Operation: Palm Sweat

My palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping. I wiped them on my jeans — fifth time in two minutes — which only made it worse because now my favorite black jeans had gross wet spots.

"You good?" Maya whispered, side-eyeing me like I'd grown a second head.

"Totally fine," I lied. "Just warm."

We were at lunch, and Connor from AP Bio was sitting three tables away. I'd been what you could call a spy on him for weeks — not in a creepy way, okay? In a 'I-notice-he-always-wears-those-same-red-Converse-and-listens-to-indie-bands-no-one-else-has-heard-of' way. Maya said I should just talk to him already. She said my hair looked fire today (I'd spent forty minutes on the curls, thanks for noticing), and that I needed to stop being a "weird little observer" and actually live my life.

"Go over there," she said, pushing her tray away. "Right now."

"I can't just —"

"Yes you can. You're literally shaking."

"That's not helping!"

Okay, here's the thing. I'd made up this whole elaborate spy mission in my head about how I'd casually stroll over, somehow seem cool, and we'd bond over music or whatever. But my brain was apparently my own worst enemy because the closer he got to leaving, the more I panicked.

So I did it. I stood up. My legs felt like actual jelly.

I made it two tables away before Connor looked up and caught my eye. And in that exact second, I choked on absolutely nothing and started coughing like I'd inhaled an entire galaxy. My face burned hotter than the school cafeteria's allegedly-safe pizza.

He smiled. That was somehow worse.

Then Maya started laughing from across the room, and I realized — in absolute horror — that half my spinach salad from lunch was stuck between my front teeth. The entire time. Throughout my entire internal spy saga and cool-girl hair prep, I'd been walking around with green stuff in my teeth.

Connor stood up. My palms were now so sweaty they could've filled a swimming pool. He walked over.

"Hey," he said. "You have a little —" he pointed at his own teeth, making a spinning gesture with his finger.

I wanted to die. Right there. Cease to exist.

"Thanks," I squeaked.

"Your hair looks nice today," he said, like it was nothing. "Anyway, I was gonna ask — do you like The 1975? Because I saw your playlist last week when you forgot your headphones in class."

I stared at him.

"Wait," I said. "You've been —"

"Noticing you noticed me?" He grinned. "Maybe."

My palms were still sweating. My hair was probably falling apart. But Connor knew my music taste. He'd been watching me too.

I think I just died and went to awkward teenage heaven.