The Friday Night Living Dead

Marcus pulled his beanie down lower, practically swallowing his forehead. It was his armor—this ratty, faded hat he'd worn since seventh grade. If he couldn't make eye contact, nobody could see the panic brewing underneath.

"Dude, you look like a zombie," said Jacey, tilting her head. "Rough week?"

Marcus shrugged. Friday nights at Skylar's house were supposed to be fun, but he always felt like he was performing. Like everyone else had gotten the manual on how to be a teenager, and he was still stuck on chapter one.

His phone buzzed. A photo from his mom: Buster, their golden retriever, sleeping upside down on the couch. The caption: "He misses his human."

Something tightened in Marcus's chest. Buster didn't care if Marcus was awkward at parties or didn't know how to flirt or had once accidentally called his teacher "mom" in front of everyone. Buster just thought Marcus was the greatest person who'd ever existed, because Marcus was the person who threw the tennis ball.

"You okay?" Jacey asked softly.

"Yeah," Marcus said. "Just thinking about my dog."

Jacey laughed, but not meanly. "Same. My dog's the only one who gets me."

The group was planning to sneak into the old cemetery for "ghost hunting"—which was really just an excuse to hang out somewhere their parents wouldn't drive past. Marcus's stomach twisted. He'd never admit it, but cemeteries genuinely freaked him out. Not the zombies themselves, but what they represented: endings, things over and done with, no second chances.

"You don't have to come," Jacey said, like she'd read his mind. "We could just... stay here. I was kinda wanting to rewatch that zombie show anyway."

Marcus looked up. For the first time all night, he didn't feel like a zombie going through the motions of being alive. He felt like a person who someone actually saw.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Later, as they sat on the living room floor watching fictional zombies stumble across a screen, Marcus texted his mom back: "Tell Buster I'll be home soon."

His hat stayed on, but he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, actually present. Maybe that's what growing up felt like—not becoming someone different, but finding people who liked who you already were.