The Zombie Who Learned to Fly

Maya moved through sophomore year like a zombie, dead inside from 7:00 AM to 3:15 PM, only coming alive when she slipped into her room and opened her laptop. There, she became someone else.

Every night after homework, she'd pull on her lucky beanie—the one with the tiny propeller she'd found at a thrift store—and transform into her secret identity: a digital spy. Her target? Riley, the mysterious new girl who sat three rows back in English class.

Maya wasn't creepy about it. Okay, maybe a little. She'd mastered the art of finding Riley's alternate Instagram accounts, decoding her cryptic Spotify playlists, tracking which coffee shops she frequented based on geotagged posts. It wasn't stalking if it was research, right?

Then came the day everything changed.

Maya was walking home, brain-fried from a physics test she'd definitely failed, when she heard it—a pathetic whimper from behind someone's dumpster. A dog, scrawny and matted, with eyes that seemed to ask, "You gonna help me or what?"

Against all her loner principles, Maya picked it up. The thing weighed nothing. She carried it three blocks, her arms aching, before realizing—this wasn't just some stray. It was Riley's dog. The one from all those photos. The one with the distinctive mismatched ears.

"ZOMBIE!" a voice called out.

Maya turned. There was Riley, running toward her, breathless.

"That's—his name is Zombie," Riley panted. "I've been looking everywhere. Thank you, oh my god, THANK YOU."

They sat on the curb while Zombie licked Maya's face like she'd personally invented kibble. Riley explained everything—her mom's new no-pets rule, how she'd been sneaking Zombie into her garage after school, how terrified she'd been when he'd gotten out.

"I've seen you," Riley said suddenly. "In English. You wear that hat sometimes. It's cool."

Maya's face burned. "You noticed me?"

"Everyone notices you," Riley said. "You're always looking at your phone like you're solving mysteries or something."

Or something.

That night, Maya didn't need her spy rituals. Riley had followed her home and asked for her number. Not to stalk—well, not exactly. But to return the favor. "Since you saved my dog," she'd texted, "I'll save you from eating lunch alone tomorrow. Deal?"

Maya deleted her seventeen Riley-focused Instagram folders. She didn't need them anymore. The zombie who'd been sleepwalking through life had finally woken up.