The Pharaoh's Curse

My first day at Pharaoh's Fast Food was supposed to be chill—just wear the uniform, serve fries, survive. But no one mentioned the uniform was traffic cone orange.

"You look like a radioactive tangerine," Maya said, leaning against the counter. She'd been working there two weeks and already owned the place. Her hair was purple today. Yesterday: blue. I was still figuring out which version of Maya was the real one.

"Boss said I gotta wear it," I mumbled, tugging at the polyester. "Part of the brand."

"The brand is embarrassing." She grinned. "But hey, at least you're not the sphinx."

I'd seen him out front—some poor dude in a foam sphinx costume, head half-lion, half-human, wholly miserable in the August heat. Kids poked him. Parents took selfies. He just stood there, stone-faced behind the mesh eye holes, arms crossed over his chest, taking it.

"That's gonna be you next week," Maya said. "We rotate. Nobody escapes the sphinx shift."

Great. My social life was already six feet under; now I'd be the mascot at the most ridic spot in the mall.

The lunch rush hit like a hurricane. I was drowning in orders when Tyler walked in—Tyler, who sat behind me in AP Bio, who I'd been low-key crushing on since September. He was with his friends. They were laughing. My stomach dropped.

Then I saw it on the counter: the Pyramid Challenge.

"Boss says if you build the cup pyramid to the ceiling without it collapsing, you get a hundred bucks," Maya whispered. "Nobody's done it yet."

Tyler and his friends were watching now. I could feel them watching. My hands were shaking. The orange uniform suddenly felt heavier than chainmail.

I started stacking. One cup, two cups, three. The base was solid. My fingers moved faster, finding a rhythm. Four levels. Five. The pyramid rose toward the ceiling like something impossible, like gravity had stopped mattering.

Six levels. Seven.

Someone bumped my elbow. Tyler. He hadn't meant to—just caught it with his backpack as he walked past—but the pyramid shuddered. Cups slid. The whole thing tipped, slow-motion disaster.

But I caught it. My hands moved before my brain could process, steadying the stack, locking it back into place.

Level eight. My fingers brushed the ceiling.

The restaurant erupted. Maya screamed. Tyler's friends were cheering. Tyler himself turned around, really looked at me for the first time all year, and smiled.

"Nice," he said.

Later, counting my hundred bucks in the break room, Maya tossed me my next assignment: the sphinx head.

"Nah," I said, grinning. "Bring it."