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You never saw me. Hell, no one ever saw me. I suppose that’s the point of the whole “mascot” thing. But God how I wanted to tear off that mask sometimes. Despite knowing you wouldn’t like what you saw, I desperately wanted you to know me like I knew you. Or perhaps, only how I thought I knew you.
I remember when the call for a mascot came. The furtive question, would I be willing? Of course, what better way for a zombie to be near the one he loves. If only you’d known what was behind the mask, you’d probably have spat in my face. I’m not sure I’d have minded. It was always like that with us. A quiet, willful ignorance. To think, I once truly thought I loved you.
I basked in every smug grin, sighed at every practiced jazz hand. What a fool I was then. Imagining that I, the zombie in the Shrimpy mascot costume, could ever be loved, or even so much as liked by Bucky Buchanan. A boy so hateful you let yourself be held back twice if only to continue your reign as president of the school. Maybe it was a desire for power. I’m pretty sure it was a fear of the real world.
They were the first to see me. When Eely and I locked masked eyes at the coffee shop, I truly felt them look through the layers of felt and plastic, and lock on to the real me, the zombie inside.
It was weeks before we took off our costumes, seemingly both enjoying the anonymity they provided. For once I was thankful I’d spent so much of my high school career under the guise of Shrimpy, no one batted an eye at the two sea creatures sharing late night walks, or holding gloved hands in the town square. It was nice. It was freeing. I’ll confess there were times I imagined it was you under the purple fabric. The moment I let myself picture someone new? It was like a weight left my shoulders.
There was only one issue. Eely was from Eastside, of course. There were no zombies in Eastside. Our shared silences brought me more cheer than your condescending sneer ever did, but I couldn’t know they wouldn’t feel the same way you did. What if they despised zombies? What if they ran off, screaming at the sight of my ashen, lightly rotten flesh? The thought gnawed at my mind as our relationship developed. What if I’d fallen for someone new just to lose them by being myself?
It was nighttime. A rare moment where I found myself un-shrimpied. My green hair hung in my eyes as I typed on the cracked screen of the phone I’d pulled from garbage years ago. We’d exchanged numbers before we’d exchanged names. Their contact still read, “Eely <3”
I may have been too cowardly to show my face in person, but a selfie with the message, “so, this is my real face,” felt wildly brave to me.
They began to type, then stopped. I watched the bubble appear and disappear with bated breath, or what little I had anyway.
When their response finally came, in the form of a single sentence, I nearly fell off my bed with a concoction of fear and excitement tearing at my stomach.
“Wow,” they’d messaged, “what a cute zombie!”
In short, I have never been happier, and I’m extremely glad you’re out in space, unable to send your prejudiced glares toward an Eel and a Shrimp in love.