Zombie Bears and First Kisses

The thunder crashed like my social life—loud, messy, and impossible to ignore. I stood against the wall at Tyler's party, nursing a lukewarm soda while everyone else played Seven Minutes in Heaven like we were in a bad teen movie.

"You're not gonna play?" Maya appeared beside me, her zombie makeup somehow still perfect after three hours of dancing. "Chicken?"

"I'm not chicken," I protested, probably too quickly. "I'm just... strategically waiting."

She laughed, and I felt it in my chest—like lightning, sudden and electric and terrifying. Maya Chen. The girl who'd sat behind me in bio since freshman year, who I'd had a crush on since she'd corrected my pronouncement that mitochondria was the powerhouse of the cell with "mitochondria ARE the powerhouse, you uncultured swine." She was unforgettable.

"Strategically waiting for what? The apocalypse?" She bumped my shoulder with hers. "Because I think that might be happening outside."

I glanced at the window. Another flash of lightning illuminated the backyard, where for some reason Tyler's dad had positioned a six-foot inflatable bear. It waved its stupid arms in the wind.

"That bear has seen better days," I said.

"That bear has seen better everything." Maya grabbed my hand. "Race you to it."

"What? No—"

Too late. We were running through the kitchen, dodging couples who were definitely not playing Seven Minutes in Heaven anymore, bursting into the rainy backyard. The inflatable bear groaned in the wind, its plastic head flopping dramatically.

"I'm going to tackle it," Maya announced.

"You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm going to tackle it," she repeated, and then she did, tumbling onto the wet grass with the bear in a hug that was half-wrestling match, half-emotional support animal situation.

I stood there getting soaked, watching her laugh with a plastic bear, zombie makeup smeared across her forehead, hair frizzy from the rain. She looked ridiculous. She looked perfect.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" she called. "This bear needs backup."

So I dove in, and we were both lying there in the rain, clutching a deflating bear, pretending we weren't two people who'd been secretly in love with each other for two years.

"Hey," she said softly, rain dripping from her nose. "This is better than Seven Minutes in Heaven."

"Yeah," I said, my heart hammering like I'd been running for miles. "Yeah, it is."

She kissed me then—tasted like cherry lip gloss and rain and everything I'd been waiting for without knowing I was waiting.

Sometimes the best moments aren't the ones you plan for. Sometimes they're just you, a girl in zombie makeup, an inflatable bear, and lightning cracking the sky open like the universe is saying: finally, you idiots.