The Zombie Bull Sessions

The vitamin C packet dissolved slowly in my water bottle, turning it a suspicious neon orange. Maya eyed me from across the cafeteria table.

"Another pre-game ritual, Leo? You know that stuff is basically sugar water, right?"

"It's called bio-hacking, Maya. Get with the program." I gulped it down, ignoring the weird aftertaste. Junior year was eating me alive, and I needed all the help I could get.

My palms were already sweating thinking about tonight. The Winter Showcase. My chance to finally prove I wasn't just the quiet kid who sat in the back of AP Calc barely holding it together. I'd been working on my spoken word piece for weeks, pouring everything into it—my parents' divorce, feeling invisible, the whole mess.

"You gonna be okay?" Maya asked, reading me like always.

"Yeah. Just nervous." I wiped my palms on my jeans. "Tyler's gonna be there with his whole squad. Probably gonna try to roast me again."

Tyler—that entitled bull who'd made it his mission to make everyone feel small. Last week he'd announced in English that my poem draft sounded like "a zombie wrote it while blackout drunk." The whole class laughed. I laughed too, because that's what you do.

"Forget Tyler," Maya said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "You've got something real. That's more than he'll ever have with his trust fund and fake confidence."

I snorted. "When did you get all wise?"

"Always have been, you just never listen."

The bell rang. Time to face the music.

By 8 PM, the auditorium was packed. I stood backstage, heart hammering. My palms were sweating again. Then I remembered my grandmother's voice—she used to read palms at carnival shows back in the day, always told me my life line was long and full of twists.

She'd said, "Baby, life hits hard. You gotta hit back harder."

So I walked out there, grabbed the mic, and let every word fly. The bull in my head, the zombie days, the palm-sweat anxiety. I spoke until my voice cracked and the room went silent and then, suddenly, erupted.

Afterward, Maya grabbed me in a hug that smelled like vanilla and victory. Tyler didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

I'd already won.