The Zombie in the Orange Hat

My palms were sweating so bad I could practically water plants with them. Homecoming. The one night freshman year where nobody's supposed to care who you are, but everyone actually cares more than usual.

I stood by the punch bowl like it was my assigned life trajectory, wearing this ridiculous neon orange hat I'd bought on impulse because regular hats felt too mainstream. My cousin Maya said it made me look like a "confused traffic cone," but I called it fashion.

Then I saw Jake—aka the human equivalent of a golden retriever—standing across the gym, looking somehow perfect in his flannel while I was over here channeling whatever energy a confused pumpkin would radiate.

"You look like you're mentally reciting the Constitution," someone said next to me.

I jumped. It was Chloe, who I'd had Spanish with since August but never actually talked to. She was wearing zombie makeup that was honestly impressive—like, professional-grade undead vibes.

"Nope," I said. "Just existing. Occasionally poorly."

She snorted. "Relatable. I'm basically a zombie at this point. I've been to three school functions this week and my social battery is at negative forty percent."

We stood there watching Jake accidentally spike the punch bowl. The volleyball team went wild.

"That's bull," Chloe said, nodding toward where Tyler—the actual worst—was laughing at Jake's mistake. "Tyler thinks he's the main character, but he's really just that one NPC who says the same three lines."

I laughed so hard my palm hit the table, and my orange hat slid over my eyes.

"You know what?" Chloe adjusted her zombie face paint. "Wanna dip? Like, actually dip. There's a Taco Bell within walking distance and I would genuinely sell my soul for a Crunchwrap right now."

"Absolutely," I said, and we walked out of the gym, me in my neon traffic cone hat, her looking like the walking dead, both of us finally feeling like we were exactly where we were supposed to be.