The Vitamin C Con

Marcus stared at the social pyramid that was Lincoln High's cafeteria, each table ascending in popularity like some cruel game of Jenga. At the apex: the baseball team, those gods in letterman jackets who ruled the school like they owned the franchise.

"You're taking that vitamin stuff again?" Maya asked, sliding onto the bench beside him. She ran a hand through her dyed-purple hair, her cat-eye glasses catching the fluorescent light. "Please tell me you're not still trying out for the team."

Marcus popped the gummy vitamin supplement—orange-flavored confidence—and shrugged. "Can't hurt, right? Coach said he needs a pitcher, and I've been practicing."

She snorted. "Marcus, you threw a ball at my head last week."

"That was ONE time." He glanced toward the baseball table where Chase, the team captain, held court like a pharaoh surrounded by his loyal subjects. "Besides, everyone says making the team is like getting a free pass to actually having a life here."

"Or," Maya suggested, "you could keep helping me with that stray cat behind the gym. The one you literally bribed with tuna to let you pet it yesterday."

"Mr. Whiskers is different. He doesn't judge my pitching form."

The next morning, Marcus's arm throbbed as he stepped onto the mound. Thirty baseball players watched like jury members at his trial. He wound up, visualizing everything he'd practiced, every vitamin-fueled dream of acceptance—

—and threw it straight into the backstop. CLANG. The sound echoed like a gavel striking judgment.

Dead silence. Then laughter rippled through the team, starting with Chase and spreading like a virus.

Marcus's face burned. He turned to leave, shame curling in his chest like a living thing, when a calico cat wandered onto the field. Mr. Whiskers.

The cat sat directly in front of home plate, looking expectantly at Marcus. Chase stepped forward, annoyed. "Hey, someone get that—"

Mr. Whiskers hissed and took a swipe at Chase's pristine white cleats.

The entire baseball team froze. The great Chase Reynolds, foiled by a fifteen-pound furball.

Marcus cracked up. Just straight-up lost it, bent double laughing while Chase did this angry little hop dance away from the cat.

Maya, watching from the bleachers, grinned and held up her phone: a photo of the moment, captioned "BASEBALL'S NEW MVP."

Later, as they walked home with the now-fed cat trailing them, Marcus realized something. The social pyramid could stay pyramid-shaped for all he cared. He had a newfound feline assassin ally, a best friend who documented chaos, and honestly? That was better than any letterman jacket.

"Still gonna take those vitamins?" Maya asked.

Marcus grinned. "Nah. I think I'm immune to needing their approval now."

"Good. Because Mr. Whiskers here? That cat's got more game than Chase's whole lineup."