she grinned, slow and knowing.

"Finally. I was wondering how long it'd take you to notice you hate baseball.

I blinked. Because I HAD been wondering. And somewhere between the exhaustion and the trying to impress someone who'd never notice and the pyramid schemes masading as self-improvement, I'd forgotten that I got to choose what mattered.

"Okay but," Maya added, "you're still coming to Sabrina's 'pyramid party' on Friday, right? I need someone to strategically roll their eyes at all the right moments."

"Only if there's pizza."

"There's ALWAYS pizza. That's how they get you."

I laughed, feeling something inside me unclench for the first time in months.

The zombie would survive. The pyramid could wait. And maybe—just maybe—I'd figure out who I was when I wasn't running anymore.