Dead Girl Walking

The Flintstones vitamin sat on my tongue, chalky and orange, testing my will. I swallowed it dry—no way Coach Mom would catch me skipping my daily dose of "athletic fuel."

"You got varsity tryouts today, Marcus," she called from the kitchen. "Don't choke."

No pressure. Just the entire legacy of her golden baseball years resting on my shoulders like a sweaty catcher's mitt.

I grabbed my gear bag and headed out, but not to the field. I detoured to the community pool, slipping through the side gate before the morning swim team arrived. The water hit my skin like liquid freedom, washing away the baseball expectations that clung to me like second-day sweat.

This was my secret. While everyone saw Marcus the baseball prodigy, nobody knew Marcus the zombie obsessionist. My phone was filled with special effects tutorials. I could create a pus-oozing wound that would make my teammates' stomachs turn—which was exactly the point.

At school, I felt like a zombie anyway. Moving through the halls, nodding at the right people, saying the right things. That's what baseball star Marcus did. That's who I was supposed to be.

"Yo, Marcus!" Jenna called out at lunch, sliding into the seat across from me. Her eyes lit up. "Did you see Sarah's zombie apocalypse makeup tutorial? It's actually sick."

My heart did this nervous stutter thing. "Uh, no. I don't really watch that stuff."

She squinted at me. "Really? 'Cause you totally look like you could pull off that decaying skin effect. Your complexion's perfect for it."

I stared at my tray, caught between mortified and... weirdly seen?

"I mean," Jenna added, "not that you look dead. Just, you know. Versatile."

That night, I found myself DMing Sarah. One tutorial led to another. Three weeks later, Jenna caught me practicing a bite mark behind the bleachers.

Instead of laughing, she sat down. "Show me how you get the texture like that."

The next day at tryouts, I stepped to the plate, my phone full of zombie makeup tips and my stomach full of vitaminy dread. Coach Mom watched from the fence. I didn't hit a home run. But as I walked off the field, Jenna caught my eye and made a subtle zombie-gesture at her neck.

I grinned. Maybe I could be both. The baseball player with a dead girl walking inside him, finally waking up.