Orange Crush & Zombie States

The neon orange Gatorade spilled across my padel racket, dripping onto the court like radioactive waste.

"My bad," said Tyler, aka the Bull — not because he was tough, but because he charged through life like he was永远 sixteen and invincible. His older brother had taught him to play padel over the summer, and now he thought he owned the court.

I wiped the racket on my shorts. "Whatever, Bull. Just serve already."

We were at the rec center, escaping the zombie state that eighth period Pre-Calc put us in. Five days a week, same thing: sit in fluorescent-lit rooms, phones confiscated, brains turning to mush while Mr. Harrison droned on about derivatives. My friend Sarah called it "academic zombie syndrome" — walking through school halls half-alive, surviving on caffeine and impending deadlines.

"Dude, you're playing like a zombie today," Tyler laughed, crushing another serve past me. I watched the yellow ball bounce against the glass wall, backlit by the orange sunset bleeding through the windows.

"Sorry if some of us aren't born athletes," I shot back, but smiling. Tyler wasn't a bully, just relentless. There was a difference.

My phone buzzed in my bag — probably my mom asking if I'd finished my college applications. Another thing to feel zombie-like about. Everyone expected us to have our entire lives mapped out by seventeen. Like we were supposed to just KNOW.

"Hey," Tyler tossed me another orange Gatorade from the cooler. "Chill. You're thinking too loud."

I caught it. "Is that a thing? Thinking too loud?"

"Bro, you literally had your default face on. That face where you look like you're contemplating the inevitable heat death of the universe."

I cracked up. "It's called being a teenager, Tyler. It's practically a medical condition."

He shrugged. "True. But we're not zombies yet. We've still got padel."

"We've still got padel," I echoed, opening the Gatorade. The condensation cold against my palm. "And orange Gatorade, apparently."

"Priorities, bro. Priorities."

I smiled. The Bull was right. We weren't zombies — not yet. We were just figuring it out, one serve at a time.