Pyramid Scheme

Marcus stopped running when his chest felt like it might actually explode. Three miles into his morning jog—a routine he'd started after his mom bought those disgusting orange gummy vitamins and claimed they'd "change his energy"—he bent over, hands on knees, gasping. The vitamins hadn't changed anything except his breakfast's flavor profile.

He straightened up, adjusted his backwards baseball hat, and kept jogging toward Westwood High. Today was the day. Today, he'd finally climb the social pyramid.

At lunch, the cafeteria's hierarchy was visible from space. The varsity football players occupied the center tables, surrounded by their adoring entourage like a human pyramid scheme. Marcus had spent three years on the edges, watching.

"Yo, Marcus!" Jason, the starting quarterback, waved him over. Marcus's stomach dropped.

He sat. "What's up?"

"We need you for the homecoming float," Jason said, sliding a sketch across the table. "You're good at building stuff, right? Your dad's that construction guy?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Perfect. We're building a legit pyramid. Like, actual wood and everything. You in?"

Marcus stared at the sketch. This was it. The invite. The golden ticket. All he had to do was spend three weeks building a float for people who'd never learned his last name.

"That's bull," someone muttered behind him. Maya, the girl who sat alone at the table by the windows, was sketching in her notebook again. "They don't even know your name."

Marcus looked at Jason. "What's my last name?"

Jason blinked. "Uh..."

"Exactly." Marcus stood up. "I'm good."

He walked over to Maya's table. "What are you drawing?"

She slid her sketch toward him—a dragon made entirely of geometric shapes, precise and impossible.

"That's insane," Marcus said. "You're, like, actually talented."

"Unlike the float squad?" Maya grinned. "Want to work on something real?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

They spent lunch designing something better than a pyramid. Marcus didn't know yet that this would be the start of everything—the first real friendship he'd choose for himself instead of being handed. He forgot about the vitamins. He kept the hat. And for the first time, he stopped running toward something he didn't actually want.