The Social Pyramid Scheme

The country club's social pyramid was invisible but crushing — eighth grade geometry in real life, no calculator allowed. At the base: us. The weird kids, the ones whose parents signed them up for summer activities hoping we'd "network" (their word, not mine).

"Dude, you're gripping the padel racket like it's about to bite you," Maya said, wiping sweat from her forehead.

My hair — which I'd spent twenty minutes curling that morning, desperate to look effortless — now frizzed in the July humidity. I looked like a poodle that lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner. Meanwhile, Chloe floated past us toward the swimming pool, her blonde ponytail swinging like it was mocking my existence.

Chloe sat at the pyramid's apex. Her dad owned three dealerships. She wore the kind of sundress that cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"She's not even that good at padel," I muttered, hitting the ball into the net for the seventeenth time. "She just stands there looking pretty while everyone fetches balls for her."

"She's not the one hitting it into the net, though," Maya pointed out, which, fair.

Then Chloe walked over. Actually glided. Same difference.

"Your hair," she said, and I braced myself. "It's actually kind of amazing. Mine won't hold a curl for anything."

I stood there, holding a padel racket like a weapon I didn't know how to use, while the swimming pool's chlorine smell drifted around us. "Oh. Thanks?"

"Wanna play mixed doubles?" She grinned. "Promise not to judge your serve. Mine's worse."

Maybe pyramids weren't as solid as they looked. Maybe they were just built on weird coincidences and curly hair and someone unexpected inviting you into their game.

"Sure," I said. "But I'm warning you — I'm terrible."

"Perfect," she said. "Me too. Let's suck at it together."