Summer of the Pyramid Scheme

The summer before sophomore year, my cousin Marcus roped me into his latest "business venture" — selling pH-balanced water at baseball tournaments. "It's a pyramid, Jake, but you're at the top," he said, adjusting his sunglasses. We were stationed behind the backstop, palm trees swaying over the left field fence like they couldn't care less about my dignity.

I was supposed to be cool about it. Lean against the cooler, shades on, maybe toss a water bottle to someone like I was pitching from the mound. But every time someone walked by, I froze. Marcus, meanwhile, was working the crowd like he'd been doing this forever.

Then I saw her. Chloe from English class, sitting in the bleachers with her friends. My stomach did that thing where it feels like you swallowed a baseball whole. She was laughing at something, sun glinting off her hair, and suddenly I was holding the water bottle like it was a grenade.

"You gonna stand there all day?" Marcus whispered, nudging me. "Go talk to her."

"I can't just —"

"Dude. You're literally selling water. It's not a marriage proposal."

So I went. Walked up there like my shoes were made of lead. The first thing out of my mouth was "Water? pH-balanced?" and I wanted to die right there. But Chloe just smiled, all slow and genuine, and said "Sure, how much?"

Her fingers brushed mine when she handed over a five-dollar bill. Palm against palm, and my brain short-circuited. I think I mumbled something about the water being from springs, which it definitely wasn't. Marcus was watching from the cooler, grinning like he knew something I didn't.

"See you at the game tomorrow?" she asked, and I nodded because speech was apparently optional now.

Later, sitting on the hood of Marcus's car while the sun set over the outfield, I realized something. The pyramid scheme wasn't about the water. It was about doing something terrifying and messy and real. Marcus tossed me a bottle. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Shut up," I said, but I was smiling. Baseball practice started at 7 AM tomorrow. I'd be there, cooler in hand, ready to sell terrible water to the girl who made me forget my own name. Worst business plan ever. Best summer of my life.