Fake Blood, Real Panic

The green hair dye was supposed to wash out in two days. It had been two weeks.

Maya stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, running a hand through the faded mossy strands that made her look like a failed science experiment. Homecoming was in three hours, and she was currently rocking the aesthetic of a zombie that had crawled out of a toxic swamp.

"You wanted to express yourself," her best friend Jax had said when she'd impulse-purchased the dye at Sephora. "Live your truth, bestie."

Her truth right now looked like it was about to vomit.

Her mother burst into the bathroom, holding a Tupperware container like it contained nuclear waste. "Mija, you need to eat something healthy before the dance. You've been living on energy drinks and anxiety." She thrust the container forward. "Papaya and lime. Abuela's recipe. Good for your skin."

"Mom, I can't go to homecoming looking like a zombie AND smelling like tropical fruit," Maya protested, but her mother was already retreating, calling over her shoulder that beauty was pain.

Maya took a bite. It was actually delicious, which felt unfair somehow.

Two hours later, she stood in Jax's bedroom while they applied zombie makeup to complement her unfortunate hair situation. "Lean into it," Jax said, dusting gray powder across Maya's forehead. "The theme is 'Night of the Living Prom' anyway. You're not a victim of bad hair decisions—you're avant-garde."

"Avant-garde?" Maya's voice cracked. "Jax, I look like the crypt keeper's emotionally unstable granddaughter."

"You look iconic. Now stop moving or I'll mess up the contour."

They arrived at the gym an hour later. The decorations were surprisingly good—fake cobwebs, strobe lights, a playlist that was actually decent. Maya felt like everyone was staring at her, which they were, but not necessarily for the reasons she'd spent weeks dreading.

"Whoa," said Liam, the guy she'd had a crush on since August, approaching them with a red Solo cup in hand. "Your look is ... next level. Did you do that yourself?"

Maya's brain short-circuited. "Uh, yeah? It's, like, a commentary on capitalist dystopia and dead dreams and stuff?"

"That's actually kinda sick," Liam said, and then—because the universe had a personal vendetta against her dignity—"You've got a little something in your teeth, though."

Spinach. From the salad she'd aggressively eaten to calm her nerves.

"Oh my GOD," she hissed, rushing toward the bathroom while Jax cackled behind her.

But something shifted as she frantically picked at her teeth with her fingernail. The bathroom mirror showed a girl with moss-green hair, patchy gray makeup, fake blood dripping artistically down her chin, and now, apparently, vegetation in her smile. And she was ... kind of loving it?

Maya straightened up, wiped her mouth, and practiced her zombie walk back to the gym. Let them stare. She was the main character now. The green hair wasn't a mistake—it was origin story material.

She found Liam again. "Wanna see my zombie impression?"

He grinned. "Always."

Sometimes the worst disasters became the best plot twists. Maya might have spent the entire night with green teeth, but she also got Liam's number, three compliments on her "aesthetic," and a new understanding: perfect was boring. Weird was interesting. And she was definitely, chaotically, wonderfully interesting.