The Pyramid Scheme

Maya checked her iphone for the third time in two minutes. Nothing. No texts, no snaps, no sign that she existed in the social ecosystem of Westwood High.

"You're literally gonna become a zombie if you keep staring at that screen," said Jax, sliding into the cafeteria seat across from her. "Also, nice hair. Did you dye it with actual Kool-Aid or...?"

Maya self-consciously tucked a strand of blue behind her ear. Third period's experimental dye job had not gone according to plan. "Shut up. At least I'm trying something new."

"New is dangerous," Jax said, popping a chip into his mouth. "New is how you end up at the bottom of the pyramid."

The pyramid. The invisible social hierarchy that ruled their school like some ancient Egyptian curse gone wrong. At the top: the elites. The athletes, the influencers, the people whose lives seemed perpetually filtered. At the bottom: everyone else, desperately climbing toward relevance.

Maya had a secret weapon, though. She was a spy.

Not, like, a real spy. That would be deranged. But she'd been collecting intel on the elite group for months now—documenting their rituals, their slang, their mysterious ability to make everything look effortless. She had notes in her phone: when Chloe wore her hair curly versus straight, whatTyler ordered for lunch every Tuesday, how Jordan somehow made sweatpants look like a fashion statement.

"Operation: Infiltrate the Pyramid is a go," she whispered.

Jax nearly choked on his chips. "You're still doing that? Maya, you can't just research your way into being popular. That's not how any of this works."

"Watch me."

She stood up, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and walked toward their table. The elite table. The tip of the pyramid.

Chloe looked up as Maya approached. For a second, time seemed to warp and stretch, like a video buffering on terrible wifi. Then Chloe smiled.

"Love the hair," she said. "You're in Mr. Harrison's English class, right? We're doing a group project and we need someone who actually knows how to write."

Maya's brain short-circuited. All her research, all her observations—and what they actually needed was someone who could do the work.

"Yeah," Maya said, finding her voice. "I can write."

"Perfect," Chloe said. "Sit with us."

As Maya slid into the seat at the top of the pyramid, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably Jax, texting her something snarky. But for the first time, she didn't need to check it.

She'd climbed the pyramid, but she'd done it by just being herself—blue Kool-Aid hair and all.

The zombie feeling faded. She was wide awake now.