The Night I Faked Being a Zombie

My hair was supposed to be platinum blonde for Taylor's pool party—so naturally, it turned radioactive orange. Three hours before the biggest social event of sophomore year, I looked like a traffic cone with split ends.

"Just call it 'copper sunset,' Mom said, unhelpfully. Meanwhile, Buster—our ancient, FARTING goldendoodle—had eaten my backup hair dye. I was doomed.

Then Mia texted: *U coming? everyone's asking. Jordan's here.*

Jordan. The boy I'd been crushing on since seventh period algebra.

I stared at my orange-haired reflection. My phone buzzed again. A brilliant, terrible idea bloomed in my brain. What if I just... didn't show up as myself?

I dug out my brother's old stage makeup from drama club. Created dark circles. Messy hair—well, that part was real. Added some fake blood from Halloween.

"I'm a zombie," I announced at the party, shuffling toward the pool deck.

Taylor froze. "What is HAPPENING?"

"Performance art," I deadpanned. "Commentary on capitalist exhaustion."

Jordan laughed. Not the polite laugh. The REAL one. "That's actually kind of genius."

We spent the whole night talking by the pool, my orange wig halfway falling off, him pretending my zombie costume was the most normal thing in the world. Buster would've been proud of my commitment to the bit.

"You know," Jordan said as the party wound down, "I like your hair better this way."

I touched my orange curls. "The zombie look?"

"No. The real you."

And that's how I learned that sometimes the most embarrassing disasters become your origin story. Also, never leave hair dye where Buster can reach it.