The Goldfish at the Pyramid

Lena's first week at Northwood High felt like walking into a pyramid scheme she never signed up for. At the top sat the seniors with their perfect hair and unreachable standards. Somewhere in the middle? The juniors who'd already claimed their spots. And at the bottom? Freshmen like her, just trying not to get crushed.

She clutched the plastic bag holding her carnival goldfish—won from that sketchy ring toss booth—wondering why she'd thought bringing it to school was a good idea. Probably because her mom had given her That Look about taking care of Yet Another Living Thing after Buster, their golden retriever, had shredded three throw pillows and her dad's work cables in the same week.

"Nice fish," someone said behind her. Lena turned to find Ryan, the junior whose Instagram stories somehow appeared on everyone's feed. Not that she'd noticed. Okay, maybe she'd noticed. His hair actually looked like he'd put effort into it, unlike most of the guys in her grade who'd apparently discovered hair gel yesterday.

"Thanks. His name is Fishstick."

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Original."

"I'm working on it."

"I was gonna ask if you wanted to sit with us at lunch. My table's by the window."

Lena's brain short-circuited. This wasn't supposed to happen. Freshman loners didn't get invited to sit by the window with the juniors. That violated the whole pyramid system.

"Unless you've got other plans," he added quickly. "I know how it is when you're—"

"No! I mean, yeah, that'd be... yeah. Cool. Cool cool cool."

Why had she just said "cool cool cool" like a malfunctioning robot?

But at lunch, something weird happened. Ryan's friends didn't look at her like she was some lost freshman. They actually talked to her about normal stuff. Not what's your GPA or what sports do you play or other freshman-audit questions. Real stuff.

"My dog chewed through our internet cable last week," Ryan admitted. "My parents acted like I'd personally orchestrated the whole thing."

"Buster does that constantly," Lena found herself saying. "Last month he got my headphones, my homework, and somehow my retainer case. Don't ask how he found it."

Everyone laughed. And for the first time all week, Lena didn't feel like she was drowning.

Fishick died two weeks later, which sucked harder than she'd expected. But Ryan texted her that afternoon: Sorry about your fish. Want to hang at the park?

The social pyramid wasn't going anywhere. But maybe, just maybe, she'd found a way to climb it—without losing herself in the process.