Goldfish in the Palm

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually sweating—little droplets collecting in her hand lines as she stood in the corner of Jordan's crowded basement. House parties weren't exactly her vibe, but when your best friend literally begs you to come because "what if Ryan's there and I need emotional support," you show up.

The air smelled like cheap body spray and something burning in the kitchen. Maya gripped her red Solo cup like it was a lifeline, scanning the room for escape routes. That's when she saw it—the snack table. Loaded with everything: chips, pizza rolls, and a massive bowl of spinach artichoke dip that was somehow already half-empty.

"Yo, you gonna stand there all night or actually talk to people?"

Maya jumped. It was Ryan, Jordan's older brother. The one who'd graduated last year and now apparently worked at the aquarium store uptown. He held out his palm—like, literally his palm, face up, revealing five of those tiny, snack-sized goldfish crackers arranged in a perfect star pattern.

"What is this?" Maya asked, despite herself.

"Palm reading," he grinned. "Your future says you're about to try the spinach dip and regret nothing."

Maya laughed. Actually laughed. And something about his stupid goldfish palm trick made her relax enough to grab a chip and scoop up some dip. "So you work with fish now?"

"Goldfish specifically," he said, nodding at the snack bowl. "But also, like, real ones at the store. It's surprisingly deep. They have three-second memories, you know? That's kind of a vibe. Just swimming around, forgetting what happened two seconds ago, always discovering everything like it's new."

Maya looked at her palm, still slightly sweaty but now also dusted with goldfish crumbs. "That's actually kind of profound?"

"Right?" He popped another goldfish in his mouth. "Also, the spinach dip is gas. Just saying."

And maybe it was the dip, or maybe it was Ryan's weird fish philosophy, but Maya's palms finally stopped sweating. She texted her best friend: "mission accomplished. staying for the dip."

Sometimes growing up meant realizing that nobody actually had it figured out—not even the cool older brothers who did goldfish palm readings at basement parties. And that was okay.