Zombie Summer Protocol

The August heat had turned me into something that barely qualified as human. I was essentially a **zombie** shuffling between **swimming** practice and my bedroom, surviving on a diet of Gatorade and day-old pizza.

"Dude, you look like actual death," Marcus said, tossing me my phone as I collapsed onto the grass beside the baseball diamond. "Varsity tryouts tomorrow and you're gonna drown before you even get in the water."

I wiped my sweaty **palm** on my shorts—nervous habit, even though nothing should have made me nervous. Except everything did. Lately my whole life felt like walking through a funhouse mirror version of itself.

The school's baseball team was practicing in the adjacent field, and OF COURSE Sarah was there, sitting in the bleachers with her friends like she owned the atmosphere. My stomach did this embarrassing gymnastics routine that definitely wasn't biological.

"You gonna talk to her or just stare like a creep?" Marcus asked, because Marcus had absolutely no chill.

"I'm working up to it," I muttered.

"You've been 'working up to it' since seventh grade, bro. At this rate, you'll be married to someone else before you make a move."

Then Sarah noticed me and actually waved. My brain short-circuited. I instinctively raised my hand to wave back, but my arm betrayed me and threw what looked like a weird salute instead. Smooth. Truly groundbreaking stuff.

The universe, however, decided to bless my clumsy attempt at existence. One of the baseball players overthrew a ball and it came sailing toward the bleachers—straight at Sarah's head.

My body moved before my brain could overthink it. I sprinted, dove, caught the **baseball** inches from her face, and landed in the most undignified position imaginable.

Sarah's friends gasped. Sarah stared.

"That," she said, "was simultaneously the coolest and least cool thing I've ever seen."

I lay there in the dirt, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this zombie summer was about to get interesting.