Lightning in My Palm

Maya's palms were sweating. Again. She stared down at the creases in her left hand, tracing her lifeline with her thumb like she was decoding some secret message that would tell her how to survive junior year at her third high school in two years.

"You know, your lifeline's crazy long," a voice said behind her.

Maya jumped. It was Lucas from AP Bio, the quiet guy who sat in the back and always wore that same black hoodie. She'd caught him watching her twice this week. Okay, maybe three times. Definitely spying on her.

"Were you—are you spying on me?" The words came out sharper than she meant. Whatever. Her therapist said she was working on assertiveness.

Lucas turned beet red. "What? No. I just—your hands. You do that thing. Where you read your palm like it's gonna tell you something."

"It's called coping, Lucas. Some of us are awkward in new places."

"Same," he said, and the word hung between them like something fragile.

Outside, the sky cracked open. Lightning flashed so bright it turned the classroom windows purple.

"I hate storms," Lucas admitted. "My little sister gets terrified."

"My dad used to make up stories about lightning," Maya found herself saying. "Said it was the atmosphere throwing a rave. Cringe, I know. But I still think about it during storms."

Lucas smiled—a real one, not the polite masks everyone else wore. "That's actually kind of brilliant."

"You're not gonna write about 'the weird new girl who reads her own palm' in your story or whatever?"

"I'm not a spy, Maya. I'm just... observant. And maybe a little awkward around people who seem interesting."

The room went purple again. Another lightning strike, closer this time. Maya looked at her palm, then at Lucas.

"You wanna show me how to actually read this thing?" he asked.

She smiled. "Sure. But first, tell me why you're actually wearing hoodies in ninety-degree weather."

"Deal."

Sometimes the universe sends you signs. Sometimes you have to read them yourself.