The Un-Undeading of Jordan Chen

Jordan Chen had been operating at approximately 40% battery life since mid-October. The zombie thing wasn't even a metaphor anymore—shuffle down the hall, eyes half-glazed, surviving on caffeine chips and desperate hope. Their iPhone sat face-up on the nightstand,屏幕 glowing with seventeen unread messages from the Padel group chat.

"You're coming, right?" Tasha had texted at 9:47 PM. "Rookie tournament. We need a fourth."

Jordan stared at the ceiling. The last time they'd played anything involving hand-eye coordination, seventh grade PE had been a trauma they were still processing. But Tasha was nice. And maybe not playing padel was worse than playing badly.

The rec center smelled like chlorine from the swimming pool and teenage determination. Jordan's stomach did something genuinely unpleasant as they approached Court 4.

"YO! Chen!" Marcus waved, holding a padel racket like he'd been born with it attached to his hand. "We got you a loaner. The grip's kinda gross but it's fine."

The first fifteen minutes were a disaster. Jordan whiffed. Hit the fence. Got scored on by a girl who was definitely checking TikTok between points. Their iPhone buzzed in their backpack, probably something important, probably not.

Then something shifted.

Marcus served. Jordan's body moved before their brain could overthink it—left foot forward, racket back, swing through like they were chopping through something real. The ball cracked off the wall, angled perfectly past Tasha's outstretched racket.

"WAIT," Marcus yelled. "Did you just—I saw that. I witnessed that."

"Beginner's luck," Jordan said, but they were grinning. Actually grinning, not the polite half-smile they'd been wearing since school started.

They played for two hours. Jordan's arms turned to jelly. Their ponytail was disaster. They missed three easy shots and made four incredible ones. And for the first time in months, they forgot about their iPhone sitting dark in their bag, forgot about the college application essays, forgot about the exhausted zombie routine.

"Same time next week?" Tasha asked afterward, wiping her face with her shirt.

Jordan looked at their friends—sweaty, tired, genuinely happy. "Yeah," they said. "I'm in."

That night, Jordan charged their phone. But they fell asleep thinking about backhands instead of deadlines. The zombie thing was getting old anyway.