Zombie Crawl Confessions

My hair looked like a rabid poodle attacked it. Mom's DIY highlights experiment had gone wrong—so wrong—and now here I was, about to walk into Taylor's party looking like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

"You're literally spiraling," Jordan said, pulling up to the curb. Their car rattled like it was about to fall apart any second. "It's just highlights. They're not even that bad."

"That's because your hair didn't turn orange," I muttered, clutching the door handle like it might save me from social humiliation.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived. Taylor's house had a pool, obviously, because of course Taylor's house had a pool. People were already swimming—fully clothed, because that's what happens when someone's parents aren't home and someone else suggests something dumb and suddenly everyone's doing it.

I hovered near the snack table, feeling like a total zombie. Three hours of sleep last night will do that to you. Plus the anxiety of potentially being the only person not having the time of their life.

"ZOMBIE CRAWL!" someone screamed, and suddenly people were stampeding toward the pool.

I ended up on the edge of the pool deck, sitting next to this girl I barely knew—Maya, from my history class. She was scrolling through her phone, looking as out of place as I felt.

"Your hair's cool," she said, not looking up.

"What?"

"Your hair. It's not orange. It's kind of... beachy?" She finally looked at me, and her eyes were this intense brown that caught the pool lights. "I wish I could pull off something different. My mom won't even let me dye the tips."

"It was supposed to be subtle highlights," I said, feeling weirdly defensive of my disaster hair. "And then it wasn't."

She laughed, and it was this genuine sound that made something in my chest feel weird—like lightning, except warm.

"My hair's been the same since sixth grade," she said. "I'm practically a zombie living in a time loop."

"But you're not swimming," I pointed out, gesturing to the chaos in the pool.

"Hard pass. I witnessed someone pee in this exact pool last summer." She wrinkled her nose. "Some mysteries are better left unsolved."

We sat there for hours while people screamed and splashed and someone definitely broke something expensive. We talked about everything and nothing—teachers we hated, movies we loved, the existential dread of junior year.

When Jordan finally found me to leave, I realized I'd spent the whole party not swimming, not panicking about my hair, just sitting on the edge of everything with someone who got it.

"You coming?" Jordan called.

"Yeah," I said, turning to Maya. "See you Monday?"

"History class," she nodded. "Don't be a stranger, beach hair."