The Zombie Curveball

Leo felt like a straight-up zombie. Third period AP History, eyes glued to the clock while Mr. Henderson droned on about the Industrial Revolution. His phone buzzed in his pocket — probably Maya again, asking if he was coming to Jordan's party tonight. The party everyone who mattered would be at.

The thing was, Leo had already made plans. Baseball tryouts were at 4 PM sharp, and his dad had been working with him on his curveball for weeks. But nobody at school knew he still played. Baseball was so middle school, so not the vibe of the new Leo he'd been cultivating since freshman year — the Leo who wore vintage band tees and acted like everything was beneath him.

"You coming or not?" Jordan asked later at lunch, leaning against the lockers like he owned the hallway. "Everyone's gonna be there."

"Yeah," Leo heard himself say. "For sure."

The words tasted like a lie.

At home, Buster — his aging golden retriever — met him at the door, tail going ninety miles an hour. Buster didn't care about being cool. Buster didn't know about the careful hierarchy of high school social circles. Buster just wanted belly rubs and to chase the worn-out baseball Leo had signed with Sharpie when he was twelve.

"You're the only one who gets it, buddy," Leo said, scratching behind Buster's ears.

His dad poked his head in from the garage. "Ready for tryouts? I've got the bucket of balls ready."

Leo's chest tightened. "Actually, Dad, I think I'm gonna skip it this year. It's just... a lot."

The look on his dad's face — hurt, confused, trying to understand — made Leo feel like the world's biggest asshole. Buster let out this soft whine, like he sensed something was wrong, and nudged Leo's hand with his wet nose.

That night, Leo stood outside Jordan's house with a solo cup in his hand, surrounded by people he'd known since kindergarten but felt totally disconnected from. Someone put on a zombie movie in the background, and the flickering blue light made everyone look strange, distorted. Like they were all just going through the motions, pretending to be people they weren't.

His phone buzzed again. His mom: Buster's not eating. I think he misses you throwing the ball for him.

Leo looked at the red solo cup in his hand. At Jordan laughing too loud at something. At the television where a zombie shuffled across a suburban street that looked just like his own.

He set the cup down on a patio table.

"Yo, where you going?" someone called out.

"Home," Leo said. "I've got somewhere I need to be."

The baseball field lights were still on when he pulled up. Empty. Perfect. He grabbed his glove from the trunk, whistled loud and sharp, and watched from the passenger window as Buster's face lit up in the rearview mirror.

His phone buzzed one last time — Maya: party sucks without you

Leo smiled, stepped onto the pitcher's mound, and wound up. The ball curved exactly the way his dad had taught him. Behind him, Buster barked like he'd just witnessed something miraculous.

For the first time in forever, Leo didn't feel like a zombie at all.