The Pyramid Scheme

My first day as a freshman, I learned two things: one, the cafeteria's social hierarchy was built like a pyramid, and two, I was somewhere in the basement.

I sat alone with my lunch, trying to look busy. Mom had packed papaya—again. Who even eats papaya at fourteen? I poked at the orange flesh with my fork, watching the popular crowd hold court at their table. Jordan, with his perfectly tousled hair and that vintage dad-hat worn at just the right angle, sat at the pyramid's apex. They laughed like they shared a secret language.

"Yo, is that papaya?"

I looked up. Jordan was standing there. Actual Jordan. From the pyramid top.

"Uh, yeah," I managed. "My mom's weird about nutrition."

He slid into the seat across from me. "That's actually sick. My mom thinks Hot Cheetos count as a vegetable."

I blinked. Was this real life?

"That hat," I said, then immediately regretted it. "It's cool. The... the angle."

Jordan laughed, and for the first time, it didn't sound like the performative laughter from his table. "You think? My sister says I look like a fishing dad from 2004."

"Nah, it's got...," I searched for the word, "vibes. Authentic vibes."

He pushed the hat back. "You're alright, papaya kid. What's your name?"

"Marcus."

"Well Marcus, you wanna get out of here? This cafeteria gives me the ick."

We spent the rest of lunch behind the bleachers, talking about everything and nothing. Turns out the top of the pyramid was pretty lonely up there. The papaya stayed in my lunchbox, untouched—but something told me tomorrow, I wouldn't be eating alone.

Sometimes the coolest people are the ones who don't care about climbing pyramids at all.