The Pool Party Zombie
Maya's iphone buzzed in her hand like a terrified insect. Another notification. Another potential crisis. Another someone doing something somewhere that she wasn't part of.
"You coming in?" Jake called from the pool, flicking water at her. His muscles rippled—objectively, according to the fifteen thirsty comments on his last post.
"Just finishing something," she mumbled, thumb poised over Instagram like her life depended on it.
The Hernandez's pool party was supposed to be THE event of the summer. Three weeks of buildup in the group chat. outfit planning. anxiety spiraling. Now here she was, vibrating with the paradoxical fear of missing out AND being seen.
She felt like a zombie. Not the cool kind from shows with romantic subplots and impressive muscle coordination. The gross, shuffling kind—the walking dead, powered only by caffeine and notifications. Her actual body was present, her mind was somewhere in the digital ether.
Chloe appeared beside her, dropping onto the lounge chair with a dramatic sigh. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you look like you're about to die but really you're just wondering if anyone thinks you're cool."
Maya blinked. "It's called having a social presence."
"It's called being a zombie," Chloe said, grabbing Maya's phone and tossing it onto the pile of towels. "And it's literally tragic."
Something about the word—zombie—stuck. Because Chloe was right. She WAS zombie-ing through her actual life, hungry for brains she'd never actually eat. No, that metaphor fell apart. But the hunger part was real. She was starving for something, and likes and comments were like junk food—tasted good for three seconds, left you empty.
Jake was doing a cannonball. Water everywhere. People laughing. REAL laughter, not the 'haha' and 'lmao' and 'I'm dead 💀' that passed for communication in her group chats.
Maya stood up.
"What are you—" Chloe started.
Maya jumped.
The pool swallowed her whole—cool shocking blue chaos. For three seconds, she was completely submerged. No wifi. No service. No notifications. Just water and silence and the thud of her own heart.
She burst to the surface, gasping, pushing wet hair from her face.
"You're alive," Jake yelled, splashing her.
"I'm ALIVE," Maya screamed back, and something cracked open in her chest—not a screen, but something real.
She spent the next hour phone-free. Actually talking. Actually laughing. Actually feeling the sun on her skin, the water around her, the presence of people who weren't filtered and curated and algorithm-ed.
When she finally retrieved her iphone, she saw it. Three missed calls. Twelve texts. Forty-seven notifications.
She turned it off and dove back into the deep end.
The zombie was dead. The girl was just getting started.