The Zombie Who Caught Everything

I walked into first period feeling like a total zombie. Three hours of sleep, thanks to Ben's 2 AM crisis text about whether his situationship was actually a relationship. Spoiler: it wasn't. I slumped into my usual seat in the back, grateful that Mr. Henderson's AP History lectures were basically ASMR at this point.

"Hey, zombie girl."

I didn't even need to look up. That voice belonged to Tyler Martinez, varsity baseball star and my unfortunate lab partner. He slid into the desk next to me, somehow making even those stupid school chairs look athletic. His snapback was on backward—red, obviously, because school colors.

"Sleepwalking again?" He grinned, all perfect teeth and annoying charm.

"Some of us don't wake up at dawn to hit baseballs," I muttered, pulling my hood down. The hat situation was becoming an issue. Tyler's collection seemed endless, each one worn with the confidence of someone who'd never had a bad hair day in their life.

"Varsity practice, actually. We've got regionals Friday." He rotated his cap forward, something he did when he was nervous. "You should come. I mean, if you want. Not that it matters or whatever."

I blinked. Was Tyler Martinez, who I'd lab-partnered with for six months without a single non-school-related conversation, inviting me to his baseball game? The zombie feeling intensified.

"Like, as a friend?" I asked, because apparently I had zero chill.

His face did that thing where he tried to look casual and failed spectacularly. "Yeah. Unless you're busy being a zombie or whatever. I figured you might want to, I don't know, see actual people interacting in person?"

"Wow, rude."

"But accurate?"

Unfortunately, yes.

"Fine," I said. "I'll come. But if you strike out, I'm leaving early."

Tyler's smile was something else—not the flashy one he used for teachers, but something smaller. Realer. "Deal."

Friday, I found myself sitting in the bleachers, surrounded by people whose social energy I couldn't even comprehend. Tyler spotted me from the dugout, lifted two fingers to his forehead in this weird little salute, and jogged onto the field.

I watched him pitch. Watched the way his hat caught the sunset, how his whole body moved like gravity was just a suggestion. And when he caught that line drive in the seventh—full extension, literally horizontal—the whole stadium went wild.

Afterward, sweat-streaked and impossible, he found me by the fence.

"So?" He adjusted his hat, breathless. "Was I totally embarrassing?"

I thought about how I'd spent the entire inning leaning forward, about how I'd cheered when I never cheer, about how for the first time in forever, I hadn't felt like a zombie at all.

"You were okay," I said, smiling when he rolled his eyes. "Next time, though? Wear your lucky hat."

"This WAS my lucky hat."

Oh.

The zombie heart, it turned out, could still skip a beat after all.