The Hat That Saved Me

I felt like a zombie walking into school that Monday. Third consecutive all-nighter for AP Bio had me basically sleepwalking through the hallways. My beanie—this oversized black thing I practically lived in—was pulled low over my eyes. I was invisible.

That was fine by me. Being visible meant questions, and questions meant explaining why I looked like death.

"Hey!"

I jumped. My iPhone almost slipped out of my sweaty grip. It was Leo from my history class, leaning against my locker like he belonged there. He never talked to me.

"Your hat," he said. "It's cool."

I stared at him. Was this a prank? I looked around for the Vine cameras.

"Thanks," I mumbled, clutching my phone tighter. My thumb automatically opened Instagram, my safety net.

"There's this thing," Leo said, rubbing the back of his neck. "This zombie makeup competition. After school. In the auditorium. My partner bailed and I saw your drawings in your notebook that one time—you're actually good."

My face burned. He'd seen my sketches? When?

"Why would you want me?" I asked.

"Because you don't try," Leo said simply. "You're not performing for anyone. That's what makes art real."

I looked down at my phone. At my feed where everyone was performing, curating, perfecting their lives. At the notifications I couldn't bring myself to answer.

I took off my hat.

"I'm in," I said.

That afternoon, covered in fake blood and latex, phone tucked away in my bag, I felt more alive than I had in months. Leo and I didn't win—we placed dead last. But when I put my hat back on, it wasn't to hide anymore.

It was just because my hair looked terrible.

And I was okay with that.