Summer of the Living Zombies

The party was already dead when I got there. Like, actually dead. I stood in Maya's doorway, clutching a plastic container of papaya chunks my mom had insisted I bring, feeling like the world's biggest loser. Who brings fruit to a high school party?

Inside, the living room was packed with people I'd known since middle school, but suddenly everyone seemed different. The baseball team from school huddled in the kitchen, their varsity jackets draped over chairs like trophies. Jessica—captain of the cheer squad—launched herself at some college guy with fake enthusiasm, her giggle razor-sharp.

They all moved in this synchronized, mindless rhythm. Phones out, thumbs scrolling, eyes glazed. Like zombies.

I slid toward the food table and dumped my papaya contribution next to a bowl of stale chips. My cat, Milky, had better social skills than I did, and she spent most of her time knocking water glasses off my nightstand.

"Hey."

I jumped. A guy stood there, holding a baseball bat like it was a normal thing to carry at a house party. Short, messy hair, eyes that actually looked awake.

"Baseball player?" I asked, gesturing at the bat.

"Baseball collector," he corrected. "Found this at a thrift store. It's from 1987. Look at this wear pattern—" he turned it over "—someone loved this bat. You can see where they gripped it, right here."

His fingers traced the worn wood, and something about the way he noticed things made my chest feel weird.

"I'm Leo," he said.

"Maya."

"No, Maya's hosting. I meant, what's your name?"

"Oh! Sam."

"Sam." He tested it out, like it was something interesting. "You want to get out of here? This zombie apocalypse is brutal."

We ended up on Maya's front porch steps, sharing my papaya chunks while Leo explained how baseball cards were basically the original social media. The zombies inside kept partying, their laughter drifting through the screen door, but something about sitting there with Leo and papaya at midnight made me feel like I'd finally woken up too.

"You know," Leo said, around 2 AM, "you're the only person here who didn't have their phone out."

I looked down at my hands, empty and papaya-sticky. "I left it at home on purpose."

"Good," he said. "Zombies don't know they're zombies."

The baseball bat rested between us. My phone was at home. Milky was probably asleep on my pillow. And somehow, for the first time all year, I felt completely alive.