The Pyramid Scheme

At Lincoln High, we all knew our place in the pyramid. Seniors at the top, freshmen scattered like debris at the bottom. I spent most of freshman year feeling like a zombie—shuffling to classes, phone glued to my hand, scrolling through pictures of people living actual lives while mine felt like a blur of algebra and awkward lunch periods.

Then I got a text from an unknown number: "Want in?"

That's how I discovered the REAL pyramid operating beneath Lincoln's social hierarchy. Jordan, a senior with perfect grades and a secret vape stash, had created an underground network of students helping each other survive. We called it the zombie collective because, well, we were all undead—exhausted, over-caffeinated, existing on like three hours of sleep and pure spite.

The rules were simple: one person recruited two, who recruited two more. Your job was to help your pyramid people with whatever they needed—homework, emotional support, covering for them when they ditched third period to stare at clouds behind the bleachers.

My iPhone became mission control. Group chats at 2 AM when someone's parents were fighting again. Photo bombs of test answers disguised as food pics. A network of kids who actually gave a damn.

But here's the thing about pyramid schemes: they collapse. When Jordan graduated, the whole thing fell apart. People panicked. Some betrayed their pyramid people for social climbing. Others just ghosted, returning to zombie mode like nothing happened.

Except the weird part? Some of us kept going. Me and this sophomore Mira still text each other every night. We've got our own tiny pyramid now—just the two of us, helping each other stay human in a school that wants us dead inside.

My phone buzzes. It's Mira: "AP History tomorrow. You ready?"

I type back: "Zombie mode activated. Let's do this."

Some pyramids are worth building, even if they're just two people wide at the base.