The Zombie Batter's Guide to Survival

I walked into third period looking like something that had crawled out of a grave, which honestly wasn't far from the truth. Finals week had turned me into a certified zombie—three hours of sleep, four iced coffees, and my brain was approximately 95% useless information about the Revolutionary War.

"You look dead, Maya," Leo said, sliding into the seat beside me. "Like, actually deceased."

"Thanks, best friend," I muttered, faceplanting onto my desk. "I have baseball practice today and I'm pretty sure I'm going to swing at nothing and fall over."

Leo's eyes lit up with that terrifying I-have-an-idea gleam. "You need fuel. Brain food." He pulled a Tupperware from his backpack. "My mom made this. It's a spinach smoothie."

I stared at the green sludge like it was radioactive waste. "Absolutely not."

"Come on, it's got banana and—"

"It looks like bog water."

"Just drink it, zombie girl."

I chugged it. It tasted like lawn clippings and regret, but twenty minutes later, I actually felt less like reanimated corpse and more like functional human being. Leo looked way too pleased with himself.

Baseball practice was... interesting. My batting average had somehow mysteriously improved, or maybe I was just delirious enough to not overthink everything. Coach kept yelling at me to focus, but I was floating in this weird green-smoothie powered dimension where everything seemed hilarious.

"Nice swing!" Leo called from the bleachers, where he'd apparently come to watch my suffering live.

I gestured thank-you with my bat and accidentally knocked over the entire bucket of baseballs. They rolled everywhere. I stood there, wanting to dissolve into the ground, but Leo was laughing so hard he fell off the bleachers.

After practice, my whole team was looking at me like I'd grown a second head. Turns out, spinach smoothie plus exhaustion had given me this truly ridiculous burst of chaotic energy. I'd hit three home runs, knocked over equipment, and apparently sung several verses of WAP without realizing.

"You're never living this down," Leo said, walking me home as the sun set. "But hey, at least you're not a zombie anymore."

I laughed. "True. And thanks for the, uh, liquid grass."

"Anything for you, Maya." He grinned. "Same time tomorrow?"

"God no. But I'll take a coffee."

"Deal."

Sometimes being a zombie isn't about the undead thing. Sometimes it's about surviving until someone hands you something green and terrible that somehow fixes everything. And that, my friend, is how you make it through being sixteen.