Zombies Don't Play Baseball
Marcus stood at home plate, the baseball bat feeling like a lead pipe in his sweaty hands. The Friday night lights were blinding, but not nearly as blinding as Taylor in the stands, definitely not watching him fail for the third time tonight.
"You look like a zombie," his best friend Ji-hoon had whispered before the game. Marcus had been up until 3 AM finishing his history paper—his dad's idea of "building character" through procrastination.
Strike one. The crowd groaned. Marcus's face burned.
"Dude," Ji-hoon had said earlier that day, running alongside him during gym class, "you gotta ask her to homecoming already. Before someone else does." Easy for Ji-hoon to say. He'd been dating Maya since seventh grade.
Strike two. Marcus stepped out of the batter's box, wiping his palms on his uniform. His stomach growled loudly enough that the batter actually heard it. He'd barely eaten lunch—his mom had packed that weird salad with spinach again, and he'd tossed it in the compost rather than risk spinach in his teeth while talking to Taylor after algebra.
"Yo, zombie! Wake up!
Marcus frowned.
The pitch came—low and outside. He swung anyway, making contact with nothing but air. Strike three. Game over. Season over.
But Taylor was walking toward the dugout, and she was smiling.
"Hey zombie," she said. "My shift at the Smoothie Shack starts in twenty minutes. Want a ride? My brother's picking me up."
Marcus blinked. "You saw me strike out."
"Yeah." Taylor shrugged. "I also saw you stay late after every practice helping the new kid with his swing. That's way more interesting than hitting some ball."
His zombie brain finally caught up. "Smoothie Shack?"
"They have that spinach-berry thing you like. Unless you're too cool for spinach now?"
Marcus grinned. "I would never."
Ji-hoon popped up from behind the fence, giving him two thumbs up. Marcus grabbed his gear and jogged toward the girl who'd been watching the real him all along. Being a zombie wasn't so bad when you had friends who kept you human.