The Zombie's Backhand

Six AP classes will do that to you. By second semester junior year, I was a certified **zombie**, shuffling through hallways with dark circles deep enough to hide a whole secret life in. My phone's screen time report hovered somewhere between embarrassing and genuinely concerning.

My mom kept thrusting wedges of **papaya** at me every morning, insisting the tropical enzymes would 'wake up my brain.' She'd bought a whole crate from the new Asian market, convinced it was the cure to my academic burnout. I'd mechanically chew while scrolling through TikToks at 7:15 AM, the sweet mushy texture matching my overall vibe.

"You need sunshine, not screens," she'd say, arranging the fruit like it was some kind of emotional support breakfast.

So when Jake from AP Calc asked if I wanted to try **padel** at the community center, I almost laughed. Me? With a racquet? But something about the way he looked at me—like he saw an actual person beneath the exhaustion—made me say yes.

My first weekend on the court, I expected to be terrible. Instead, something clicked. The glass walls, the smaller court, the way the ball bounced off them unpredictably—it was like someone had turned on a switch in my zombie brain. For the first time in months, I wasn't thinking about GPAs or college apps. I was just playing.

"You're actually kinda savage," Jake said after I smashed a winner past him.

I felt myself grin. Something that hadn't happened in a while.

That night, I actually ate my papaya without complaining. And the next day, when I served for match point, I realized I'd been playing on autopilot for months—just going through the motions of everything. But here? Here, I was wide awake.

My mom was right. Sometimes you need to taste something different to remember you're alive.