Fox in the Palm

Maya's palms were sweating. Again. She wiped them on her jeans, leaving dark streaks on the denim, and stared at the crumpled flyer in her hand. "MADAME ZORA - Palm Reading - KNOW YOUR FATE." The school carnival was in three hours, and somehow she'd gotten roped into being the "mystic" at the fortune-telling booth because the original girl had "mysteriously" come down with mono (aka skipped to hang out with her boyfriend).

"You're gonna kill it," said Jace, leaning against her locker and eating a spinach wrap that smelled aggressively healthy. "You've got that whole mysterious vibe going on."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "I have zero vibe, Jace. I have anxiety and an inability to make eye contact with boys."

"That's what makes it authentic!" He grinned through a mouthful of green stuff. "My cousin says the best palm readers are the ones who seem like they're about to throw up. It's whole ~nervous energy~ thing."

Maya's stomach did a backflip. Because here was the thing: the boy she'd been crushing on since September—the one with the stupidly perfect hair and the fox-like grin that made her forget her own name—was definitely going to be at the carnival. And he was definitely going to wander past her booth with his friends, and they were definitely going to make fun of her terrible attempt at mysticism, and she was definitely going to have to transfer schools.

At home, she did exactly what any rational person would do: she raided her mom's bathroom cabinet. The bottle of "CALM COMPLEX - Vitamin Supplement for Stress & Anxiety" winked at her from the shelf. Her mom had bought it on some wellness kick and never used it. Maya downed two.

"You got this," she told her reflection. "You are a powerful mystic. You channel the universe. You are not thinking about how Liam's eyes look like melted caramel."

The carnival was chaos. Smells of cotton candy and desperation. Maya took her place behind the velvet curtain, heart hammering against her ribs. The first few victims were easy—freshmen who wanted to know if they'd pass algebra (spoiler: probably not, unless they started actually doing homework). But then SHE heard it—THAT laugh. The one that sounded like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Liam. With his friends. Approaching her booth.

"So," he said, sliding into the chair opposite her and placing his hand palm-up on the tiny table like it was the most natural thing in the world, "what's my fortune, Madame Zora?"

Maya stared at his hand. Long fingers. A small scar on his knuckle. The life line, the head line, the heart line—all things she knew absolutely nothing about. The vitamin supplement was definitely not kicking in yet.

"Uh," she said brilliantly. "Your... your palm says..."

His fox-like grin grew wider. "Yes?"

Maya took a breath. Screw it. She was already going to transfer schools anyway.

"You're going to eat something really gross today," she said, touching his palm with a finger that shook only a little. "Like... spinach. And you're gonna pretend to like it because this girl you like is really into health stuff."

Liam's friends burst out laughing, but he didn't. His eyes got wide.

"Actually," he said, "that's terrifyingly accurate."

And then, impossibly, his hand turned over and caught hers. His palms were sweating too.

"Your turn," he said softly. "What do MY palms say about YOU?"

Later, Maya would realize the vitamin hadn't kicked in at all. Sometimes you don't need calm—you just need someone whose palms are just as sweaty as yours.