The Pyramid Scheme of sophomore Year

Chloe slid into the cafeteria booth with that terrifying energy—like she'd just discovered something life-changing and needed me to be part of it immediately.

"Dude," she whispered, eyes wide. "You know how people say we're at the bottom of the social pyramid? What if we, like, literally climbed it?"

I poked at my orange—ugh, why were school lunches always somehow both soggy and simultaneously dry? "Chlo, you say this every week. Last time it was selling vintage band tees online. We made forty-three dollars."

"No, this is DIFFERENT. This is Swim•Bae™ energy drinks. My cousin's friend's brother started it and now he drives—listen to me—a BMW. He's fifteen, Maya. A BMW."

I should've said no. But Chloe was my first friend at this school, the one who'd sat with me when I cried because I couldn't find my homeroom, and also I was absolutely terrified of being alone again.

So I found myself at swim practice, standing before the actual swim team—people who existed at the stratosphere of the high school pyramid—clutching a case of fluorescent orange beverages that smelled like regret and artificial mango.

"We're talking about hydration meets elevation," Chloe announced, terrifyingly confident.

The captain, this gorgeous junior named Riley who had zero time for sophomore nonsense, stared at us. "This tastes like a bear ate a highlighter."

"That's the ELECTROLYTES," Chloe said.

Riley took another sip. Swished it around like wine tasting. "...I kinda love it?"

By Friday, we'd made three hundred dollars. Chloe had started talking about quitting school to become a "hydration entrepreneur." I was secretly calculating how many months I'd need to save to visit my grandma in Taiwan.

Then it happened.

Chloe got the call while we were packing orders. Her cousin's friend's brother? The BMW? It was his mom's car. And the entire operation had been shut down by the FTC that morning because apparently it was, you know, an actual pyramid scheme.

"We have to give all the money back," Chloe whispered, tears streaming down her face. "I'm such an idiot."

"We're both idiots," I said, sitting beside her on my bedroom floor. "But also—we sold things to the swim team. We talked to RILEY. She knows our NAMES now."

Chloe laughed through the tears. "She called me 'that orange drink girl' in the hallway."

"Progress."

That night, lying in bed, I realized something: maybe climbing the social pyramid wasn't about reaching the top. Maybe it was about having someone there to hold your hand when you absolutely face-plant on the way up.

Also: never trust anyone who says you can make a million dollars selling mango-flavored hope to swim teams. That too.