Three Strikes at the Social Pyramid

The goldfish - whom I'd creatively named Goldie - stared at me through the glass of her dollar-store bowl, probably judging my outfit. Today was tryouts for the baseball team, and somehow my entire sophomore year reputation hung in the balance.

"You got this, Leo," I told myself, which is exactly what someone who's definitely not going to get this says.

The school's social hierarchy worked like a pyramid: varsity athletes at the top, then regular athletes, then kids who were good at literally anything else, and finally me and Goldie's other admirers somewhere near the bottom. My plan? Climb the pyramid. Get on the team. Finally become someone people noticed instead of "that quiet kid who talks to fish."

I grabbed my glove - the same one my older cousin had handed down, already broken in and smelling like victory and cheap leather. Or maybe just cheap leather.

At the field, Coach Martinez lined us up. "Alright, ladies. Show me what you got."

First pitch: swing and miss. Cool, cool.

Second pitch: foul tip. Progress?

Third pitch: I somehow managed to hit it - straight into the outfield, where it landed with a disappointing thud in the grass. I ran like my life depended on it, lungs burning, legs pumping, everything a blur of motion and terror.

"Safe!" the umpire called.

I didn't make varsity. Didn't even make JV. But I got a spot on the freshman-sophomore team, and the captain - a junior named Marcus who sat at the very top of the pyramid - actually nodded at me like I was a real human being.

That night, Goldie swam up to her plastic castle and did a little victory spin. Maybe it was the fish flakes talking, but I swore she was proud.

"Tomorrow," I told her, watching her silhouette against the streetlamp outside my window, "tomorrow we figure out the rest."

The pyramid hadn't moved, but something had shifted. I wasn't at the bottom anymore. Maybe that's enough for now.