Poolside Zombies

I'm fifteen, rocking my mediocre Target swim trunks and feeling completely out of place at the country club pool. The popular crew from school has claimed the premium lounge chairs, their motionless bodies eerily similar to the undead. They're utterly absorbed in their phones, thumbs moving with mechanical precision across screens. No actual conversation—just the soft glow of displays and occasional mumbled responses that could've been generated by chatbots.

"Put the phone down, have actual fun," my dad nags from across the pool. Meanwhile, my fingers compulsively refresh Instagram, desperate for validation through likes that never feel like enough.

Then I notice Mia—the girl I've been crushing on since seventh grade—standing alone near the padel courts. She's holding a racket, glancing around like she's searching for someone who isn't there.

"Yo," I manage, my voice barely audible above the pool's splashing and distant music. "You waiting for someone?"

She shrugs. "My partner bailed. Food poisoning, apparently. Wanna hit?"

"Me?" I practically squeak. "I've never played padel in my life."

"Exactly," she grins, and her smile completely short-circuits my nervous system. "Come on, zombie boy. Time to rejoin the living."

We play for an hour. I miss. A lot. But for the first time all summer, I'm not compulsively checking my phone. Mia laughs when I somehow spike a ball into my own face, and somehow, that's perfect. My dad gives me a thumbs-up from the poolside bar, looking way more proud than he should about his son's athletic incompetence.

Later, we sit at the edge of the pool, legs in the cool water. The phone zombies remain motionless behind us, trapped in their digital worlds while the real one passes them by.

"Worst player ever," she teases, splashing water at me.

"Agreed," I say, and somehow, that admission feels like winning.

My iphone buzzes with a notification in my pocket. I ignore it. Some things are more important than likes.