Zombie Mode at the Country Club

I was operating on pure zombie mode—three hours of sleep and finals week will do that to you. My parents had decided that what I needed, clearly, was to be dragged to the Cherry Creek Country Club's summer teen mixer. Because nothing says "fun social atmosphere" like a room full of judgmental sixteen-year-olds in pastel polos.

"You'll have a great time, honey!" Mom had called from her BMW as she peeled out of the driveway. She was wrong. I was currently hiding behind a potted palm tree, clutching a lukewarm Sprite like it was a lifeline, watching the popular crowd gather near the padel courts.

Padel was apparently a tennis-squash hybrid that everyone rich played. I'd never touched a racquet in my life.

"There you are!" Maya appeared from nowhere, grinning. She was dressed in actual tennis whites and looked irritatingly awake. "We need a fourth for mixed doubles. You're in."

"I'm literally dead inside," I protested. "I don't know how to play. I can barely stand up straight."

"Perfect." She was already dragging me toward the court by my elbow. "You're partnered with Jordan."

Jordan. The Jordan. The one whose smile had been the centerpiece of my daydreams since September. Who was currently stretching near the net, looking unfairly good in a navy tank top.

My palms were sweating. Actual dripping situation. This was fine. Everything was fine.

"Hey!" Jordan grinned as we approached. "Ready to get crushed?"

"I'm going to be terrible," I said honestly. "I'm running on caffeine and spite."

Jordan laughed, and something in my chest did a little flip. "Same, honestly. Finals knocked me out too. I've been a zombie all week."

We played. I was, in fact, terrible—I missed the ball entirely three times. But Jordan kept laughing, making self-deprecating jokes, passing me extra balls from their pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world. When I finally managed to return a serve across the net, Jordan high-fived me, our palms pressing together for a split second longer than necessary.

"You're actually not bad," Jordan said afterward, as we sat on the bench watching Maya destroy someone else at the net. "You should come back next weekend."

"Yeah?" I tried to sound casual and not like I was already mentally planning my entire outfit rotation.

"Definitely." Jordan bumped my shoulder with theirs. "Besides, someone needs to keep me from going full zombie again. This week killed me."

I sat there, sweaty and exhausted in the country club heat, and thought that maybe, just maybe, zombie mode had its perks.