Pyramid Season

The sun beat down on my aunt's backyard **pool**, the water shimmering like liquid diamonds. I would've been chilling with my cousins, but instead I was stuck listening to Jordan talk about "financial freedom" for the fourth time that week.

"I'm telling you, Maya," he said, eyes wild with that terrifying enthusiasm. "You get in at the ground level."

He slid a bright **orange** can across the patio table. REVIVE. The logo hurt to look at.

"This stuff's gonna blow up," he continued. "You build your team, then they build their teams. That's how the **pyramid** works—everyone profits."

I snorted. "Bro, that's literally a pyramid scheme."

His face hardened. "It's not a scheme. It's *multi-level marketing*. My cousin's already made three hundred bucks."

Three hundred bucks. She'd probably spent six hundred on inventory.

The sliding door opened. Tyler and Chen walked out, towels over their shoulders, ready to swim. I watched Jordan's eyes light up like he'd just spotted prey.

Then it hit me: he'd invited me over for a "pool party" because he needed new recruits.

That's why Kira stopped hanging out with us last month. She'd seen the same look in his eyes.

"Yo!" Jordan waved them over. "You guys gotta try this new drink."

I stood up. "Actually, I gotta go."

"What? Your ride's not here—"

"Not for this."

I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door. Behind me, I heard Jordan's voice drop to that smooth, predatory tone: "So, what are you guys doing this summer? You ever thought about being your own boss?"

As I walked down the driveway, my phone buzzed. Kira: "Did he try to recruit you too?"

I typed back: "Yeah. The orange energy drink scam."

Three dots appeared, then: "LMFAO wait really?? I thought that was a rumor. He tried to get me to sell protein powder in April."

The pyramid would collapse, as they all do. The real question wasn't whether Jordan would lose his money—he already had. The real question was whether our friend group would survive the crash.

One month later, the REVIVE website went down. Jordan deleted his Instagram for two weeks. When he finally came back, he posted a sunset captioned "learning from mistakes." But by then, Tyler and Chen had lost two hundred bucks each, and nobody came to pool parties anymore.

Some friendships are transactional. Some opportunities are traps disguised as dreams. And sometimes, the hardest part of growing up isn't losing money—it's watching people you trust transform into someone you don't recognize, all for the promise of something that was never real.