Fox Collars & Crystal Ball

The vintage jacket had been calling to me from the thrift store rack for weeks—a fuzzy orange collar shaped like a fox's face, weird and perfect and absolutely not something I'd normally wear. But sometimes you just need to become someone else, you know?

"You look like a definitely cool vintage person," Chloe said, handing me a crystal ball from her mom's garage. "Now get behind the table. The Spring Faire waits for no one."

The palm-reading booth was technically for drama club fundraising, but mostly it was an excuse to sit behind a purple velvet tablecloth and judge people. I'd spent all week watching YouTube tutorials, learning how to trace lifelines and heartlines while improvising vague fortunes about "exciting changes" and "hidden talents."

"You're up," Chloe whispered. "He's coming."

Him. Ethan. The guy I'd been low-key spying on via Instagram Stories since September (don't judge, we've all been there). His approach sent my heart into frantic irregular rhythms.

He sat down across from me, all effortless messy hair and that specific brand of teenage confidence I'd been faking since seventh grade. "So, can you actually see my future?"

I reached for his hand, trying to look mystical instead of absolutely terrified. His palm was warm and slightly sweaty—which, SAME. My own palms were basically Niagara Falls at this point.

"Your lifeline is... really long," I improvised, tracing a random line. "And this one"—I pointed somewhere else—"means you're going to make a bold choice this weekend."

Ethan laughed, and somehow it wasn't mean. "That's suspiciously accurate. I was actually going to ask if you wanted to get boba later. With me. Like, intentionally."

My brain short-circuited. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah." He gestured at my jacket. "Only someone cool enough to wear a fox collar would have the confidence to fake-read palms at a school faire. That's, like, powerfully unhinged. I respect it."

Chloe was practically vibrating behind him, making violent thumbs-up gestures.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Boba sounds good."

As he walked away, I looked down at my own palm—still damp, still shaking—and realized sometimes the fakest versions of ourselves are the realest ones. Also that I was definitely going to need to watch more palm-reading tutorials before our date.

"You're welcome," Chloe called, already scanning the crowd for her next victim. "Being your wingwoman is emotionally exhausting but spiritually rewarding."