When the Pyramid Crumbled

The cafeteria sat at the bottom of the social pyramid, and I'd finally claimed a spot on the second tier. Marco's table. Where the orange neon sign from the pizza place across the street cast this cool sunset glow on everything, making even wilted salad look cinematic.

Then came the bull.

Jaxon, varsity quarterback, human wrecking ball, slammed his tray down next to me. His Knicks jersey—that hideous orange thing—seemed to vibrate with aggression. Everyone at our table went dead silent. Marco's hand actually shook on his soda cup.

"Liam," Jaxon said, like my name was a challenge. "Heard you're trying out for stage crew."

My brain, now operating on three hours of sleep and two energy drinks, went full zombie mode. I stared at him. I may have actually drooled a little. This was it. The moment I got shoved back down to the bottom. The mortification would be complete.

"Yeah," I managed.

"Cool." Jaxon sat. "I need props for the fall showcase. My sister's doing set design, she says you're good with building stuff."

The table's collective jaw hit the floor. Marco's soda spilled.

"Wait," Marco whispered, "you're asking for HIS help?"

Jaxon shrugged. "Dude made a bookshelf out of plastic pallets behind the gym. It's impressive."

I blinked. My trash talking had finally paid off. The pyramid hadn't crumbled—it just shifted. Turns out the second tier had a better view than the top anyway.

"Sure," I said. "But you're carrying the lumber."

Jaxon grinned. "Deal."

Later, Marco asked what zombie protocol I'd used. I just smiled. Sometimes exhaustion is its own superpower.