Zombie Mode at Emma's Party

I was in full zombie mode—third night of finals week, surviving on vending machine snacks and panic. When Maya texted "Emma's party tonight. YOU'RE COMING," I should've said no. But my crush, Ryan, was going to be there, and apparently my sleep-deprived brain thought that was a good reason to leave my house.

I showed up wearing my brother's hoodie because I'd forgotten to do laundry. Classic me.

The party was chaos. People I'd known since middle school were suddenly acting like they were at a college rager. I hovered near the snack table, social anxiety cranked to eleven. That's when Emma's golden retriever, Buster, decided my flip-flop looked delicious.

"No, Buster, drop it!" I whisper-yelled, doing this awkward dance move trying to retrieve my shoe while somehow looking cool. Ryan was literally three feet away. I wanted to dissolve into particles.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"Having fun there?" he asked, grinning. Actual dimples. Help.

"Just bonding with the dog," I said, like a smooth person. Smooth like sandpaper.

Then Emma appeared with a vegetable tray. "Hey! You gotta try this spinach artichoke dip, my mom made it."

I stared at it. I hated cooked spinach. Everyone hated cooked spinach. But Emma was watching, and Ryan was watching, and suddenly I was taking a chip and scooping up this questionable green substance and putting it in my mouth because I was a coward.

It was actually kind of good. But also I felt like I was betraying my entire identity.

"You good?" Ryan asked.

"Never better," I said, even though the spinach was threatening to make a reappearance.

That's when someone shouted, "DID SOMEONE FEED THE GOLDFISH?"

Emma's face went pale. "Oh my god. Toby." She sprinted toward the back hallway, and like half the party followed her.

We all stood around this tiny fish bowl on Emma's dresser. Mr. Swims (terrible name) was floating sideways at the top.

"He's not..." I started.

"He's been doing that since Tuesday," Emma whispered. "I keep forgetting to flush him."

The collective relief was palpable. Also, why hadn't she flushed her fish?

Then, from somewhere in the chaos, Ryan looked at me and said, "Your face right now. You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Multiple ghosts," I said. "A ghost fish army."

He laughed. Actually laughed.

"You're funny," he said. "I like that."

And just like that, the zombie state lifted. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation finally hitting different, or maybe it was realizing that literally no one had their life together—not Emma with her unflushed fish, not me with my stolen shoe and spinach betrayal, not any of us pretending to be cooler than we were.

"You wanna bail and get actual food?" Ryan asked.

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

We left. I got my flip-flop back eventually. I didn't become cool that night, but I did learn something: nobody actually knows what they're doing. We're all just zombies trying to make it through, one awkward moment at a time.