The Zombie Apocalypse Protocol

Maya stood in front of her bathroom mirror, applying her third layer of concealer. The house party at Tyler's was supposed to be the social event of the semester, and she'd been officially invited for the first time ever. No plus-one needed.

"You good in there?" her mom called through the door. "Found that vitamin D supplement you were looking for."

"Thanks, Mom!" Maya grabbed the bottle and swallowed one. Because nothing says ready to party like nutritional supplements.

The theme was "Living Dead," which everyone knew was just an excuse to wear minimal clothing and draw fake wounds. Maya had gone full zombie — pale foundation, dark circles, ripped thrift store dress. She looked disturbingly good, if she said so herself.

When she arrived, Tyler's backyard was already pulsing with bass and chaos. Someone had set up a photo booth with a backdrop spray-painted to look like the Great Sphinx of Egypt, complete with a cardboard nose that kept falling off.

"Maya!" screamed Jordan, her lab partner from AP Bio, appearing beside her with zero warning. "You came!"

Jordan was dressed as a spy — black turtleneck, sunglasses indoors, fake mustache that was already peeling at one corner. "I've been tasked with a mission," Jordan announced dramatically. "Tyler's orange soda stash has gone missing. We need to investigate."

Maya blinked. "We?"

"Covert operations require backup." Jordan handed her a plastic cup. "Also, you look way more zombie than I expected. It's honestly working for you."

They spent the next hour playing amateur detective, dodging grinding couples and investigating the cooler situation. Turned out Tyler's little brother had drunk all the orange soda and blamed it on someone's dog. Jordan documented the crime scene with excessive enthusiasm, taking "evidence photos" and interviewing witnesses.

"We make a pretty solid team," Jordan said as the party wound down, the fake mustache now completely gone. "Like, for future reference."

Maya's heart did this stupid flutter thing. "Yeah. We should probably investigate more mysteries."

"Next Friday? There's this diner downtown —"

"Yes," Maya said, maybe too quickly. "I mean, sure. Sounds spy-worthy."

Walking home, zombie makeup smudging under her eyes, Maya realized something: she hadn't thought once about being cool enough or fitting in. She'd just been having fun. Maybe that was the real social hack all along.