The Zombie Protocol

Maya's hair was supposed to be caramel highlights. Instead, it looked like a raccoon had exploded on her head. The DIY kit promised salon results. It delivered emotional damage.

"You're taking that vitamin or I'm taking your phone," Mom called from the kitchen. "And eat your spinach. Brain food."

Maya stared at the mirror, finger-combing the orange-streaked disaster. First day at Northwood High and she looked like she'd lost a fight with a Cheeto.

Her cat, Pickles, chose that moment to streak across the bathroom counter, knocking over the open hair dye. The puddle spread like toxic sludge toward her backpack.

"PICKLES!"

The cat bolted. Maya scrambled for paper towels, already late. She'd gotten zero sleep—just laid there doomscrolling until 3 AM, stomach twisted about lunchroom seating charts and finding her people and whether anyone would notice her shoes were from last season.

Now she was walking into school feeling like a zombie, half-dead and definitely not passable as human. The vitamin sat heavy and accusing in her pocket. She'd skipped the spinach. No way was she dealing with green teeth on top of everything else.

First period: AP Bio. Maya slid into the back row, heart hammering. A guy with perfect messy hair and a hoodie that definitely cost more than her entire wardrobe glanced over.

"Nice hair," he whispered. "Bold move."

Maya's face burned. She tugged her hood up.

"I'm Leo," he said. "That's emergency grade, right? The orange? Like, emergency fix-it mode?"

"It's a disaster," she muttered.

"Nah." Leo grinned. "Last month, I came to school with my sister's foundation still on my face. Looked like I'd been spray-tanned by a toddler. We've all been there."

The knot in Maya's chest loosened. Just a fraction.

By lunch, she'd eaten actual spinach because her stomach was finally hollow instead of twisted. She'd taken the vitamin. She'd even survived the lunchroom, landing at a table with Leo and two girls who spent the entire period dissecting their own embarrassing moments like it was a competitive sport.

"Wait," one of them said, eyes wide. "Is that cat hair on your shirt?"

Maya looked down. A single orange tuft clung to her black hoodie. From the dye disaster. From Pickles.

"Yeah," she said. "My cat's basically my personal stylist."

They laughed. Actual laughter.

Walking home, Maya caught her reflection in a shop window. The orange streaks were still chaos. She was still exhausted. But the zombie feeling had faded, replaced by something lighter. Something like possibility.

She'd survived.

Pickles waited on the porch, tail twitching like he knew.

"You're lucky you're cute," Maya told him, scratching behind his ears.

Tomorrow, she'd wear the hood up. Tomorrow, she'd try again. But for today, for the first time in forever, she felt seen. And it wasn't so bad after all.