Zombie Lips and Orange Soda

The pyramid of red Solo cups towered over me like a monument to everything I sucked at. Parties. Social skills. Being a normal teenager instead of the girl who brought a stuffed bear to school until seventh grade.

I tugged at my orange dress—it was supposed to be coral, okay, but my friends said it looked like traffic cone caution tape—which was exactly the vibe I needed at Jessica's stupid housewarming.

"Maya! You made it!" Jessica appeared, wearing a palm tree patterned romper and clutching a cocktail umbrella like it was a cigarette holder. "We're doing zombie makeup in the bathroom if you wanna join."

I opened my mouth to decline, because no thanks, but somehow I ended up squeezed onto the bathroom counter between two girls from AP Chem who were slathering green face paint on each other.

"So," Jessica said, brandishing a fake wound applicator. "What's up with you and Jake?"

I almost fell off the counter. "What? Nothing. We literally just had one conversation about that time he set the biology lab on fire."

"He's been staring at you all night," someone whispered.

"He's probably high."

"Or maybe he likes you, genius."

I stared at my zombie reflection—green skin, dark circles, fake blood dripping from my temple like I'd survived something worse than sophomore year. For the first time all night, I felt like I could breathe. The makeup was like armor.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, the house had transformed. The palm tree decorations cast weird shadows across the room. Someone had knocked over the cup pyramid, and red cups were scattered everywhere like confetti.

Jake was standing by the fake palm in the corner, holding an orange soda and looking like he wanted to disappear.

I walked over, and when he saw me, his eyes went wide.

"Zombie makeover?" he asked.

"Zombie makeover," I confirmed. "You should try it. It's very freeing."

He laughed, and it wasn't fake or polite. It was real.

"I hate parties," he said suddenly. "I only came because my mom said I need to 'put myself out there.' Whatever that means."

"Same," I said. "I've been hiding in the bathroom doing zombie makeup for forty minutes."

"Wanna get out of here? There's a zombie marathon playing at the theater down the street."

I looked at his orange soda, my orange dress, the fallen cup pyramid, the stupid palm trees everywhere. I looked at Jake, who was looking at me like he actually saw me.

"Yes," I said. "A thousand times yes."

We left the party behind—left the noise and the red cups and the people performing normalcy like it was a job they didn't know how to quit. Outside, the air was cool. Jake's hand brushed mine, and neither of us pulled away.

Sometimes you have to go through the motions of being someone you're not to figure out who you actually are. Sometimes you need zombie makeup and a stranger with orange soda to help you remember that real life doesn't happen inside the pyramid of expectations everyone builds for you.

Real life happens when you walk away from the party and into the dark, holding hands with someone who gets it. Someone who knows that growing up doesn't mean becoming someone else—it means becoming brave enough to be yourself.