Summer of False Pyramids

I stood in the food court holding a papaya smoothie like it was some kind of tribal artifact. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I tried to look casual, which was basically impossible when your "best friend" had roped you into the most obvious pyramid scheme in history.

"You just need to find three people, and they find three people," Mia said, flipping her waterfall hair with practiced ease. "It's not a pyramid, Maya. It's a network."

"It's literally a pyramid, Mia. That's the shape."

She glared at me, which was Mia-speak for shut up and play along. I'd been bearing this conversation for twenty minutes while she explained how we'd both be rich by junior year selling some exotic fruit-based wellness drink to people's parents.

The problem was, I knew the pyramid wasn't the real pyramid here. The real pyramid was high school itself, and Mia had spent three years climbing it while I stayed comfortably in the middle, where the air was breathable and nobody expected you to sell mystery smoothies to pay for highlights.

"My mom says this stuff cleared up her cousin's acne," Mia continued, not noticing my expression. "And Mr. Henderson said his back pain vanished after two weeks."

"Mr. Henderson literally can't remember what he had for breakfast."

"You're such a bear sometimes."

A bear. That was me. Grumpy, practical, and apparently allergic to MLMs. But something about the papaya smoothie in my hand—bright orange and vaguely suspicious—made me think about how much I'd been swallowing lately. Not just fruit drinks, but Mia's constant micro-dramas, her way of making everything feel like life or death when we were just fifteen and the biggest tragedy should've been failing algebra.

Outside, lightning cracked across the sky, sudden and blinding. For a second, the whole food court went weirdly quiet.

"What if we don't do this?" I said, the words falling out before I could stop them. "What if we just... hang out like normal people?"

Mia stared at me like I'd suggested we join a cult instead of starting one.

"But we could make SO much money."

"Or," I said, feeling surprisingly light, "we could go to the mall like normal people and not sell anything to anyone."

She looked at the papaya smoothie. Then at me. Then at the storm outside, where lightning was painting everything electric white.

"...you're paying for your own pretzel, though."

"Deal."

I dumped the smoothie in the trash. Best decision I'd made all year.