Zombie Apocalypse at Third Period

I yanked the brim of my dad's vintage baseball hat lower, practically disappearing into its shadow. Another day of navigating the hallways like a zombie—dead inside, going through the motions, desperately trying not to look like I was about to hurl from social anxiety.

Tommy, my golden retriever, was waiting at home, probably sleeping on my bed like the absolute legend he was. But here I was, stuck in third period English, surrounded by people who somehow made being seventeen look effortless while I was barely holding it together.

"Hey, nice hat,"

I looked up. It was Riley—the Riley who sat behind me in bio, the Riley whose Instagram stories I definitely didn't stalk at 2 AM when my brain wouldn't shut up about how awkward I was.

"Thanks,"

"You going to the game tonight? Everyone's gonna be there."

Every instinct screamed to mumble something about having plans with my dog—valid plans, actually—but then I thought about Tommy asleep at home and how disappointed he'd be if he knew I was using him as an excuse to stay in my comfort zone forever.

"Maybe. If my parents let me."

"Cool. I'll save you a spot."

Riley walked away, and I sat there feeling like I'd just survived a zombie apocalypse with only minor injuries.

That night, I showed up to the baseball game wearing the same hat, my hands shoved in my pockets, my heart doing gymnastics in my chest. Riley waved from the bleachers, and next to them—because the universe apparently had a sense of humor—was a tiny calico cat sitting on the bench like it owned the place.

"That's Pumpkin,"

"Your... cat? At a baseball game?"

"She showed up during practice and decided she's our mascot now."

I laughed, and it was real, not performative. Not zombie-like at all.

"Nice hat, by the way,"

The cat headbutted my leg, and Riley's shoulder brushed against mine when someone scored, and suddenly I didn't feel dead inside anymore. Maybe high school wasn't the apocalypse. Maybe I just needed to find my people—and apparently, my animals.