The Pyramid Scheme of Doom

Maya stared at the cafeteria pyramid. Not the food pyramid (gross), but the actual social hierarchy that ruled Lincoln High like an unspoken constitution. At the top: the varsity cheerleaders and TikTok famous kids. Middle: the AP crowd and theater weirdos. Bottom: everyone else scrambling for relevance.

"You gonna eat that?" Marcus pointed at her tray.

"It's papaya, Marcus. It's supposed to be healthy."

"It looks like something that died in a microwave."

Maya rolled her eyes. Marcus had been her best friend since seventh grade, back when she'd tripped over his backpack in homeroom and somehow they'd ended up bonding over their mutual hatred of group projects. Now they were juniors, and Maya had developed a massive, inconvenient crush on him that she would literally rather die than confess.

The dog incident of sophomore year had cemented their friendship. Marcus's golden retriever, Buster, had eaten Maya's history project right before finals. She'd cried. He'd bought her boba. They'd been inseparable since.

"So," Marcus said, "I heard Jordan's party is gonna be lit."

"The pyramid party?" Maya raised an eyebrow. "Where everyone's supposed to dress as different social tiers?"

"It's supposed to be ironic."

"It's supposed to be a disaster."

But that's how they ended up at Jordan's house two nights later, Maya wearing a ridiculous cardboard pyramid on her head because she'd "gone as the food pyramid" as a joke. Marcus kept making puns about her being at the "top of her game" and "peak Maya," and she was laughing so hard she forgot to be nervous.

Then someone bumped into her.

Her papaya-colored punch (why had she agreed to this?) splashed everywhere. All over her white pyramid costume. All over Marcus's shoes.

The whole room went silent.

Maya thought she would dissolve into the floor. This was it. Peak embarrassment. The kind of thing that would live in group chats for years.

But Marcus just started laughing. Not mean laughing – like, actually losing it. He took the crushed pyramid off her head and put it on his own.

"Now I'm at the top of the food chain," he said, and Maya couldn't help it – she cracked up too.

They spent the rest of the night sitting on Jordan's front porch, sharing stories about their most embarrassing moments, and when Marcus's phone buzzed with a text from his mom saying Buster had destroyed another pair of shoes, Maya realized something.

Social pyramids didn't matter. Papaya punch disasters didn't matter. What mattered was sitting on a porch with someone who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, pyramid-shaped cardboard or not.

Maybe she'd tell him. Eventually. But for now, this was enough.