The Art of Not Being a Zombie

The cafeteria spinach sat limp and defeated on my tray, looking exactly how I felt. Third period chemistry had drained my will to live, and baseball tryouts were in two hours. I nudged the green mush with my fork.

"You look like a walking zombie," Marcus said, sliding into the seat across from me. "You good?"

"I'm surviving," I muttered, which was a generous assessment. Between AP classes, my mom's new health kick, and the pressure to make varsity, I was basically running on caffeine and anxiety.

Marcus glanced at my tray. "Dude, that spinach looks like it died three weeks ago."

"Tell me about it."

Then Jake walked by with his crew. Mr. Baseball Captain, Mr. Popularity, the guy whose dad had signed him up for travel teams since kindergarten. He didn't even look at us. Probably didn't even know my name, despite us being in homeroom together since sixth grade.

"That's pure bull, you know," Marcus said, following my gaze. "He's not that good. I've seen you pitch. You're solid."

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter. He's got the rep. I'm just... trying not to embarrass myself."

Marcus snorted. "Bro, you've been working your butt off all summer. Wake up already. Stop sleepwalking through everything like you're already defeated."

He was right. I had been moving through life like a zombie, scared to try, scared to fail, scared to want things too much. But I wanted this. I wanted to make the team. I wanted to stop being the guy in the background of every picture.

I pushed the spinach aside and stood up. "You're right. Let's go."