Chapter 3: The Contest of Status

High school leaves a mark that never quite fades—like the smell of waxed linoleum or the principal’s endless announcements. Maybe that’s why, despite my job’s restrictions and the risk of awkward encounters, I came tonight. Part of me wanted to prove something, maybe even just to myself.

My position wasn’t exactly suited for public gatherings like this—discretion is part of the job. But nostalgia, or maybe FOMO, dragged me here. I’d imagined catching up with old friends, not wading through a swamp of one-upmanship and fake smiles.

The moment I sat down, I could feel the scrutiny—every glance measuring my shoes, jacket, the way I ordered dinner. Conversation buzzed with name-dropping and bragging: hedge funds, new houses in Scottsdale, travel soccer leagues. I scanned the room, searching for someone else who felt out of place, but all I found were hungry eyes and plastic grins.

One guy wouldn’t shut up about his startup’s funding; another bragged about his kid’s Ivy League acceptance. The laughter was sharp, forced. I kept my head down, focused on the condensation sliding down my glass, willing myself not to react.