The Social Pyramid Scheme

I reset the cable box for the third time, even though I knew it wouldn't matter. The internet had been dead since last night, and honestly? Same. Between finals week and my mom's new obsession with documentaries about ancient Egypt, our living room had basically turned into a pyramid conspiracy zone.

"You look like a zombie," Maya said, flopping onto my bed and tossing me a bag of spinach chips. "Rough night?"

"Rough week." I caught the bag. "Stayed up until 3 AM finishing that English paper. Then my mom kept me up ranting about how the Great Pyramid aligns with Orion's belt or whatever."

Maya snorted. "Classic."

She was the only person who got it. We'd been best friends since seventh grade, back when social hierarchies seemed like something that happened to other people. Now, as juniors, we'd both learned the hard way that high school was basically one giant pyramid scheme—and we were definitely at the bottom.

"Speaking of," Maya lowered her voice, eyes gleaming with that familiar I-have-dirt expression, "guess who I caught spying on your Instagram yesterday?"

My stomach did that annoying flutter thing. "Who?"

"Ethan."

"No way." Ethan Torres, who sat behind me in calc and had barely spoken three words to me all semester. "You're messing with me."

"I wish." Maya pulled out her phone, scrolled, and showed me a screenshot. There it was—my name in her story views, right above his. At 2:47 AM. "He's definitely been lurking."

"Or he has insomnia and accidentally double-tapped," I said, though I could feel my face heating up.

"Or he's interested but too scared to say anything because you're genuinely intimidating." Maya popped a spinach chip into her mouth. "Your resting scaring-face is legendary."

"That's not a thing."

"It is when you haven't slept in three days and you're ready to fight a pyramid conspiracy." She grabbed my hand. "Come on. We're going to that party tonight."

"Since when do we go to parties?"

"Since Ethan Torres might be there, and since you need to stop hiding in your room letting your mom's documentaries rot your brain." She stood up and yanked me to my feet. "Trust me. The social pyramid doesn't collapse itself. We gotta climb it."

I looked at her—really looked at her. Maya, with her mismatched socks and zero fear of anyone's opinion. Maya, who'd stuck by me through braces and bad haircuts and that time I accidentally started a rumor about myself.

"Fine," I said. "But if Ethan doesn't talk to me, you owe me boba."

"Deal."

She didn't mention that the internet was still down, or that my shirt was inside out, or that I had actual spinach stuck in my teeth from lunch. That's what real friends do—they see your zombie moments and don't run away. They just hand you better snacks and drag you toward whatever's next.

Even if "whatever's next" is a party where you might finally talk to your crush, or you might stand in the corner awkwardly for three hours straight.

Either way, at least I wouldn't be alone.