Zombies Can't Swim

I'd been zombie-walking through AP Chem prep for three weeks straight when Maya dragged me to Jessica's pool party. "You're seventeen, not seventy," she'd said, which was rich coming from someone who'd spent the last month obsessing over promposals.

The pool deck was packed—Jessica's parents went full out with these things. Everyone from our grade was there, slick with sunscreen and teenage awkwardness. I found a corner near the snack table and prepared to people-watch, which I'd elevated to an art form.

Then Tyler Evans walked in with a baseball bat.

Not, like, a weird flex. He was organizing water baseball in the shallow end because apparently that was something people did. "Who's on my team?" he shouted, and everyone scrambled like he'd just announced free iPhones.

I hung back until Maya literally pushed me in. Clothes and all.

"You're playing, she said, while I surfaced spluttering. Everyone thinks you're being weird." which—I mean, I was being weird. But still.

The game was chaos. Tyler pitched a tennis ball while people swung at it with plastic bats from Home Depot. I took my turn in the batter's box—okay, the water—and connected solidly. The ball sailed into the deep end.

"Go get it!" someone yelled.

I swam to the bottom, arms suddenly electric. Not zombie-tired anymore. When I broke the surface, ball aloft like some trophy, Tyler actually fist-bumped me. "Nice hit, zombie."

And I laughed. Actually laughed. For the first time in weeks.

Later, dripping onto the concrete while Maya lectured me about not sitting in wet clothes, I realized something important. Maybe growing up means you're gonna feel dead sometimes. But you can always just get in the pool and play baseball with a bunch of dorks holding plastic bats.

Sometimes that's enough.