The Pyramid Scheme of Me

Chase Morrison's hair defied physics. That was the first thing I noticed when I started spying on him from the bleachers—how the sunlight caught those perfect, careless waves that fell across his forehead when he adjusted his baseball cap. I was supposed to be watching my brother's practice, but honestly? My brother could've been juggling chainsaws for all I noticed.

"You're being creepy," Jordan said, sliding onto the bench beside me with a slushie. "Again."

"I'm observing," I corrected, though my face burned. "There's a difference."

"You're practically memorizing the periodic table of Chase Morrison."

I shrugged. Summer before sophomore year, I'd decided: new Maya. Confident Maya. Maya who didn't sit home every Friday watching Netflix while everyone else posted stories that made my stomach twist. But so far, New Maya was just Old Maya with more anxiety and a newly developed stalking habit.

Then my cousin breezed into town with her "revolutionary opportunity."

"You're sitting at the bottom of a pyramid," Skye told me over boba, her eyes bright with the terrifying conviction of the recently converted. "But you could be at the top. All you need is vision."

I signed up. Obviously. Because I was fifteen and desperate and she promised I'd make enough money to buy a car. Also because—let's be real—I had zero other prospects.

The universe decided to humble me immediately.

Two days later, I'm at the baseball field with a backpack full of overpriced collagen powder, about to approach Chase Morrison and ruin my entire life, when the sky goes that weird green-gray color that means all hell's about to break loose.

Then—CRACK.

Lightning struck the scoreboard transformer.

I literally screamed. Like, full-on horror movie scream. Everyone turned. Chase Morrison turned. And in that moment of pure humiliation, my hair—the hair I'd spent forty minutes straightening that morning because I read somewhere that guys liked straight hair—caught the wind and frizzed into something resembling an electrostatic poodle.

"You okay?" Chase called out, actually jogging over.

"Yep," I squeaked. "Just. Lightning. It's—loud."

He laughed. Not mean-laughed. Real laughed.

"Your hair's kind of amazing though," he said. "Like, it's got its own personality."

My face was so hot I felt like I might actually combust.

"So I've been told," I managed.

"You're Jordan's sister, right? I'm Chase."

"I know," I said, then immediately wanted to die. "I mean—I've seen you play. Baseball. You're good. At baseball. The sport. With the ball and the—"

He was definitely grinning now. "Thanks."

We ended up waiting out the storm under the concession overhang, talking about everything and nothing. I never did pitch him the collagen powder.

Later that night, I deleted the pyramid scheme app and texted Skye that I was out.

Some pyramids aren't worth climbing. And some lightning strikes, it turns out, are just opportunities to stand in the rain and figure out who you actually are—frizz and all.