Summer Operation

Marcus adjusted the brim of his lucky fedora, checking his reflection in his phone. The hat had been his grandfather's, and wearing it made him feel like a person with depth, not just some sophomore who'd accidentally developed a thing for his lab partner.

His Chihuahua mix, Nacho, woofed from the passenger seat of his sister's borrowed car.

"I know, buddy," Marcus said. "But tonight we're on a mission."

A mission that involved Jennifer's pool party. The invitation list had been circulating all week, analyzed like sacred texts during lunch. Marcus wasn't technically invited, but that's what made it perfect—he wasn't trying to be invited. He was trying to understand.

He'd become an expert in the art of being accidentally visible.

The pyramid scheme sat at the kitchen table: his mom's new "wellness journey" into Essential Oils & Dreams. The starter kit had cost three months of grocery money, and now she was trying to recruit everyone she'd ever met into her "downline." It was mortifying, watching her post Facebook testimonials about oils that cured everything from anxiety to student loans.

What hurt wasn't the money. It was how desperate she seemed, how eager to believe in something that promised she could finally matter.

Marcus parked down the street. Nacho whined.

"Shh. We're not going in. We're just... data gathering."

He wasn't some stalker. He just needed to know if Jennifer laughed at the same jokes when he wasn't around. If her eyes crinkled the same way. If the version of her that existed in his head was anywhere close to the person she actually was.

Because Marcus was tired of building emotional pyramids on foundations of assumptions.

From behind a neighbor's fence, he could see the pool party through their sliding glass doors. Jennifer stood by the patio speakers, wearing a yellow sundress, laughing at something some guy in a polo shirt said. Her laugh was genuine—head thrown back, hand flying to her mouth. Not the polite laugh she gave Marcus when he made jokes in chemistry.

It wasn't malicious. It wasn't even personal.

That was the thing that killed him: she wasn't wrong for not being who he needed her to be. He was wrong for thinking she owed him that.

Nacho barked suddenly, and Marcus's phone lit up—his mom, posting another recruitment video. He could hear the desperation in her recorded voice, selling hope like it came in 15ml bottles.

Maybe we were all just pretending to have things figured out. Maybe the difference between being 15 and being 40 was that adults had better branding for their confusion.

Marcus watched Jennifer laugh again, and it didn't hurt as much this time. He typed something into his phone—not to her, but to his mom: "Want to watch a movie tonight? Your pick."

Nacho licked his hand. Marcus adjusted his hat, started the car, and drove himself home.