Zombie Summer
I was running on three hours of sleep and pure panic, which honestly, describes my entire junior year. My golden retriever Max had already escaped twice that morning, my iphone was blowing up with texts about Jessica's pool party, and I looked like something that crawled out of a grave.
"You look like a zombie," my little sister announced, eating my toast. "A cute zombie, though."
"Thanks, Mia. Really helpful."
The pool party was everything I dreaded and everything I wanted. Jessica's backyard looked like something from a teen movie – twinkling lights, actual good snacks, and people who somehow knew how to exist socially without wanting to die. I stood there clutching my phone like it was a lifeline, which it basically was.
Then Max burst through the gate.
Not just walked. BURST. Like he was auditioning for an action movie, all golden fur flying and tongue flopping out. He headed straight for the pool.
"MAX!" I screamed, dropping my phone on a lounge chair.
The beautiful, coordinated splash I'd planned in my head? Not what happened. Max hit the water like a cannonball, creating a wave that soaked half the party – including Jessica, who'd been saying something about summer plans.
Her hair dripped. Her perfect outfit clung to her like a second skin. The entire party went silent.
"Sorry," I squeaked. "He's... he's really hydrated?"
Someone laughed. Then someone else. Jessica shook water from her bangs and grinning. "Well, that's one way to make an entrance."
Max swam to the edge, shook himself off (soaking more people), and looked ridiculously pleased with himself. I retrieved my phone – thankfully dry – and realized something: nobody cared that I'd just embarrassed myself completely. They were too busy laughing, taking pictures of the world's most chaotic dog, and actually having fun.
"Zombie mode deactivated," I whispered to myself, finally setting my phone down and jumping in the pool.
Sometimes the worst moments make the best stories. And sometimes, you just need to let the dog crash the party.