Palm-Sweat Zombie Summer

My palms were sweating through the dollar-store glow bracelets. Again. Maya's End of Summer Bash had been advertised as the social event of the season, but honestly? I felt like a zombie extra who'd wandered onto the wrong set. Everyone else was vibing, splashing around in her pool like they'd been born in chlorine, while I sat on the patio holding a papaya spear like it was some kind of exotic weapon I didn't know how to use.

"You look like you're contemplating murder," said Kai, dropping beside me. Kai, with his stupidly perfect hair and that effortless confidence I'd been trying to fake since seventh grade.

"Just contemplating fruit," I muttered, trying to play it cool. "What even is papaya? It tastes like melon got canceled."

He laughed—actually laughed, not the polite chuckle I'd braced for. Suddenly, calico fur brushed my ankle. I looked down to see Maya's cat, Pickles, winding around my legs like I was his new favorite human.

"Pickles never likes anyone," Maya called from the pool edge, droplets streaming from her eyelashes. "He has excellent taste."

Kai nudged my shoulder. "See? You've been vetted. Now get in here before I judgmentally splash you."

I stared at my palms. Still sweaty. Still awkward. But somehow, for the first time all summer, the zombie feeling was fading. Maybe next time, I'd actually be the one holding the conversation. Maybe next time, I'd be the one jumping in first.

"Bet you can't catch me," I said, standing up.

Pickles meowed his approval as I walked toward the pool, leaving my papaya—and my awkwardness—behind on the concrete.