Orange Gummies & The Social Pyramid

The vitamin gummies clattered against my teeth as I stood frozen in the cafeteria, watching Mason—actual Mason, junior varsity track god—point at me and laugh.

"Yo, check it," he said, loud enough for half the lunch period to hear. "Freshman's eating his little orange candies like they're actual performance fuel."

My face burned hotter than the sun beating down on afternoon practice.

The social pyramid at Eisenhower High was crystal clear: varsity athletes at the top, regular humans in the middle, and me—freshman, awkward, desperately trying to make the track team—somewhere in the basement holding a bottle of store-brand multivitamins.

"They're vitamins," I mumbled, but Mason was already moving on, his cronies snickering as they walked away. Someone knocked the bottle out of my hand. Orange gummies scattered everywhere.

That afternoon at practice, I channeled everything into running. My legs burned, lungs screaming, but I kept pushing. Coach blew his whistle. "Frisbee, you're holding back. Run like you mean it."

I ran until I tasted copper in my throat. Until the pyramid in my head—the one with Mason at the peak and me in the foundation somewhere—started to blur.

"Dude," said Maya, the only senior who'd ever acknowledged my existence, tossing me an orange slice after cooldown. "You were flying today."

"Thanks," I managed, between gasps.

"Mason's an ass," she said, reading my mind. "He got smoked by a sophomore from Central last year. Ever since, he's been overcompensating. Classic toxic masculinity spiral."

I laughed.

The next meet, something shifted. I wasn't thinking about pyramids or vitamins or orange gummies. I just ran. And when I crossed the finish line, Mason was somewhere behind me.

Afterward, he didn't say anything. Didn't have to.

I found Maya by the snack table. "Hey," she said, handing me a Vitaminwater. "Figured you could use the electrolytes."

"Thanks." I grinned. "For the record? The gummies were actually my mom's idea. Not mine."

She laughed. "Whatever works, Frisbee. Whatever works."

The pyramid hadn't disappeared—high school hierarchies don't just vanish because one freshman has a good day. But something had changed. I'd stopped looking up.

I was too busy running forward.