Goldfish in the Palm of Your Hand

The kitchen was already packed when Maya slipped inside, clutching her plastic cup like it was a lifeline. She hated parties. Hated the way everyone seemed to know exactly what to do with their hands, their laughs, their lives. She was halfway to calculating an early exit when Kyle appeared at her elbow, holding something tiny and orange.

"Your brother's goldfish is dying," he said, like this was normal party conversation.

Maya blinked. "What?"

"I tried to save it." Kyle's fingers were stained orange from Cheetos. "Palm reading. My cousin taught me. She says it's ancient wisdom."

A genuine laugh escaped Maya's throat. "You think you can save a fish with palm reading?"

"I was reading the fish's palm." Kyle's eyes crinkled. "Clearly, I'm gifted."

They ended up on the back porch, watching the fish swim confused circles in its bowl. Kyle told her about growing up with six sisters and learning that faking confidence was basically the same thing as having it. Maya confessed she'd applied to art school but hadn't told anyone because what if she wasn't actually good?

"Show me your palm," Kyle said suddenly.

She hesitated, then held out her hand. His fingers were warm, barely brushing her skin. "You're going to do great things," he murmured, like it was fact. "Also, you should probably check on the cat."

Maya looked down to find her brother's cat absolutely mesmerized by the goldfish bowl. "Oh my god."

They both jumped up to save the fish, and Maya's cup spilled everywhere, turning her white shirt a splotchy orange. The night ended with her parading through the party wearing Kyle's hoodie, the goldfish safe on a high shelf, and his number in her phone.

Sometimes, she thought later, the universe didn't give you signs. It gave you messy, ridiculous moments with goldfish and orange Cheetos and a boy who made you laugh until your stomach hurt. And that was probably better.