Zombies Don't Swim

Marcus's palms were sweating so much he could practically fill the pool by himself. Summer before freshman year, and Jen's party was literally the most important event of his entire life.

He'd spent three hours on his hair. Now he stood by the deep end, clutching a red solo cup like it was a lifeline, watching Jen laugh at something Tyler said. Tyler, whose Instagram had 12K followers. Tyler, who'd somehow become a zombie at 2 AM and still looked like he'd walked out of a catalog.

"Bull," someone shouted behind him.

Marcus turned. Danny, Jen's golden retriever, had knocked over the snack table. Hot dogs scattered everywhere like edible confetti. Tyler—of course Tyler was already helping—scooped up the dog, who was now happily munching on a bun.

"Dude, your dog is going full zombie mode," Marcus heard himself say. Why did he say that? His brain was literally broken.

But Jen laughed. Actually laughed. Not the polite kind.

"Danny's not a zombie," she said, splashing water at him. "He's just... motivated."

Her friends were doing palm readings by the shallow end, giggling about who they'd marry. Marcus's own palm pressed against his phone, vibrating with unanswered texts from his mom asking if he was having fun.

Fun. Right.

He wasn't having fun. He was having an existential crisis about whether Tyler's abs were actually illegal in some states.

"You okay?" Jen was suddenly beside him, dog-free, hair wet from a recent dip. "You look like you saw a zombie."

"Just thinking about how zombies don't swim," Marcus said, then immediately wanted to dissolve into the pool tiles. "I mean—they'd sink, right? All that decaying flesh—"

"You're weird," she said, but she was smiling. "It's cool though. Tyler's mostly talk. He literally thinks 'vanilla' is a personality trait."

The bull in the china shop of Marcus's anxiety suddenly wasn't so scary anymore.

"Want to play chicken?" she asked. "Danny can referee."

Marcus looked at the dog, now passed out on a lounge chair like a furry orange rug. He looked at Jen, with chlorine-damp hair and zero makeup and the kind of easy confidence he'd been trying to fake since seventh grade.

"Sure," he said. "But I'm warning you—I'm terrible."

"Good," she said. "Me too."

His palms stopped sweating. The zombie feeling evaporated. Sometimes the worst parties turned into the best memories. Sometimes the bull wasn't so scary after all.

And sometimes, just sometimes, the dog got the last laugh—snoring loudly from his lounge chair throne as Marcus and Jen tumbled into the pool, fully clothed, screaming like actual zombies.