Running from the Zombie Inside

Maya's summer wasn't supposed to be like this. But here she was, friday night at Tyler's massive house party, feeling like a complete **zombie** after three days of AP summer homework and her mom's relentless questioning about college applications. "You need to stand out," Mom had said that morning. Maya snorted into her red solo cup. Standing out wasn't the problem—fitting in was.

The party spilled out to the backyard where Tyler's parents' fancy **padel** court sat pristine and unused. Jackson, the varsity tennis captain who'd barely acknowledged her existence all sophomore year, was suddenly right there. "Hey Maya, wanna hit a few?" His smile was genuine, and Maya felt her stomach do that annoying flip thing.

"Um, sure?" She set down her cup and followed him to the court. They played for twenty minutes, Jackson laughing at her terrible serves but not in a mean way. The ball zipped back and forth under the string lights as the party noise faded.

Then his friend Sam started doing **palm** readings by the pool, being dramatic and mystical. Jackson pulled Maya over, extending his hand. "Your turn," he said. Sam traced the lines on Maya's palm, going quiet. "You're running from something," Sam said suddenly, not joking anymore. "Or maybe toward something. It's hard to tell."

Maya yanked her hand back, her face burning. Everyone was staring. Jackson looked at her, really looked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time all year. The palm reader was just messing around, but he'd accidentally cracked Maya open. All year she'd been **running**—from her parents' expectations, from her own fear of being mediocre, from the fact that she didn't know who she was supposed to be yet.

The summer night pressed around them, crickets loud in the sudden silence. Maya realized Jackson was still holding her other hand, his grip warm and solid. "Wanna get out of here?" he asked softly. "Just walk?" And for the first time in months, Maya didn't feel like running anymore.