Friday Night Palm Readings

Maya's hair was doing that thing again—half-frizz halo, half beach waves that took forty minutes with a curling iron she'd stolen from her sister's bathroom. She smoothed it nervously as Jasmine nudged her through the basement door, where Tyler's infamous Friday night parties were already in full swing. The air smelled like cheap body spray and desperation.

"You got this," Jasmine whispered, but Maya's palms were already sweating against her denim skirt. Freshmen didn't just waltz into senior territory unless they had a death wish or—honestly, she wasn't sure which was worse.

The basement was packed, bodies pressed together in that uncomfortable intimacy that only high school parties could manufacture. Through the crowd, Maya spotted THE social pyramid in action: Tyler and his crew on the couch, the varsity jacket contingent forming the middle layer, everyone else hovering like satellites. That's when Buster bounded in—Tyler's golden retriever, wearing a tiny sombrero for reasons nobody questioned because Tyler said so and Tyler was basically minor royalty.

Buster made a beeline for Maya, tail wagging like he'd found his new best friend. As she knelt to pet him, her sweaty palm left a visible mark on his fur, and she heard a snort from somewhere near the pyramid's apex.

"She reads palms!" someone shouted—Chloe, the girl who'd been giving Maya side-eyes since seventh grade. Suddenly, Maya was surrounded by curious faces. Jasmine looked ready to murder someone.

"I—" Maya started, but then she was in it. Some instinct took over. Maybe it was the way everyone leaned in, hungry for something real in this fake-polite social battlefield. She found herself touching people's hands, making up fortunes that felt weirdly true: the girl hiding her secret piercing, the boy still sleeping with a childhood stuffed animal, the varsity quarterback who wrote poetry.

When she got to Tyler, her palm against his, she said: "You're scared nobody actually likes you. Just the idea of you."

The room went silent. Then Tyler laughed—genuine, startled. "Damn," he said. "Freshman's got teeth."

By midnight, Maya was the one on the couch. Her hair was a disaster, her palms were gross, and Buster was asleep on her feet. But for the first time since middle school, she felt like she could breathe.