The Pyramid Scheme of Eighth Grade

The vitamin C gummy stuck to my braces like orange-flavored cement. Mom swore they'd keep me from getting sick before tryouts, but I think she just liked watching me suffer.

"You've got this, bear," she said, using the nickname that had somehow survived from kindergarten. I grabbed my lucky hat—a beat-up Dodgers cap that hid the haircut my aunt called "ambitious" but my friends called "a disaster."

Middle school was basically a pyramid scheme. At the top: kids whose parents bought them iPhones before they could walk. Bottom: everyone else. I was somewhere in the middle, trying to climb up without selling my soul.

Then there was Cleo.

She sat behind me in homeroom, legs always pulled to her chest like a human sphinx. She wore the same black hoodie every day and answered questions with riddles. When Mr. Henderson asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, she said, "Someone who doesn't have to answer that question."

Everyone laughed. I didn't.

"Nice hat," she told me one day when I forgot to take it off inside. "What are you hiding under there?"

"Bad decisions," I said.

"Same." She smiled. It was the first time I'd seen her do that. "Hey, I'm starting a band. We need someone who can kind of carry a tune. Interested?"

"I can't sing."

"Perfect. Neither can we."

So I joined. We practiced in her garage, played three chords badly, and ate way too many pizza rolls. Her mom took a photo of us—me in my hat, Cleo looking uncharacteristically happy—and it ended up on the school's Instagram.

The next day, people actually talked to me. The pyramid felt less like a structure and more like... just people.

"You're different now," Mom said at breakfast, handing me my vitamin.

"Nah," I said, pocketing it. "Just finally wearing the hat right."