Static in the Dark

Maya's hair had declared mutiny. Somewhere between the humidity and her nervous sweating, her perfect curls had morphed into something resembling a small electrocuted animal. She tugged at a frizzy strand, wondering why she'd thought coming to Jake's party was a good idea when she could've been home rewatching The Walking Dead for the fiftieth time.

The basement rec room was packed, bodies moving like a horde of party zombies—mindless, drawn to the snack table, communicating in grunts and overlapping laughter. Maya hovered near the wall, clutching her red solo cup like it contained the antidote.

"Your hair's sick," someone said.

Maya jumped. It was that guy from her history class, the one who sat in the back and drew zombies in his notebook during lectures about the Industrial Revolution. What was his name? Ethan? Evan?

"Thanks," she lied. "It's supposed to look like this."

"Cool." He sipped his drink. His dark hair was falling in his eyes, and Maya felt herself staring. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to be invisible, a background character, not someone having an actual conversation with a cute guy who drew monsters.

Outside, thunder rattled the basement windows.

"Storm's crazy," he said.

"Yeah."

Lightning flashed, and for a split second, the whole room turned white. In that brief illumination, Maya saw Ethan's notebook on the table behind him—open to a drawing of a zombie with spectacular hair. Big, voluminous, gorgeous hair.

"Is that... me?" she pointed.

He froze. His face did something complicated. "Maybe. I mean—your hair in third period last week. It was really good that day."

Maya touched her hair self-consciously, but she was smiling. "You draw zombies based on people's hair?"

"It's how I cope with high school," Ethan admitted. "Everyone's kind of a zombie anyway, right? Just going through the motions? At least the undead are honest about it."

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The lights flickered and died, leaving them in sudden darkness.

"Well," Ethan's voice came from beside her, "this isn't awkward at all."

Maya laughed, really laughed, and she could feel the tension in her shoulders releasing. The party zombies were still there, still moving through the darkness, but suddenly Maya wasn't one of them anymore.

"Show me more," she said. "The zombie drawings. I want to see who else you're secretly observing."

He pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight feature. In its beam, Maya saw herself differently—not as the awkward girl with bad hair, but as someone worth noticing, worth drawing, worth remembering.