Green Smoothies & Dead Eyes

Maya's phone buzzed again. Another text from the group chat: pool party at Jake's, you coming?

She stared at the spinach-heavy smoothie her mom had blended for her "summer glow-up"—it looked like swamp water. Tasted like it too.

"You going?" her little brother Leo asked, dangling a zombie action figure. "Or you gonna stay in your room being a vampire again?"

"I'm not being a vampire," Maya muttered, though vampire hours was exactly what her friends called her sleep schedule. She'd been waking up at 2 PM all summer, eyes red, brain fog thick enough to choke on.

"You look like a zombie," Leo said matter-of-factly. "A pale, phone-addicted zombie."

Maya flipped him off. He laughed and ran upstairs.

Truth was, she didn't want to go to Jake's pool party because that meant a swimsuit. That meant exposing the stomach she'd been hyper-aware of since seventh grade. That meant watching all the girls she'd grown up with—now somehow statuesque and confident while she still felt like the awkward middle schooler hiding in oversized hoodies.

Her mom's voice floated from the kitchen: "You need leafy greens! You're growing, you need nutrients!"

Nutrients. Right. Like nutrients would fix the way her stomach folded when she sat down. Like spinach smoothies would make her stop deleting every photo she took of herself.

Her phone lit up again. Jake: everyone's asking about you. We're doing zombie water polo. it's gonna be hilarious.

Zombie water polo. Where you played like zombies—arms stiff, groaning, dragging yourself through the water. Stupid. They were all so stupid.

But damn, she missed stupid.

Maya stood up, caught her reflection in the mirror. Pale, yes. Dark circles, definitely. But her eyes were still hers, and they were tired of being scared.

She grabbed her swimsuit from the drawer. It fit differently than last summer. That was fine. Things were supposed to change.

"Mom!" she called. "Can you make me another spinach smoothie?"

"For the pool?"

"No." Maya smiled. "For fuel."

The water was cold against her skin. Someone shouted "ZOMBIE ATTACK!" and suddenly bodies were thrashing everywhere, laughing, splashing, grabbing at each other with stiff arms and groans. Maya felt hands on her shoulders, heard her best friend Sam's terrible zombie impression, and she shrieked—really shrieked, loud and surprised—and dove beneath the surface.

Underwater, everything muffled. The chaos above turned into muffled joy. She opened her eyes, saw pale legs and reaching arms and filtered sunlight rippling through the blue, and for the first time all summer, she wasn't thinking about how she looked.

She broke the surface, gasping, pushing wet hair from her face. Sam tackled her with a groan.

"Got you, little zombie."

"I'm not little," Maya said, and shoved her into the water.

Later, they lay on the concrete, stomachs exposed to the sun, eating cold pizza and talking about nothing. Maya's stomach was there. So was everyone else's. Nobody was looking. Nobody cared.

"Your mom still making you drink that swamp water?" Sam asked.

"It's not swamp water," Maya said, but she was smiling. "It's fuel."

Sam snorted. "Whatever you say, zombie girl."

Maya closed her eyes and let herself dry, let herself exist, let herself be exactly where she was—green smoothie aftertaste and all.