Zombie Mode

The goldfish had been floating belly-up for three days before anyone noticed. That's what happens when your whole family is in zombie mode—shuffling through life, faces glued to screens, communicating entirely through emojis and passive-aggressive texts.

"Mom, Bubbles is dead," I said, poking my head into the kitchen. She didn't look up from her iPhone.

"K sweetie, can you deal with it? I'm in a meeting."

Classic.

I flushed Bubbles down the toilet and felt weirdly guilty. We'd won him at the county fair last summer, and I'd promised to take care of him forever. Forever turned out to be seven months and twelve days. Not exactly a pyramid of eternal friendship, more like a solo cup of conditional commitment.

My phone buzzed. *Marcus: padel at 4?*

Marcus with the ass. The entire social pyramid at Jefferson High revolved around who got invited to his padel games. His parents had installed a court behind their mansion because apparently tennis was too peasant.

*Me: can't. busy*

*Marcus: ???*

I stared at my reflection in the black mirror of my phone screen. Dark circles under my eyes from scrolling until 3 AM every night. I was becoming a zombie too, just one with better cheekbones.

The truth was, I wasn't busy. I was just done pretending that Marcus and his pyramid scheme of popularity mattered. Done performing for an audience that wouldn't notice if I disappeared like Bubbles.

I put my phone in the kitchen drawer—the one where we kept the expired coupons and weird batteries. Then I grabbed my bike and rode until my legs burned.

The old outdoor padel courts at the park were empty. Some peeling paint, a cracked net, zero Marcus energy. I played against the wall for an hour, missing shots, sweating through my shirt, feeling more alive than I had in months.

A girl my age sat on a nearby bench reading an actual book with actual pages. No phone in sight.

"You're terrible at that," she said, without looking up.

"I'm aware."

"Want some actual competition? I promise not to go easy on you just because you're a guy."

Her name was Riley. She destroyed me 6-1. She also didn't ask for my Instagram or seem to care about the Jefferson High social pyramid.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked as we walked to our bikes.

"Yeah," I said. "And hey—thanks."

"For what?"

"For noticing I was alive."

The zombie phase was over. Bubbles would be proud.