The Zombie Apocalypse of Finals Week

I looked like a zombie. Not the cool kind from movies—all impressive decay and killer instincts—but the authentic high school version: three hours of sleep, dark circles that could double as eyeshadow, and a caffeine dependency that definitely wasn't healthy.

"You're wearing that?" Maya asked, raising an eyebrow as I slumped into my usual seat at our table. She pointed at my beanie—the one with the ridiculous pom-pom on top that I'd sworn I'd retired after eighth grade.

"It's covering three days of unwashed hair," I muttered. "Judge me later. I'm barely functioning."

We were supposed to be studying for AP Bio, but instead I was regretting my life choices. Who stayed up until 3 AM watching Netflix when finals started in two days? This zombie, apparently.

Then Marcus walked by—actual Marcus, varsity track star, somehow still wearing his letterman jacket in June—and Maya straightened up like someone had flipped a switch. Ever since she'd admitted she thought he was cute back in October, she'd been trapped in what I called the paralysis stage. Plenty of staring, zero talking.

"Say something to him," I whispered.

"I can't," she hissed back. "What would I even—"

Before she could finish, something orange and fuzzball-shaped bolted through the cafeteria doors. A cat. A literal cat, wearing a tiny hat—a felt top hat, like it was about to perform in a Victorian magic show.

The entire lunch period went feral. Phones came out. People started running after it like this was the most important thing that had ever happened in our school's history. The cat darted between tables, its ridiculous hat bobbing with every movement, clearly living its best life.

"Is that—" Maya started.

"Mr. Whiskerface?" I finished. "From the neighborhood page? The escaped cat with a criminal record?"

Marcus was already moving, athletic instincts kicking in. He grabbed a napkin off someone's tray and crouched down, making that clicking sound people make when they think cats understand English. The cat actually slowed down, intrigued.

"Nice hat," Marcus told it, deadpan.

The cat paused. Judgmentally.

Then, with a casual flick of its tail, it allowed Marcus to scoop it up. Tiny hat and all.

Maya let out this sound that was half gasp, half something else entirely.

"That's your opening," I told her. "Go rescue him from whatever cat lady situation this is."

She stood up, knees shaking a little, and marched over there. I watched my best friend finally say something to the guy she'd been crushing on for seven months, while holding a cat in a top hat.

I checked my reflection in my phone screen—still a zombie. But honestly? This kind of chaos? The kind where your best friend finally makes a move because a cat wearing formal wear decided to crash lunch? This was why I showed up. Even on three hours of sleep. Even during finals week from actual hell.

Some things are worth being awake for.