Zombies Don't Wear Lucky Hats

Marcus stood at home plate, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The_peanut gallery—aka every sophomore who'd shown up to the charity Zombie Baseball tournament—was watching.

"You got this, Marcus!" yelled Lena, the girl he'd been crushing on since September. She wore this oversized sun hat that somehow looked good on her, because everything looked good on her.

Marcus adjusted his baseball cap, his fingers brushing the frayed brim. This hat had seen him through three championship games, one terrible haircut, and now this. If he struck out, he'd feel like a total zombie—not the cool, fast kind from movies, but the slow, awkward kind that tripped over their own feet.

"Focus," he whispered to himself.

The pitcher wound up and released. Marcus swung. *CRACK.* The ball soared toward left field, and he bolted toward first base, his lungs burning.

"RUN LIKE THE UNDEAD ARE CHASING YOU!" someone screamed from the bleachers.

He made it to second base, chest heaving, grinning like an idiot. Lena was actually smiling. At him.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket. His mom. He'd forgotten—she'd bought him a goldfish as a congrats-on-making-the-team gift yesterday. A goldfish named Bubbles that needed to be fed. Right now.

Between the game, the goldfish, and trying to figure out if Lena's smile meant she liked him or just liked that he'd hit the ball, Marcus's brain was officially fried. But as he stood there on second base, dusty and sweaty and terrified, he realized something.

Being sixteen felt exactly like a zombie apocalypse sometimes—stumbling through each day, running on fumes and caffeine, not having any idea what you were doing. But every once in a while, you connected with a baseball. You made it to second base. The cute girl smiled at you.

And those moments? Those were worth all the stumbling.

Marcus tipped his hat toward Lena. She waved back.

The goldfish could wait five more minutes.