Zombie Makeup & Thunder in My Palm

The Friday night lights were blinding, literally—Marcus's basement had somehow convinced half the sophomore class that a zombie movie marathon was peak social bonding. I sprawled on the couch next to Jordan, my palms sweating enough to power a small hydroelectric dam.

"You good?" Jordan whispered, passing me a soda. Their zombie face paint was already smudging, giving them the vibe of a undead raccoon.

"Totally," I lied. "Just vibing."

I wasn't vibing. I was hyper-aware that my best friend since elementary school was now sitting two cushions away, talking to Sarah from algebra like Sarah hadn't spent three months making my life miserable last year. The social hierarchy at Creekview High made no sense, and I was terrible at navigating it.

Outside, thunder cracked like the sky was dropping bass. Marcus's golden retriever, Barnaby, had spent the entire evening attempting to escape the chaos by burrowing into increasingly impossible places—behind the TV, under a pile of hoodies, and now, somehow, inside an empty popcorn bowl.

"It's fine," Chloe said from the floor. "Barnaby does this at every party. He's basically a emotional support animal for socially awkward teenagers."

Everyone laughed, but my phone buzzed in my pocket. Mom: *Home by 11. No discussions.*

I checked the time: 10:47. I had thirteen minutes to figure out whether to interrupt Jordan and Sarah's conversation—to say what, exactly? "Hey, remember how we used to build blanket forts and talk about running away together? Because I do, and I don't know how to be your friend when you're becoming someone else." That sounded pathetic even in my head.

Then the power died.

Complete darkness, except for the blue flash of lightning through the basement windows. Someone screamed—I think it was Marcus, which was low-key iconic—and then chaos.

"Everyone stay calm!" Marcus's voice cracked.

"Barnaby!" someone else yelled.

I felt a hand grab my wrist in the darkness. Jordan's hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, my heart hammering like I'd just run a marathon. "You?"

"Scared," they admitted softly. "Can I just—sit here? For a second?"

We sat there on the floor in the dark, Barnaby curled up between us like a furry, judgmental bread loaf. The storm raged outside, but for the first time all night, the knot in my chest loosened.

"You know," Jordan said quietly, "Sarah thinks I'm weird for still watching zombie movies with Marcus. Says it's immature."

"That's dumb," I said automatically. "We've been doing this since seventh grade."

"Exactly." Jordan leaned their head on my shoulder. "Some things shouldn't change."

The lights flickered back on. Everyone was frozen in awkward positions—mid-scream, mid-step, mid-bite of pizza. Sarah was looking at us with this expression I couldn't read, but Jordan didn't move.

"Eleven," I checked my phone. "I gotta bounce."

"Walk with you?" Jordan stood up, offering a hand.

Outside, the air smelled like rain and ozone. The streetlamps reflected off the wet pavement. Jordan didn't mention Sarah, and I didn't ask.

"Same time next week?" they asked at the corner.

"Obviously," I said. "Bring better face paint this time. You looked like a zombie raccoon."

Jordan grinned. "Jealous you didn't think of it first."

Maybe some things didn't have to change. Maybe friendship wasn't about staying the same person forever, but about finding the people who stuck around when the lights went out.