The Zombie Who Rode

Maya felt like a **zombie** crawling through APUSH period sixth, brain leaking out her ears onto the DBQ essay about something something industrial revolution. Three hours of sleep. Again. Her frizzy **hair** had given up the ghost hours ago, exploding into a magnificent halo of chaos that Derrick, resident **bull** of sophomore hall, had already commented on twice.

"Natural disaster vibes, Maya," he'd stage-whispered earlier. His friends snort-laughed. She'd flipped him off under her desk, heart hammering the whole time.

The walk home was usually her decompression zone, but today her feet dragged. Everything felt heavy. The backpack. The expectations. The absolute failure of her hair gel.

Then she saw it in the attic window — her grandpa's old cowboy hat from his Texas rodeo days. Something made her climb up, blow off the dust, and perch it on her head.

She looked ridiculous. She looked fearless.

The next morning, Maya walked into school wearing the beat-up brown hat like it was normal. Like she was the kind of person who just casually wore western gear to public school in suburban Ohio.

Derrick was waiting by her locker. "What's with the hat, zombie girl? You joining the circus?"

Something snapped. Maya stepped closer. "Actually, my grandpa rode bulls professionally. Pretty sure he could take you."

The hallway went quiet.

"Yeah? Prove it," Derrick said, but his voice wavered.

"Rodeo club meets Thursdays," she improvised. "Come watch sometime."

She had no idea if there WAS a rodeo club.

(There was. There totally was.)

Two months later, Maya's **hair** still had a mind of its own, but she didn't care anymore. The **bull** in the arena was way more terrifying than Derrick could ever be, and somehow that made everything else easier. She wasn't zombie-walking through life anymore. She was riding.