The Social Pyramid Scheme

Maya's older sister Zoey swore by her morning routine—emerging from the bathroom in a cloud of expensive face mist, chugging something green that smelled like grass clippings.

"It's basically liquid vitamins," Zoey said, catching Maya's skeptical look. "You'll thank me when you're a sophomore and your skin is still glowing."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her brain. She had bigger problems than glowing skin—specifically, the towering social pyramid that was Jefferson High, and her current position somewhere near the basement. freshmen year was supposed to be about reinvention, but so far it was mostly about awkward hallway encounters and having zero clue how to exist near people without feeling like a bewildered cat in a dog park.

Then came Jackson Hayes.

Jackson was the kind of guy who existed at the tippy-top of whatever invisible hierarchy governed everything. Basketball captain. devastatingly smiley. The kind of person who made eye contact and your brain went absolutely horizontal. When he'd started showing up at Maya's locker last week, pretending to be fascinated by her AP Bio notes, she'd assumed it was some elaborate prank. But Jackson kept appearing, kept grinning that grin that could apparently level entire buildings.

"So," Jackson said, leaning against her locker like it was completely normal. "My cat is having an existential crisis. Needs attention. You free Saturday?"

Maya stared at him. Wait, what.

"Your... cat."

"Yeah, he's like, emotionally needy. I figured you might have cat energy. You give off extremely competent vibes."

This had to be bull. Absolute bull. But Jackson was looking at her with those ridiculous brown eyes, and Maya was apparently the world's biggest sucker because she heard herself agreeing before her brain could process that this was probably a pyramid scheme of social manipulation.

Saturday arrived. Maya spent forty minutes on her hair, thirty minutes on her outfit, and approximately zero minutes feeling ready for whatever this was.

Jackson's house was nicer than expected. The cat—a fluffy, judgmental monster named Pickles—indeed seemed to be having an emotional crisis, mostly involving yelling at birds through the window. Jackson sprawled on his bed, watching Maya attempt to win over the feline version of a grumpy old man.

"He likes you," Jackson said.

"He's literally hissing at me."

"That's his love language. Pickles is complicated. Emotional depth."

Maya snorted. "Pickles sounds emotionally constipated."

Jackson laughed—actually laughed, head tipped back, completely unguarded. The sound did things to Maya's stomach that she refused to examine closely.

"Anyway," he said, sitting up. "The cat thing was maybe forty percent true."

Maya raised an eyebrow. "And the other sixty percent?"

"I wanted to hang out with you. You seem cool. Also Pickles really is having an existential crisis, I'm not lying about that."

Maya felt something weird and warm unfold in her chest. Maybe the social pyramid wasn't as rigid as she'd thought. Maybe sometimes you could climb up. Or maybe—probably—some stuff was just completely random, and sometimes emotionally constipated cats and ridiculous boys with perfect hair just... happened.

"Fine," she said, grinning despite herself. "But I'm meeting this bear you call a cat halfway. He's gonna tolerate me by the end of this, or so help me."

Jackson beamed, and Maya realized she didn't feel like a bewildered anything anymore. Maybe sophomore year wouldn't be so terrible after all.