Strike Three, Zombie Free

I'm officially a **zombie**. Third consecutive all-nighter finishing AP Euro flashcards, and I can practically feel my braincells staggering around like the walking dead. At least the spring formal's finally here.

Which is exactly why I'm hiding behind the gym bleachers instead of, like, actually participating.

"You gonna stand there all night?"

I jump. It's Maya—lip gloss perfect, dress somehow defying gravity, looking like she didn't just spend three hours overanalyzing every single detail about tonight. I wipe my sweaty **palm**s on my dress like that'll somehow make me less of a mess.

"Just catching some air," I lie.

"You've been 'catching some air' since homecoming, Jules." She slides down the wall to sit next to me. "People ask about you, you know. They think you're being all mysterious and brooding."

I snort. "Yeah, totally intentional. My brand."

Silence stretches between us, and I can feel the weight of everything I'm not saying—how the cafeteria noise sometimes hits like a physical wave, how group chats make my chest tight, how some days I feel like I'm **running** a marathon I never signed up for.

"You know Troy Miller?" she asks suddenly.

"The **baseball** guy? Yeah."

"He thinks you're cool. Like, actually cool. Not fake-chill cool, but the real kind."

I stare at her. "Troy Miller called me cool?"

"Well, I may have mentioned it first, but he agreed. And then a bunch of other people were like, yeah, Jules is pretty legit when you actually talk to her."

My face does something complicated.

"You're not invisible, Jules. You're just... choosing to be."

She's not wrong. I've been treating high school like something to survive instead of something to actually, you know, LIVE. But suddenly the idea of walking back into that gym doesn't feel like a death sentence.

"So," Maya says, standing up and smoothing her dress. "You coming, or you gonna stay back here being all emo by yourself?"

I stand up too. My legs feel weirdly shaky, like I forgot how to use them.

"I'm coming."

"Good. Because Jake Miller's been talking major **bull** all night about how he can beat anyone at spikeball, and I need you to crush him."

I laugh—an actual, real laugh. "You're on."

We walk toward the gym together, and for the first time all year, the zombies stop shuffling and start dancing.