The Pyramid Scheme of Sophomore Year

My brother Tyler called himself an entrepreneur. Mom called him unemployed. I called him the reason I had to wear this stupid snapback **hat** indoors, pretending I wasn't dying of heatstroke in AP World History.

"It's about personal branding, Marcus," Tyler had said, tossing me the hat like it held the secrets to the universe. "People buy people."

People apparently also bought whatever vitamin supplement Tyler was slanging this week. Another week, another **pyramid** scheme he'd sworn was "totally different this time, Marcus, this one's got science behind it."

The worst part? I'd actually considered joining his little startup. Not because I believed in the magic **vitamin** drops that promised to turn you into a chad gamer with 20/20 vision and perfect skin. But because Tyler made it sound so easy. So inevitable. Like social status was just a matter of posting the right hashtags on Instagram and wearing your confidence like armor.

At lunch, Maya pushed her tray toward me. "You gonna finish that **spinach**?"

"Mom's on a health kick," I muttered, sliding the tray over. "Everything green now. Even the milk."

Maya wrinkled her nose. "That's called pesto, Marcus."

She laughed. I laughed. The cafeteria noise swirled around us—clattering trays, shouting freshman, someone's playlist blasting through cracked phone speakers. And suddenly I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't perform the confidence I didn't feel, couldn't pretend I was climbing some invisible ladder that everyone else seemed to know the steps to.

That night, I sprawled on my bedroom floor, the glow of the TV illuminating my ceiling. Old reruns played on **cable**—static and commercials and laugh tracks that felt simpler than real life. Tyler knocked on my door frame, dropping a stack of samples on my desk.

"Team meeting at 7. Don't be late."

I looked at the supplements, the hat, the posters of entrepreneurs with their perfect teeth and impossible promises. And I realized: the only person I needed to sell anything to was myself.

"Actually," I said, pulling off the hat, "I think I'm gonna pass."

Tyler shrugged. "Your loss, bro."

Maybe. But somehow, without the branding and the BS, everything seemed a little clearer. A little more mine.