Palm Lines and Party Fails

I felt like a literal zombie walking into homeroom. Third consecutive all-nighter in a row, thanks to AP Euro and my mom's obsession with me getting into Stanford. My eyes were basically sandpaper at this point.

"Dude, you look dead," Maya whispered, sliding into the desk beside me. "You coming to Jordan's tonight?"

I shook my head, already knowing what she'd say. "Can't. History final tomorrow."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "You are SO missing out. It's gonna be legendary."

That's when Sierra walked by—the girl who read palms at lunch like it was her actual job. She stopped at my desk, glanced at my hand splayed across my textbook.

"Your palm says you're overthinking everything," she said, barely breaking stride. "Also, you need sleep. Badly."

The whole class laughed. I felt my face burn.

But after school, I found her at that stone bench behind the gym where she did her "readings."

"Actually read it this time," I said, holding out my hand.

She traced the lines with one manicured finger. "You think you have to choose between being a good student and having a life. But look here—your head line and heart line intersect. Means you're at a breaking point."

I stared at my palm like it held ancient wisdom instead of just sweat and pencil smudges.

"What do I do?"

"Go to the party," she said, like it was obvious. "Your zombie self needs brain food. And by brain food, I mean three hours of not thinking about the French Revolution."

So I went. And yeah, I bombed a practice quiz the next day. But for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like the walking dead. Sometimes your best friend isn't the one pushing you to study harder—sometimes it's the weird girl who reads palms behind the gym and tells you what you actually need to hear.