The Pyramid

2023 Write Now Winner - Grades 7 & 8

Our contemporary civilization is structured around pyramid levels in the workforce. We’ve lived like this for centuries now— living in whichever schools and whatever luxury is apt to our level. It’s the superior way to be: the true model of objection. Our place on the pyramid sums up our resolve for a respectable life. It’s blunt, it’s honest, and it’s orderly.

On the top of the pyramid, the Committee sits: they are our leaders — elected by only the elite workers of our society: the first three levels of the pyramid. The second level comprises the Economists, the Physicians, the Judges, revered essential workers passed on over blood and upbringing. The third level includes Government Workers, but mostly Historians ad Archeologists — important in a society like this, Historians study the old languages, the old lifestyle of the people, and Archeologists glean the past from salvaged artifacts and ancient material; not only that, but both are also tasked with predicting patterns in our future. This third level is the one that I must soon join. The one that my great-great-great grandfather — once sheerly the pathetic, illegitimate child of a mere auto mechanic and a Nurse that not only double-crossed her family but also broke the law of ‘no marriage between differing pyramid levels’ — managed to achieve. I’ve heard his story hundreds of times. I’ve heard about his assiduity and his grit and his resolve. How he left behind his sullied background, studying astronomically hard despite the sixth-level community he grew up in (his parents were executed for illicit wedding and he grew up under the roof of his paternal grandparents). He grew up to be an Archeologist, one of the best, and since then my pedigree has been a network of proud, sedulous third-level workers. 

The artifact in the history lecture today was called a toaster. It was once used in the kitchen to brown a staple food called bread. People used to eat food every day, sometimes for pleasure, but most of the time because without it they wouldn’t survive; they needed the nutrition. Nowadays, we don’t even have kitchens; we only eat food on holidays. Every other day, we take our nourishing pills. 

I hear someone grunting. I look up. The auto mechanic has the hood of our family car propped up: it’s a simple vehicle, small and silver. The Committee gifts every pure family of workers in the second through fourth level a new car every generation, and while these cars are privileges for the levels that this society conceive as the most essential, they are not built to last; once they hit around five years, they begin to malfunction. A gentle reminder from our leaders that we are human; our lives aren’t perfect, so we’d better work hard. 

The mechanic’s brows are pinched together in concentration, her hands dexterous, knowledge reflected in her eyes. She is young, probably my age: she must’ve graduated early this year for her apprenticeship. Tall, with a noticeably toned figure underneath her blue jumpsuit. Pretty. Beautiful, even, despite being sweaty and grease-smudged, with creamy brown skin and high cheekbones, a hooked nose and cat-like eyes of golden-brown. 

It's my third visit here. The first time, I stood around as she pinpointed the problem, occasionally asking me a question or two. The second time, she called me over but then realized she’d miscalculated the time it’d take her to fix the problem. This time, she said to give her thirty minutes and it’d be done. And then the back of our hands had brushed as she stalked over to her workspace, and for some I can still feel that brief contact of skin to skin now.  

I fix my gaze back on the screen of my portable computer. Toasters… electromagnet… metal on the handle… 

“Hey, third-level,” I jerk upright.   

The mechanic stands in front of me, wiping some grease off her forehead, “It’s done. You can take it home today.”  

“Sure. I mean…yeah.” I nod, standing. I begin to pack my stuff up. 

She cleans her hands on a cloth, “You know, I never asked — what’s your name, pretty boy?” 

I clear my throat, shoving a textbook into my bag, “Eli. What’s yours?” 

She tilts her head, “Zara. What are you studying?” 

“Well, I have to take the entrance exams first, but I hope to study Archeology.” 

“Because you want to?” 

I look up in surprise. Oddly, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that question before. I’m about to answer yes, because what else could I say? I’ve never had the space to consider any other career — but then I notice something over her shoulder, sitting on a shelf with some tools. 

“A toaster?”

It slips out of me before I know it. The mechanic spins around, follows my gaze. 

How? Even Archeologists aren’t allowed to be in personal possession of most artifacts for longer than seven hours. And kitchen objects like the toaster are treated as even more sacred — they virtually never leave the Library of Artifacts. I voice the question “How do you have a toaster in here?” 

Her voice is nonchalant, and her eyes light, “What’s a toaster?” 

I open my mouth, but no words come out, and she turns around, away from me, for a brief moment before turning back. She looks different. Her eyes aren’t so light anymore, and her voice feels potent, “Or, why does the toaster matter, Eli? Don’t you ever feel like screaming? Because I do. Maybe a loud enough voice could shatter the toaster. The Committee. The pyramids. This cursed society. It’s no place for humans to live.” 

I should want to report her. This is illegal. She should be exiled for this. But her words bring out an emotion in me that I hadn’t realized was there. I recognize the answer I’ve kept from myself for so long — the answer to her question: do I want to?

And then I reach out to the mechanic. She makes me feel things I’ve never known.