The Vitamin Pyramid Scheme

My mom's new vitamin pyramid scheme started the same week Jason Chen finally noticed me in AP Bio.

"These aren't just supplements, Maya," she said, spreading out colorful bottles that formed a literal pyramid on our kitchen table. "This is financial freedom. This is wellness. This is your college fund."

I stared at the pyramid of neon promises while shoving a protein bar in my backpack. "Mom, that's a pyramid scheme."

"It's MULTI-LEVEL MARKETING," she corrected, probably way too loudly. "And your cousin Sarah made three thousand dollars last month."

Three things you should know about Jason Chen: (1) He plays baseball and his arms are stupidly perfect, (2) He sits behind me in bio and always borrows pencils he never returns, and (3) I've been lowkey obsessed with him since freshman orientation.

So naturally, when my mom started pushing those vitamin packets on everyone within a fifty-mile radius, I became the mom friend of our friend group. Literally.

"Maya, do you have advil?" Maya, do you have vitamin D?" "Maya, your mom posted on Facebook again, is that real?"

The worst part? She made me carry samples. "You're basically a brand ambassador now," she said, like this was something I'd put on my college applications instead of, you know, literally anything else.

Then came the baseball championship. Our whole grade was going. Jason asked if I wanted to sit with his friends and I almost died, but then my phone buzzed.

"BRING SAMPLES," my mom texted. "TEENAGERS NEED IMMUNE SUPPORT."

I considered running away. Not like, metaphorically. I looked up how much a bus ticket to Portland cost.

But then Jason was waiting by my locker, wearing his baseball jersey like he owned the world, and my brain short-circuited. So I went to the game with a backpack full of vitamin packets like a complete loser.

The game was intense. We were losing by two in the seventh inning when Jason hit this massive home run and the whole stadium went crazy. Someone spilled soda everywhere. People were screaming. And then his friends started chanting his name and someone grabbed my backpack and—

Vitamins went everywhere. Like, hundreds of those little packets exploded across the bleachers like some kind of wellness confetti.

Everyone stared.

Jason's best friend picked one up. "What is this?"

"Vitamin C immune support," I whispered, and I have never wanted to dissolve into the earth more.

Jason looked at me. Then at the vitamins. Then back at me. And this perfect baseball-playing boy started laughing.

"Maya," he said, "are you dealing vitamins now?"

"It's a pyramid scheme," I said, because at that point, dignity was optional.

"That's actually kind of iconic," he said. "Can I have one? I think I'm getting sick."

The baseball team won. Jason got the game ball. And somehow, someway, I walked home with a baseball player who carried my vitamin packets like they were gold.

"My mom's been looking for something like this," he said. "Think she'd want to join your mom's team?"

I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized perfection isn't about being flawless. It's about being weird in public and having someone who thinks that's the best part.

"Jason," I said, "you have no idea what you're getting yourself into."

He just smiled. We were walking slower now. "Show me the pyramid."