The Living Dead Party

Maya's hair was slicked back in the claw clips her mom called "professional," but she felt like a fraud. The house party vibrated with bass-heavy music, and she stood by the refreshment table, nursing a flat soda like it was a lifeline.

"Yo, Maya!" Jake appeared, grinning with that effortlessly chaotic energy that made him popular without trying. "Check this out."

He held up a plastic bag containing the most tragic goldfish Maya had ever seen. It was floating sideways, gills barely moving.

"It's a zombie fish," Jake declared proudly. "My cat, Lucifer, practically murdered it, but it keeps swimming. It's immortal, bro."

"That's literally a dying fish," Maya said, but she couldn't help smiling. Jake's dog, Buster, circled his legs, tail knocking into cups and spilling something sticky on the carpet.

"Nah, it's resilient," Jake insisted, dropping the bag next to a bowl of chips. "Like us, right? Surviving the chaos of high school one disaster at a time."

Maya thought about how her parents were fighting again, how she'd cried in the bathroom that morning because nothing felt real anymore. Maybe she was a zombie too—just going through the motions, waiting to feel alive.

The goldfish gave one final twitch and went still. Jake stared at it for a second, then cracked up. "Well, RIP. You had a good run, little dude."

"You're terrible at this," Maya said, but she was laughing now too.

"Nah, I'm great at everything," Jake countered, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the makeshift dance floor. "Come on. The fish would want us to live our best lives."

As they moved through the crowd, Maya realized nobody was watching her hair or her awkwardness. They were just zombies together—teenagers faking confidence, hoping nobody noticed the bags under their eyes or the cracks in their smiles. But maybe that was okay. Maybe being a little undead was just part of growing up.