Zombie Swim Team Sunrise

The alarm buzzed at 4:45 AM and I felt like a literal zombie—pale skin, dead eyes, zero brain function. Why did I sign up for swim team again? Oh right, because Harper said it would be "lowkey chill" and "great for your glow-up." Lies. All lies.

I dragged myself to the Y, where the pool water shimmered like liquid silver under fluorescent lights. Coach Martinez—everyone called him Bear behind his back because the man was built like a grizzly and growled more than spoke—blew his whistle. "WARM UP LAP! NOW!"

The first plunge always hit like getting slapped awake. I pushed through the water, arms burning, doing that thing Harper taught me where you pretend you're swimming through zombie apocalypse debris instead of just chlorine. It helped. Sort of.

"You good, Pookie?" Harper asked during my pitiful gasping-for-air break. She looked effortless, her natural curls somehow perfect even wet. Meanwhile, I probably looked like a drowned raccoon.

"Never better," I wheezed. "Just living my best life."

Bear lumbered over, clipboard in hand. "Torres, you're dragging. Fix it."

I nodded, wishing I could disappear. But then I saw freshman—and Harper's crush—Mateo in lane three, struggling hard. His form was tragic, his face miserable, and suddenly I didn't feel so pathetic.

After practice, Bear actually smiled. Tiny, but there. "You didn't drown. Progress."

Harper bumped my shoulder. "Wanna get boba? Mateo's going."

Mateo waved. "Yeah, come! We can be zombies together."

Maybe 5 AM wasn't so terrible. Maybe the water wasn't so scary. Maybe I didn't completely suck at this swimming thing. And maybe—just maybe—feeling like a zombie before sunrise was worth it for the boba afterward.

"Bet," I said, grabbing my towel. "But you're paying. I'm emotionally compromised."