The Vitamin King of Sophomore Year

My palms were sweating so bad they'd short-circuit a phone. Standing in front of the entire sophomore class, I clutched my sample packet of "mindfulness gummies" like my life depended on it.

"These aren't just vitamins," I announced, channeling every infomercial I'd ever watched at 2 AM. "They're basically happiness in chewable form."

The popular kids' table stared at me. Maya, my oldest friend in the world, practically dissolved into her phone, pretending she didn't know me.

Here's the thing: I'd joined this wellness pyramid scheme because Jordan—that senior with the perfect smile and suspiciously nice car—said I could make "easy passive income." Turns out, the only thing "passive" about it was my dignity as I desperately tried to sell overpriced supplements to people who already thought I was weird.

"Yo, Marcus," Jordan whispered from the back of the cafeteria, nodding encouragingly. "Close 'em."

I should've been running track instead of running this scam. My coach had been begging me to come back to practice, but I'd been too busy chasing Jordan's promises of "financial freedom" and maybe, just maybe, finally being cool.

"They're thirty dollars a pack," I said, voice cracking. "But they're worth it."

Silence. The kind where you can hear the air conditioning humming.

Then Maya stood up. Not to rescue me—she marched right up to my little folding table, picked up a vitamin packet, and examined it like it was evidence in a murder investigation.

"These are literally just grocery store gummies with a fancy label," she announced to the room. "I've seen these exact ones at Target for five bucks."

My palms stopped sweating. I just wanted to disappear.

"Marcus, let's go," Maya said, grabbing my arm. "You're done being Jordan's little sales bot."

We walked out of that cafeteria so fast I forgot my backpack. Later, we sat on the bleachers behind the school, and Maya laughed so hard she choked on her own spit while I died of embarrassment.

"You know what's funny?" she said, wiping tears from her eyes. "Jordan failed math. Twice. That's how he's still in high school. That's literally why his car is so nice—his dad owns that supplement company."

I stared at her. "Wait. What?"

"The pyramid scheme, genius. His dad's the CEO."

The next day, I showed up at track practice. Coach didn't even ask where I'd been—just pointed at the starting blocks and said "Run." And I did. I ran until my legs burned and my chest heaved and my palms finally stopped sweating for good.

Jordan tried to recruit another sophomore the following week. I watched from my usual table with Maya, eating my mom's actual homemade lunch, feeling weirdly victorious.

"Best friend award," Maya said, sliding me a bag of gummy bears. "Store brand. Five bucks."

"You're never letting me live this down, are you?"

"Nope." She grinned. "But hey—maybe you'll finally get that track scholarship."

My palms were dry. Maya was laughing. And for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was running away from anything at all.