By 8:34 am, Stephanie was really beginning to enjoy being a zombie. There had been better hair days, but decaying flesh had gotten rid of her blackheads, and the box of Milk Duds still tasted pretty good. She sat down at her desk, pondering the Harvard application form she had printed out the night before. “Please use this space to let us know something about you that we might not learn from the rest of your application,” the essay prompt coolly instructed. It had stumped her the previous evening, but now the answer was obvious. She would write about her newfound enthusiasm for the taste of human flesh.

This, Stephanie realized, could be the “edge” her college counselor was always talking about. A high GPA just wasn’t enough these days; you needed to be a tennis champion or oboe prodigy or tri-county beauty queen. Asian violin virtuosos were only kidding themselves, to be honest. Stephanie’s high school had its fair share of Junior Olympic contenders and community service geeks, but she didn’t know anyone else that was a zombie. Harvard, here I come, thought Stephanie with a self-satisfied sigh, putting her bilious rotten feet on the desk. They made a wet smacking sound… like a hungry tongue slurping up the last traces of bloody intestinal residue. Her stomach grumbled.

She peeked out into the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, and she couldn’t be expected to write on an empty stomach. As Stephanie staggered to the kitchen, suppressing a groan, she was overwhelmed by a strange feeling of urgency that began in her toes and worked its way up her spine. Her ragged, moldy ears twitched at the sound of her father slurping his coffee; her bloodshot eyes darted to the table where he sat, squinting at headlines on his laptop. He clicked, frowned.

“Morning, Steph. How’s your applicGAAAAAAAAAHHH!” he screamed, jumping up as she lunged towards him. She moved as if in a dream, watching her hands grab his wrists, pushing him effortlessly into the living room, admiring his delicately quivering uvula. His soprano shrieks of terror blended together in a divinely passionate harmony, and her mind went blissfully blank as she plunged her dingy teeth into his neck.

At 9:03 am, Stephanie sat back on the couch and stared sorrowfully at the mangled carcass. How very Oedipal, she thought, shuddering, as her father heaved himself up and lumbered out the door. She briefly wondered where he was going, then shrugged and headed for the computer.

***

“In my more pensive moments,” Stephanie’s essay concluded, “I sometimes wonder who I might have been had I never eaten that fateful Milk Dud. I would still be pitcher for the Lakewood Valley Lions (second place regional champion girls’ softball team), a dedicated member of the Lakewood High French Club and a longtime volunteer at the local Wildlife Rescue. However, I am more than the sum of my extracurricular activities, and who I am cannot be quantified by my transcript. Overall, I am not sure exactly who I am yet, although I do know that I am passionate, ambitious and intellectually curious… but at heart, I will always be that little girl on the swings, laughing joyously with giddiness, as she soars higher and higher.”

At 11:55 am, Stephanie added a final comma after “joyously” and hit Print. The keyboard was a slimy mess, but the essay was done. Her father had written the check for the application fee weeks before and stuck it to the fridge with a fish-shaped magnet as a jaunty daily reminder, so she decided to mail her application right away and then go out to celebrate. Maybe get something to eat. She stretched and reread her work, admiring the way she had seamlessly incorporated subtle self-promotion into her storyline, just as the counselor had instructed. Early action, too – wouldn’t he be surprised!

Stephanie tottered along the street toward the nearest mailbox, squinting in the pale sunlight. It was a crisp fall day, and the suburban streets were empty but for the occasional jogger, most of whom seemed to be running faster than usual.

Suddenly, a familiar figure rounded the upcoming corner and continued in her direction. Stephanie leaped over the nearest shrub and hid behind it, panicked. It was Jay Saunders, reigning king of the upper crust at Lakewood High. She had seen him around before, walking the golden retriever that tugged at its leash now, sniffing the air suspiciously. I am not going to attack Jay Saunders, Stephanie commanded herself. She tensed as she heard his footsteps coming closer, closer… that feeling was coming over her again… if she could hold out a just few moments longer…

He passed by, unaware of her presence. She relaxed slightly – but then he stopped. The retriever hung back, sniffing at the bush that concealed her.

“Come on, boy,” Jay Saunders said, tugging at the leash. His eyes flicked over the innocuous plant. “Come on, there’s nothing there.”

He looked up the street impatiently and tried to keep walking, but a sudden noise made him turn around. Mouth twisting in speechless horror, Jay Saunders dropped the leash and stood paralyzed for a few moments, eyes wide as dinner plates; then he turned and ran as he had never run before. Stephanie, busy gnawing on a hind leg, barely noticed.

***

Stephanie’s Advent calendar had nine little chocolates left uneaten on the day her letter from Harvard arrived. She came home that afternoon exhausted: school was a nightmare now, what with finals and projects and everyone going around trying to find someone to eat. She rifled through the mail wearily. Christmas cards, bills, another L.L. Bean catalog, more bills… and something with her name on it.

She snapped to attention, seizing the envelope in disbelief. Her hands shook, leaving mucosal smudges on the familiar crimson crest in the top left corner. It wasn’t thin, but it wasn’t exactly fat either; which one meant rejection? She could never remember. She stuck one finger under the flap and haltingly began to rip it open. Of course she wouldn’t get in, no one got into Harvard. But no, Stephanie was different! Everyone was doing the zombie thing now, but she was sure the Harvard admissions office would recognize her as an original, innovative, one of the first – a pioneer, even. She gritted her teeth, slid the letter out, and peeked at the first line.

“Congratulations! You have earned a place in Harvard’s freshman class…”

Stephanie stopped reading and let out a huge toxic sigh of relief, collapsing against the kitchen counter for support. Outside the window, a passing man pounced on a stray squirrel, gripping it in skeletal hands and tearing its head off with obvious relish. Blood and bile flew in artistic splatters onto the snow. Stephanie smiled upon the tableau contentedly, imagining her bright future, illuminated with the torch of Ivy League prestige: international fame, romantic bliss, unquestionable financial security. She tingled with anticipation, shivered with excitement.

She had never felt more alive.

————

Sara Reihani is a cliche in the San Francisco Bay Area. Send all adulation and job offers to sara.reihani@gmail.com.