The Dead Zone

I walked into first period feeling like the walking dead. Again.

Third night in a row of studying until 2 AM, and my body was definitely sending me angry notifications in the form of eye twitches and that weird floating feeling. Mom had started me on this new vitamin regimen that was supposed to "boost focus and energy," but honestly? The only thing it boosted was my skepticism. Especially when the pills were roughly the size of a small Hyundai.

"You look like actual roadkill," Jen announced, sliding into the desk next to me. "Like, if roadkill had to take AP Calculus."

"Thanks, Jen. Really feeling the love."

"No for real though. The baseball tryouts are today, right? You're gonna pass out at home plate."

She wasn't wrong. The tryouts for varsity were happening in four hours, and my current athletic capabilities were limited to "aggressive sighing" and "dramatic eye closure." But I had to make the team. Dad had played varsity, Grandpa had played varsity, and the weight of family tradition was heavier than my backpack, which was saying something.

The day passed in a blur of zombie-like shuffling between classes. By the time seventh period rolled around, I was operating on pure adrenaline and the terrifying knowledge that my entire future happiness depended on how well I could hit a ball with a stick.

Coach Miller called my name.

"Step up to the plate, Martinez. Let's see what you got."

I could feel everyone watching. The varsity players, my friends, the kids who'd made fun of my batting stance last year. I adjusted my helmet, took a deep breath, and thought about everything riding on this moment.

The pitch came in—fast, perfect.

I swung.

*CRACK.*

The ball sailed into the outfield, past everyone's reach. I took off running, my legs suddenly not tired anymore, my brain sharp for the first time all day. I made it to second base, panting but grinning like an idiot.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach Miller yelled. "Nice hit, Martinez!"

That night, Mom actually made spinach for dinner. And I ate it. Every bite. Because apparently, when you're not completely exhausted and stressed out, your body actually wants healthy things. Or maybe I was just delirious from success.

"So?" Dad asked from across the table. "How'd it go?"

I swallowed. "I made it."

The smile that spread across his face was like nothing I'd ever seen. "That's my kid," he said softly.

And for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like a zombie at all. I felt awake. Like, actually, properly awake—like maybe those stupid vitamins and all the sleep deprivation and the pressure had all been leading somewhere real.

Next season was gonna be legendary.