Running the Pyramid

My palms were sweating. Again. Not normal sweat, but that specific sixteen-year-old panic-sweat that happens when you're staring at the Social Pyramid taped inside your locker door. Someone had drawn my name all the way at the bottom. In sharpie. Permanent.

"You're running track with us after school," said Chloe, the human equivalent of a golden retriever but somehow terrifying. "Mandatory new member initiation. Coach says bear crawl until you puke or pass out. Whichever comes first."

I'd rather bear the existence of my ex-best friend sitting three rows away in AP Chem, honestly. But somehow I found myself on the field, my pathetic jogging attempts getting lapped by eighth graders who looked like they'd been birthed from running itself.

"You're thinking too loud," said Marcus, appearing beside me. He had this energy, like he'd chugged five espressos and was vibrating on another frequency entirely. "Stop looking at your palms. Look at me."

I did. He had this pyramid drawn on his hand in blue pen, tiny and precise.

"My lifehack," he said. "Every time I'm at the bottom of some imaginary social hierarchy, I draw a new pyramid. Then I climb it. Watch." He pointed at the varsity seniors laughing near the bleachers. "They think they're the peak. But they're not. The real pyramid is invisible."

Then he did something completely unhinged. He sprinted toward the seniors, palms outstretched like he was about to bless them, and shouted "YOUR AURAS ARE BASIC" before booking it back to me at what had to be illegal speeds.

We ran. And ran. The senior girls were still staring, openmouthed. Marcus high-fived my sweaty palm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"See," he said, breathless, grinning like a maniac. "We just climbed. You and me. New peak."

That night I drew my own pyramid on my palm. Small. Crooked. But there.

I wasn't at the bottom anymore.