Palm Springs Zombie Massacre

The sweat pooling in my palms wasn't from the heat — it was pure, unadulterated panic. My first high school party, and I was already cornered by Jason Miller, the self-appointed bull of the sophomore class.

"So, Marcus," he drawled, spinning a red Solo cup between his fingers. "You gonna stand there all night like a zombie, or you actually gonna talk to people?"

My brain short-circuited. I'd spent three hours getting ready, practicing casual leans in the mirror, mentally rehearsing cool things to say. None of those cool things involved Jason Miller interrogating me in someone's backyard while tropical house music thumped against my ribcage.

"I'm... working on it," I managed. Lame. So lame.

"Working on it," Jason repeated, like I'd confessed to some terminal disease. He laughed, loud and performative. Two of his friends joined in, because that's how the ecosystem worked. "Bro's been binge-walking The Walking Dead. Forget brains, this zombie's after social skills."

I laughed along, because that's what you do when the alternative is something worse. My phone buzzed in my pocket — a lifeline.

"Hey, I gotta —" I started.

"Go ahead," Jason waved me off. "Don't let me keep you from... whatever this is." He gestured at my entire existence.

I escaped toward the back fence, where it was darker and quieter. That's where I found her: Lena, from my English class, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, petting a scruffy terrier that had wedged itself between her knees.

"This is Buster," she said, like we'd been talking for hours. "My aunt's dog. He's having a better time than anyone."

I sat on the grass beside them. Buster immediately abandoned Lena for me, shoving his wet nose against my hand like he'd been waiting his whole life for exactly this moment.

"He likes you," Lena said. "He's a good judge of character."

"Better than Jason Miller, apparently."

She laughed, and it wasn't performative at all. "Jason's a lot. He called me a zombie last week because I fell asleep in homeroom."

"Same here," I said. "Apparently we're part of the undead uprising."

"The zombie apocalypse," she nodded solemnly. "Buster can be our service dog. He'll protect us from bullshit."

We sat there for twenty minutes while Buster rotated between us, demanding scratches and occasionally darting after ice cubes someone had dropped. Lena told me about her failed attempt to start a zombie apocalypse club at school. I told her about my grandmother who read palms and kept predicting I'd meet someone special at a party, which I'd dismissed as absolute nonsense until approximately now.

"She good?" Lena asked.

"At palm reading? She predicted my dad would get a promotion. He got fired instead."

"She's just in a rebranding phase. Fired is just... unexpected freelance."

I laughed, and this time it was real.

When Jason finally wandered past with his entourage, doing shots of something questionable and shouting about sophomore year being his year, neither of us bothered looking up. We were busy communing with the dog and appreciating the strategic value of the fence line.

"Next party," Lena said, "we're bringing dog treats. And maybe staying home instead."

"Works for me," I said. "But seriously — your house or mine?"

She grinned, and something in my chest did that annoying fluttery thing. "Yours. Your grandma can read my palm. I need to know if I survive AP Euro."

"Deal," I said. "But first, we rescue the dog. I think he's having the worst night of anyone here."