The Last Friday Night

Marcus stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his mom's cheap foundation caked way too thick on his face. "You look like a bruised peach," Leo said from the doorway, brandishing a baseball bat like it was a royal scepter.

"Shut up, this is authentic zombie aesthetic." Marcus practiced his undead walk—stiff legs, dead eyes, arms out like he was sleepwalking through a math test. "And the baseball bat is for the climax scene. Don't mess with the vision."

They were shooting their entry for the school film festival. The cable connecting Marcus's camera to the backup power supply kept fraying at the worst moments, which was exactly how Marcus felt about his entire sophomore year—barely holding it together, one bad connection away from total disaster.

The real disaster happened later that night, at Maya's party.

Marcus had been crushing on Maya since seventh period English started in September. She was the kind of girl who somehow made wearing an oversized flannel shirt look intentional. Now she was actually *at* a party that *he* was at, and Marcus was hovering near the doorway, holding a red Solo cup like it might detonate if he relaxed his grip.

He felt like a goldfish in a bowl—exposed, awkward, swimming in endless circles while everyone else seemed to know exactly what they were doing. The bass from someone's phone speaker thudded against his ribs. People were doing that thing where they huddled in circles and laughed too loud at nothing.

Maya was by the snack table, actually eating chips instead of just holding them like an accessory. Marcus had rehearsed like eight different opening lines. He started moving toward her, and then his brain short-circuited.

"Your hair looks..." No.

"Did you see that zombie movie..." Lame.

"I have a goldfish and his name is—" WHAT.

He froze. Stood there, statue-still, staring at her like she might somehow not notice.

Then Leo materialized behind him, groaning like a zombie, arms out, doing the exact same walk they'd practiced in the bathroom earlier.

Marcus died. Actually expired from embarrassment.

But then Maya laughed—not the fake kind, but real, bent-over, snort-laughing. "Oh my god, is that from your film project? I heard you guys were making a zombie movie."

"Yeah," Marcus managed, while Leo dramatically collapsed onto the carpet. "It's about... capitalism?"

"Show me," she said, pulling out her phone. "I love zombie stuff. The Walking Dead? Based. Warm Bodies? Underrated classic."

They spent the next forty minutes by the snack table, analyzing zombie media while Leo periodically resurrected to annoy people. Maya had opinions about fast zombies versus slow zombies. She'd once dressed as a zombie cheerleader for Halloween. She thought the baseball bat weapon choice was "totally iconic, actually."

"We could use another actor," Marcus said, the words tumbling out before he could overthink them. "If you wanted to, I mean. Not that you—"

"I'd love that," she said, and her smile wasn't performative or polite or anything else Marcus had spent the whole evening overanalyzing. It was just a smile. "So, can I see the footage? Or is it too embarrassing?"

Marcus pulled out his phone. The cable to his portable charger was dangling, frayed and ridiculous, and he didn't even care.

"It's definitely embarrassing," he said. "But yeah. Yeah, you can see it."