Lines in Your Palm

Maya's palms were basically waterfall level sweaty—gross, but also, like, fair. It was only the biggest day of her freshman year.

"You're going to be fine," Zara said, adjusting the brim of Maya's vintage trucker hat for the third time. "Your life line is literally insane. That psychic at the spring fair said you're destined for greatness."

"She also said I'd meet a tall dark stranger," Maya muttered. "So far, that's just been the math teacher asking about my missing homework."

They were outside the gym where cheerleading tryouts were about to go down. Maya had zero experience and about negative ten confidence, but she'd watched literally every routine on YouTube since February. Her mom kept pressing her to join clubs, claiming it was "essential for the college application"—which was, frankly, ridiculous when they were literally fourteen.

The gym doors swung open. Jessica walked out with her squad, looking perfect as always. She'd been doing competitive cheer since kindergarten. Her life probably didn't even require sweaty palms.

"Whatever happens," Zara said, "I bought us those vitamin C immune boosters after. Liquid courage, but healthy."

Maya snorted. "That's not how vitamins work, but okay."

"Maya Rodriguez?" A coach with a clipboard called out.

She adjusted her hat—her armor, really—and walked inside. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Probably Zara sending a hype GIF. Maybe it was a sign. Probably not. But honestly? Sometimes you just had to trust your gut, your friends, and whatever nonsense some random lady told you at a carnival.

Her palms were still sweating. She still felt like she might throw up.

But Maya walked in anyway.