The Sphinx's Last Question

The pyramid scheme wasn't supposed to be literal.

Kyle had roped me into some multi-level marketing BS, promising "financial freedom by senior year." Now we were stuck at this Egyptian-themed party, wearing polyester pharaoh headdresses that smelled like a middle school locker room.

"Bro, you're not networking," Kyle whispered, nudging me toward a girl in an orange dress that somehow matched the Cheeto stains on his fingers. "That's Tara. She goes to North."

"I'm not trying to sell skincare products to someone from North, Kyle. That's literally social suicide."

But my feet were already moving, because apparently my dignity had taken a permanent vacation. Meanwhile, Kyle's dog—a chaotic golden retriever named Pharaoh that he'd brought because "emotional support animal"—was currently running circles around the snack table, knocking over Solo cups like a fuzzy, orange-furred bowling ball.

Tara was standing next to a cardboard sphinx prop that looked like it had been assembled by someone who'd never seen either geometry or a cat. The face was lopsided, the smile was more of a grimace, and one ear was basically a triangle.

"Nice sphinx," I said, because my brain had officially stopped working.

She cracked up. "It looks like it's questioning every life choice that led to this moment."

"Same, honestly."

Her laugh was genuine, surprising. "You go to West?"

"Unfortunately."

"I'm Tara."

"Marcus."

We talked for twenty minutes about nothing—school, music, how much this party sucked, why we'd both come. Then she dropped something on me: "You know what the sphinx's riddle was? What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, three in the evening?"

"Man," I said. "Because we're born helpless, then we walk, then we need canes. It's about aging."

She shook her head. "That's the answer. But the real riddle is—why do we spend so much time worrying about getting old when we're not even really living yet?"

The question hit me harder than it should have. Maybe it was the Cheeto fumes. Maybe it was that she'd somehow summed up exactly what I'd been feeling all year—this constant pressure to build a pyramid of achievements, to network and scheme and plan, when I was just trying to figure out who I even was.

Or maybe she was just really pretty and I was overthinking it.

"You're weird," I said. "In a good way."

"You too, Marcus."

Then Kyle's dog knocked over the sphinx, and cardboard riddle-props went flying everywhere. Tara grabbed my hand, and we started running toward the door, laughing like we'd just committed a crime instead of witnessing property damage.

The night air was cool, her hand was warm, and for once, I wasn't thinking about pyramids or schemes or what anyone thought about me from West or North or anywhere.

I was just running.