Bottom of the Pyramid

I felt like a straight-up zombie by third period—dark circles under my eyes, brain barely functioning, living on three hours of sleep and an iced coffee that had stopped working hours ago. Finals week at Northwood High would break anyone.

"You good, Jax?" Marcus asked, sliding into the seat beside me. "You look dead."

"Living the dream," I muttered, which was funny because my mom's actual dream had become my entire nightmare.

See, my mom had joined this "wellness empire"—basically a pyramid scheme masquerading as girl boss energy—and now our garage was packed with essential oils and collagen powder that smelled like artificial strawberries. Every conversation became a sales pitch. Every friend became a "potential business partner."

"Jax, honey!" Mom's voice rang through my phone as I walked to my locker. "I need you to come to the team meeting tonight. You're sixteen now, perfect age to start building your residual income stream!"

I stared at my reflection in the locker mirror. Who starts a business at sixteen? Who talks about "residual income" while their kid is failing Pre-Calc?

The worst part? She kept trying to recruit my friends. Mia, who worked at the coffee shop, got the whole "financial freedom" speech. Jordan from track got cornered at the grocery store. I couldn't bring anyone over without it turning into a presentation about "toxic-free living."

I got home and found Buster, our golden retriever, curled up on my bed like he understood everything. He thumped his tail against the mattress—this slow, rhythmic sound that somehow made everything feel less impossible.

"At least someone gets it," I whispered, burying my face in his fur. He smelled like sunshine and not thinking about commission structures.

Mom knocked on my door twenty minutes later, holding her laptop like it was a religious text. "Jax, I really think you should hear about the compensation plan. The girl who recruited me bought her first house at nineteen."

"Mom," I said, sitting up. "I have a history project due Friday. I'm not gonna sell collagen powder to my classmates."

Her face fell, and for a second I felt bad—really bad. Because underneath the MLM stuff, she was just trying. Trying to pay bills. Trying to feel like she mattered outside of being someone's mom.

"I know," she said quietly. "I just... I wanted this to be something we could do together."

Buster lifted his head and whined, and something shifted. "Mom," I said, "what if—what if we did something together that wasn't... this? What if we took Buster to the dog park Saturday? Just us?"

She blinked. "Like... just as a family?"

"Yeah. No pitch deck. No downline. Just throw the ball and get ice cream after."

She smiled, and it actually reached her eyes. "I'd like that."

Later that night, I finished my history project with Buster asleep across my feet. I wasn't a zombie anymore—just tired, in that normal way that comes from being sixteen and having too much homework and a mom who meant well.

Some things you have to survive. Some things you can change. And sometimes, you just need a dog who knows the difference.