Zombie Run Reset

Sixteen and already invisible. That's how it felt starting at Oak Ridge High three weeks in, and still eating lunch in the library while Jenna—my best friend since kindergarten—sat with the volleyball girls. She'd wave across the cafeteria like I was some long-lost relative instead of the person she used to share everything with.

Then came the flyer: COMMUNITY ZOMBIE 5K. ALL AGES WELCOME.

"You should totally do it," Jenna said when I showed her, her phone already lighting up with notifications. "It's, like, literally perfect for you. You're always running cross country practices anyway."

The truth was, I only ran because it was something to do alone. But the way she said it—like it was obvious, like she still knew something about me—made me say yes before I could overthink it.

Race day dawned gray and weirdly perfect. I stood at the starting line in my dad's old Red Sox hat, hiding the hair I'd dyed blue-black over the weekend because I needed something—anything—that felt like mine. The hat kept slipping over my eyes, but I refused to take it off. My armor, sort of.

"GO!" someone screamed, and suddenly I was running, heart pounding, sneakers hitting pavement while people in terrifying zombie makeup lunged from behind trees. I was somewhere between mile marker one and two, lungs burning, when a zombie in a pink tutu and smeared mascara stumbled toward me.

I'd been so focused on not tripping, not embarrassing myself, that I almost didn't recognize her until Jenna grabbed my arm, fake blood dripping down her cheek.

"I volunteered," she said, breathing hard. "Thought you might need a zombie to chase you. You know, for motivation."

I stared at her. Really looked at her—no phone, no volleyball squad hovering nearby. Just her, looking ridiculous and perfect and suddenly, terrifyingly, like my friend again.

"I hate running," I admitted. "I only did it because you said I should."

Jenna laughed, and the sound was exactly like middle school, exactly like before.

"I know," she said. "Why do you think I told you to?"

We finished the race together, her zombie makeup smeared, my hat crooked, both of us gross and sweaty and alive. Jenna texted me later that night—nothing dramatic, just a meme about zombie athletes—but it felt like something starting. Like maybe I didn't have to be invisible. Like maybe we were figuring out how to be people who knew each other again.

My hair's still blue-black. I'm still not great at making conversation. But every morning when I put on that stupid hat, I remember: sometimes the best things happen when you stop running alone.