The Zombie's Backhand

Maya's life had officially become a walking advertisement for the undead. Three weeks of finals, two part-time jobs, and approximately four hours of sleep per night had transformed her into something resembling a **zombie** from those cheesy apocalyptic movies Leo watched with his little brother. She shuffled through the halls of Northwood High, dark circles under her eyes that could've passed for war paint, responding to friends with monosyllabic grunts.

"You good, M?" Tessa asked at lunch, eyeing Maya's untouched tray.

"Brain's just buffering," Maya muttered, pushing around the sautéed **spinach** that looked suspiciously like something that had already been digested. "The SAT prep course is literally killing my soul."

"You need to decompress," Tessa said, already pulling out her phone. "My cousin's got this **padel** clinic at the country club this Saturday. She said she could get us in. You ever played?"

Maya stared at her. "The tennis thing with the shorter racquets? No. Also, I'm approximately zero percent athletic."

"That's the point!" Tessa's eyes lit up. "No expectations. Plus, Jordan's gonna be there."

And just like that, Maya found herself Saturday morning standing on a blue court, holding a **padel** racquet like it was an alien artifact. She was dead on her feet, hair in a messy bun, wearing her older brother's old gym shorts.

Then Jordan walked in.

Maya's stomach did that embarrassing flutter thing. Jordan Chen, who'd sat behind her in AP Bio since September, who drew comics in the margins of their shared notes, who'd once let her copy the homework she'd forgotten because she'd fallen asleep studying. Jordan was laughing at something, their smile doing things to Maya's cardiovascular system that she didn't want to examine too closely.

"Hey Maya!" Jordan waved, jogging over. "You play?"

"Um, literally never," Maya said, then immediately wanted to die. Why had she said literally? Who said literally that much?

"Perfect," Jordan grinned. "We can suck together."

They partnered up for beginners' doubles. Maya missed the first three balls by approximately three feet each. Her coordination had apparently abandoned ship along with her ability to form complete sentences. But then—miraculously—her body remembered something from middle school PE. She pivoted, her racquet connected with the ball, and it sailed perfectly into the corner of the opponents' court.

"Yesss!" Jordan high-fived her, their hand lingering on Maya's shoulder for a second too long. "Where did THAT come from?"

Maya laughed, and it was the first genuine laugh she'd had in weeks. She felt something unknot in her chest, the tightness of finals and expectations and the constant pressure to be enough loosening its grip. She wasn't a **zombie** anymore—she was just a girl on a Saturday morning, playing **padel** with someone who made her smile, with **spinach** from the club café's smoothie stuck between her teeth and not even caring.