Zombie Mode on Court Three

The morning sun hit Marcus's face like a betrayal. He'd been up until 3 AM doom-scrolling, and now he was running on pure caffeine and anxiety. Classic first-day-of-sophomore-year energy. His mom thrust a bottle of gummy vitamins at him as he grabbed his backpack.

"Take these. Your immune system needs all the help it can get."

"Yes, Mom," he muttered, stuffing them in his pocket. Outside, Buster—the family's ancient golden retriever—whined pitifully.

"I know, buddy. I know." Marcus knelt to give him a quick scratch behind the ears. "I'll be back before you know it. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

Buster licked his hand, leaving a wet stripe on his palm. Marcus wiped it on his jeans and headed out.

The school gym was chaos. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, clusters of friends forming impenetrable circles. Marcus felt like a zombie shuffling through a party he wasn't invited to. He checked his phone—dead. Of course. He'd forgotten his charging cable at home.

"Hey! You trying out for padel?"

Marcus spun around. A girl with messy purple hair held a racquet like she knew how to use it.

"Uh, maybe? What even is padel?"

"It's like tennis married squash and they had a baby that's actually fun." She grinned. "I'm Zara. You're new, right?"

"Marcus. And yeah, new. Very new."

"Perfect. We need new blood." She tossed him a racquet. He caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it. "Come on, Court Three's open."

They walked past clusters of students. Marcus felt eyes on him, or maybe he was just paranoid. The gym smelled like rubber and old sweat and something that might have been floor wax.

"So," Zara said as they stepped onto the court, "you play anything?"

"Some basketball. Badly."

"That's fine. Padel's chill. It's all about angles." She demonstrated a serve, the ball hitting the wall and bouncing back at an impossible trajectory. "See?"

Marcus stared. "How am I supposed to predict that?"

"You don't. You react." She tossed him the ball. "Your turn."

He missed completely. The ball sailed past him, hit the wall, and rolled away.

"Nice effort," Zara deadpanned.

They kept playing. Marcus got worse before he got better. His arms felt like jelly. But somewhere between his twentieth miss and Zara's laughter, something shifted. The gym faded. The other students stopped feeling like judges and started to blur into the background.

"You're getting it," Zara said after he actually returned a volley.

"Am I?"

"Dude, you didn't fall over. That's progress."

Marcus laughed. For real.

"Hey," Zara said suddenly. "You should come to practice on Thursday. We're actually a team. Sort of. Mostly we just hit balls and complain about homework."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Seriously." She checked her phone. "Crap, I gotta run. But yeah, come Thursday. Bring your own racquet if you have one. If not, we've got extras."

"I'll be there," Marcus said.

"Cool. Later, zombie boy."

He watched her go, then looked down at his hands. They were dusty from the racquet grip. His heart was still pounding, but it wasn't from anxiety anymore. Or not just anxiety.

The hallway was less scary on the way out. Students were still grouping and whispering and living their lives, but Marcus had something now. He had a plan. He had a maybe-friend. He had a place to be on Thursday.

Buster was waiting by the door when Marcus got home, tail thumping like a metronome set to hopeful. Marcus dropped his backpack and knelt down, burying his face in the dog's warm fur.

"You won't believe it," he whispered. "I think I might actually be okay here."