Vitamins for Zombies

I felt like a **zombie**—literally. Three days of finals, zero sleep, and now senior prom was in three hours. My hair was doing this weird flippy thing that screamed "I gave up two days ago," no matter how much gel I attacked it with.

"Dude, you look dead," Marcus said, scrolling through his phone while leaning against my doorframe. "Here." He tossed me a bottle of neon-orange pills. "My mom's weird health phase. These **vitamin** things are supposed to, like, restore your life force or whatever."

I dry-swallowed two. Anything that could help.

The real problem wasn't the exhaustion or the hair situation. It was Lila—senior class president, track team star, and somehow still managing to look effortless while I was over here swallowing mystery supplements. We'd been lab partners since freshman year, but tonight I was finally supposed to tell her how I felt. Except Lila moved in a completely different social **pyramid** than I did. She was at the top. I was somewhere in the "who's that guy again?" section.

Marcus drove us to prom because my car had died two days earlier (of course). The vitamins were kicking in, or maybe it was just adrenaline, but my hands were shaking anyway. We walked in, and there it was: the social hierarchy in full display, from the varsity jackets at the prime tables to the band kids claiming the corners by the punch bowl.

And there was Lila, laughing with her friends, hair perfect, dress absolutely unfair. She caught my eye across the room and waved like I was exactly where I belonged.

I took a breath. Whatever weird **hair** situation I had going on, whatever social pyramid I supposedly couldn't climb, whatever zombie-like state I was in—she was waving at ME.

"Go get her," Marcus said, pushing me forward.

I walked across the gym floor, vitamin-fueled and terrified. And you know what? She didn't care about the pyramids or the perfect appearance. She just smiled and said, "Finally, I was waiting for you to ask me to dance."

Sometimes the best moments happen when you're at your absolute zombie worst. That's the thing about growing up—you think you need to be perfect, but really, you just need to show up. Even if it takes questionable supplements and a wingman named Marcus to get you there.