Dead Girl Walking

Monday morning hit me like a freight train. I felt like a total **zombie** dragging myself through the school hallway, three hours of sleep after spending all weekend overthinking everything. My eyes burned, and the fluorescent lights weren't helping.

Then I spotted Matt by his locker — varsity **baseball** player, actually smiled at me in chemistry Friday, and currently wearing the exact same distressed denim jacket as half the junior class. I froze. My brain short-circuited. Do I say hi? Do I look away? Do I pretend I'm intensely fascinated by this poster for a bake sale that happened three weeks ago?

I chose option three, because I'm smooth like that. But then my **dog** — Buster, the golden retriever who's supposed to be my emotional support animal but is actually just a chaos demon in fur form — chose that exact moment to escape our backyard and come barreling down the sidewalk.

I died inside. Buster was wearing my lucky **hat**. The vintage trucker cap I'd thrifted last summer, the one that completed my whole aesthetic. He'd grabbed it through the fence before I left, and now he was trotting toward school like it was Fashion Week, neon orange fabric flopping against his golden ears.

Everyone stared. Matt looked. I wanted to evaporate.

But then Matt started laughing. Not mean laughing — the genuine kind, shoulders shaking, dimples showing. "That's awesome," he called out. "Your dog has better style than half the people here."

My face burned but I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, Buster's a total fashion icon. He's got a whole collection."

Buster deposited the hat at my feet, proud of himself. I picked it up, dusted off the dog hair, and actually put it on. What did I have to lose?

"You coming to the game Friday?" Matt asked, like this was normal. Like the girl with the hat-wearing dog was someone worth talking to.

"Maybe," I said, trying to sound casual while my heart did backflips. "If I can get my stylist here to approve my outfit."

He laughed again. Wednesday in chemistry, he passed me a note: 'Buster approve this: game + food after?' I circled yes so hard I almost tore through the paper.

Sometimes you have to feel like a zombie before you can start feeling alive again. And sometimes it takes a chaotic golden retriever to show you that being ridiculous is better than being invisible.