Zombie Apocalypse at Country Club

My hair refused to cooperate. Again. Three hours before the biggest party of sophomore year, and my curls were staging a rebellion against every product I'd subjected them to. I looked like a zombie from last night's Netflix binge—minus the cool makeup effects.

"You're spiraling," Maya said, sprawled across my bed. "Just throw it up. Messy bun, vibe check, you're good."

Easy for her to say. Maya's sleek ponytail defied physics. Meanwhile, I was one failed hair flip away from cancelling on Tyler—the guy who'd finally noticed me after three months of lingering stares and subtle Insta story replies.

The country club pool party. Where everyone cool would be. Where Tyler would be. Where rich kids played padel on actual courts while I'd barely mastered tennis without whipping racquets into fences. Social suicide potential: maximum.

My palms started sweating. I grabbed my phone, desperate for distraction, when Mom burst in wearing her conference nametag like it held magical powers. "Want me to read your palm before I go? I learned this technique at the wellness retreat!"

"Mom, NO."

"Your life line shows courage!" She grabbed my hand anyway, tracing imaginary futures across my skin. "And this—" she pointed dramatically "—this says you'll take a risk tonight and something magical will happen."

"That's not a palm reading. That's just you being weirdly optimistic."

"THE UNIVERS—" I shoved her out the door, laughing despite myself.

At the party, everything was wrong. The pool looked like Instagram filtered reality. People were perfect. I was not. Tyler was by the padel courts, laughing with someone who was definitely not me.

I hid near the snack table, feeling like the most awkward zombie at the buffet. Until some guy spilled neon punch all over my favorite dress.

"I am SO sorry—"

"No, it's—" I started, then caught my reflection. Purple stain blooming across white fabric like a terrible abstract painting. Perfect.

The guy followed my gaze. "Actually... that looks kind of sick? Like, artistically chaotic?"

I blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Totally." He held out his hand, palm open. "I'm Leo. I promise not to dump anything else on you tonight."

Something about his crooked smile made me brave. "Deal. But if you do, I'm throwing you in the pool."

His eyes lit up. "Only if you jump in after me."

Later, as my hair finally fell into messy waves around my shoulders, I'd learn Leo had spilled that punch on purpose—just to talk to the girl who'd been hiding behind a snack table all night.

Mom's palm reading wasn't totally wrong. Sometimes the universe worked in mysterious, punch-stained ways.