The Summer I Almost Sold My Soul

My palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping down my wrists onto my favorite thrifted cargo shorts. Not a great look when you're trying to look chill in front of Jake from AP History.

"So," Jake said, leaning against the palm tree in Maya's backyard like he was posing for a Instagram photo. "You ever feel like you're just... missing something? Like everyone else got the manual to high school and you're still skimming the prologue?"

I nodded, trying to play it cool. Meanwhile, my brain was screaming: YES, ABSOLUTELY, EVERY SINGLE DAY.

That's when his cousin Marcus pulled out the pyramid. Not, like, an ancient Egyptian artifact—though that would've been cooler. A literal plastic pyramid he'd 3D printed, filled with tiny LED lights that pulsed in a way that was supposed to "activate your chakras" or something.

"It's a mentorship opportunity," Marcus said, using the same tone my guidance counselor used to talk about "leadership potential." "You bring in three people. They bring in three people. Suddenly you're not just surviving high school—you're thriving. You're building your empire."

I'd been a zombie all semester, staying up until 3 AM scrolling through successful people on TikTok, feeling like I was the only one who wasn't somehow monetizing their personality before graduation. The idea of having an *empire* sounded suspiciously good.

"My mom says I have to bear down on my studies," I said, which was actually true. "But this could be, like, a side hustle?"

"Side hustle?" Marcus laughed, all teeth and confidence. "This isn't a side hustle, bro. This is your main character moment."

The red flag was big enough to see from space. But I was sixteen, tired, and Jake was finally looking at me like I was interesting instead of just Maya's quiet friend who sat behind him in third period.

Then Maya's little brother burst in, wearing a headband with zombie eyes painted on his forehead. "GAAAAAAH," he moaned, holding a plastic skull. "I WANT YOUR BRAAAAINS."

The spell broke. I looked at Marcus, then at Jake, then at the pulsing pyramid with its cheap LED lights. I remembered my mom's face when I'd asked her about "investment opportunities" last week. Her expression had been unreadable, but she'd quietly downloaded some app about financial literacy onto my phone.

"Actually," I said, standing up and wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. "I think I'm good. I've got... uh... tutoring. For bear identification. It's a whole thing."

Maya's little brother moaned again. This time, I joined in.

Later that night, I deleted twelve "get rich quick" DMs from my inbox and texted Jake: "That pyramid thing seemed weird, right?"

"So weird," he replied. "Wanna get boba and roast it?"

My hands weren't sweating anymore. Sometimes the real hustle is just admitting you have no idea what you're doing—and finding people who don't either.