The Vitamin C Conspiracy

The social hierarchy at Northwood High worked like a pyramid scheme nobody asked to join. Seniors at the top, sophomores in the middle, and us freshmen? We were the foundation—crushed under everyone's Doc Martens.

"You need these," Maya said, sliding a bottle of neon orange gummies across my lunch tray. "Vitamin C boosted with elderberry. Immune support, stress relief, and they taste like artificial sunshine."

I squinted at the label. "Since when did you become a wellness influencer?"

"Since Tommy barely looked at me yesterday."

Maya had it bad for Tommy Evans, who sat with the baseball elite by the windows. They all wore the same hoodies, spoke in shorthand, and radiated that terrifying confidence of people who peaked at fourteen. Tommy was the starting shortstop, which apparently made him royalty. Maya had been planning her approach for weeks.

"How are chewable vitamins supposed to help?"

"Hear me out. I read that vitamin C makes your skin glow. Plus, if I pop them during lunch, it looks like I've got my life together. It's a vibe."

"You're unhinged."

"I'm strategic."

She wasn't wrong, exactly. Freshman year felt like one long performance, and we were all improvising. I'd started wearing my hair differently. Jason in my English class had suddenly developed an interest in vintage band tees. Everyone was curating some version of themselves, hoping it would stick.

The next day, I watched Maya casually open the vitamin bottle during third period. Tommy walked past her desk, and she let one of the orange gummies roll dramatically across her notebook as she "studied." He didn't even look up.

By Friday, she'd moved on to plan B: accidentally-on-purpose leaving her bracelet near the baseball diamond after school.

We sat on the bleachers watching practice, the smell of infield dirt and teenage boy energy thick in the air. "You know what this reminds me of?" I said. "That time we tried to build a pyramid out of playing cards in sixth grade camp, and it kept collapsing because we didn't know what we were doing."

Maya cracked a smile. "We were such losers."

"We were eleven."

"Yeah, well." She glanced at the field, where Tommy had just made a spectacular catch. The baseball team cheered. "Some people just know the architecture. They build their pyramids straight up. The rest of us are down here figuring out the foundation."

"Maybe foundations matter more," I said. "Without us, the whole thing collapses."

"That's the most inspirational thing you've ever said. You've been hanging out with too many motivational posters."

"Shut up."

"Hey, seriously though." She bumped my shoulder. "Thanks for being my friend. Even when I'm being a chaotic disaster about boys."

"I mean, someone has to document your character development."

She laughed, actually laughed, and pulled out the vitamin bottle. "Want one? They're honestly kind of addictive."

I took two.

By Monday, Maya had decided Tommy wasn't worth the emotional real estate. Instead, we spent lunch dissecting why the cafeteria pizza tasted like cardboard and whether anyone actually likes the weird kid who wears a fedora.

"You know what I realized?" she said, swirling a carton of chocolate milk. "The whole pyramid thing? It's made up. We can just... not participate."

"Revolutionary."

"I know, right. Pass me a vitamin."

I handed her the bottle. The orange gummies caught the fluorescent light, tiny and ridiculous and perfect.

We were going to be fine.