Zombie in the Outfield

I looked like a zombie. No, like a zombie who'd been dragged through a hedge backward. The disastrous blue streaks in my hair had turned a murky green after three too many washes, and the bags under my eyes could've carried groceries.

"You look terrible," Maya said, sliding into the cafeteria seat across from me. "In a cool way. Like, grunge-chic."

"Grunge-chic," I repeated. "Is that what we're calling 'I accidentally bleached my hair three times' now?"

She shrugged. "It's giving edge. Besides, you need it for the play."

Right. The play. I'd been cast as Zombie #4 in our school's bizarre production of *Romeo and Juliet* but with zombies. The director called it "deconstructing the canon." I called it "an excuse to shuffle around stage and groan."

"Did you see him?" Maya asked, lowering her voice.

I didn't need to ask who she meant. Tyler from the baseball team. The one whose hair curled perfectly at the nape of his neck, who laughed with his whole body, who I'd been lowkey stalking on Instagram since September.

"I'm not a creep," I said defensively. "I just happen to see his posts. That's not spying. That's called existing in the same digital space."

"You checked his follower list to see if he was dating anyone. That's literally spy behavior, bestie."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Whatever."

The truth was, I didn't even know why I cared. I was the girl who couldn't even dye her hair right, who auditioned for the play on a dare and got a part that required zero actual lines. Tyler was—he was Tyler.

But then: lightning struck. Literally. A crack of thunder shook the school windows so hard that half the cafeteria jumped.

"Perfect," I muttered. "I'm going to have to walk home in that."

"Tyler's walking too," Maya said innocently. "Saw him packing up his baseball gear when I came from lunch."

Fifteen minutes later, I was trudging through the rain, my green-streaked hair plastered to my forehead, zombie makeup partially smeared off because I'd rubbed my face without thinking. I looked like actual roadkill.

And there he was. Walking the same way. Carrying a baseball bag over one shoulder, looking unfairly unaffected by the downpour.

"Hey," he said. "You're in the play, right?"

I froze. "Yeah. Zombie #4. It's a pretty pivotal role."

He laughed, and something in my chest did that thing where it forgot how to function properly. "I bet. I was gonna try out but baseball's been eating my life. You guys are doing the zombie thing, right? That's actually kind of sick."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. Like, my sister's all about horror stuff. She'd love it." He paused. "Your hair's cool, by the way. The green parts."

I stared at him. Was this a prank? Was I being secretly filmed?

"Seriously," he said, and he wasn't even looking at me like I was insane. "It's different. I like different."

We walked the rest of the way in what I could only describe as comfortable silence, and when we reached my driveway, he said, "See you at the play, Zombie #4."

I stood there in the rain for way too long, probably looking like the world's least dignified zombie. But for the first time in months, I didn't feel like I was shambling through life half-asleep.

Sometimes the most alive moments happen when you least expect them. Even when you look like a zombie with green hair.