Palm Lines at the Pool Party

The palm of my hand was practically screaming at me to leave. I checked it again—sweaty, obviously. Classic me, standing against the fence at Taylor's end-of-summer pool party while everyone else was living their best lives swimming, laughing, being normal teenagers.

I adjusted my bucket hat for the millionth time. It was my armor—this ridiculous, oversized thing that basically announced "I'm trying too hard" to everyone within a fifty-foot radius. But it hid my face, and sometimes that was enough.

"Hey, Hat Girl."

I spun around. There he was. Jordan Fox. The Fox. Everyone called him that because he somehow got away with everything—skipping class, breaking dress code, probably actual crimes, who knew. He was wearing that same beat-up Dodgers cap he never took off, even indoors. Which was objectively insane but also weirdly endearing.

"It's Maya," I said. My voice came out squeaky. Perfect.

"I know." He grinned, and there was something behind it that wasn't his usual I'm-better-than-you expression. "You gonna stand there all night or actually get in the pool?"

"I'm good. From here. Watching."

"Boring." Fox splashed water at me. A cold droplet hit my arm, and I actually flinched. "Live a little, Maya."

Something shifted. Maybe it was the humidity, or the fact that summer was ending and I'd spent the entire break overthinking every social interaction until I paralyzed myself into loneliness. Or maybe Fox was just annoying enough to make me stop caring.

I pulled off my bucket hat and threw it at him. He caught it, laughing.

"You're on, Fox." I cannonballed into the deep end.

The water shocked me awake. When I surfaced, gasping, Fox was already there, treading water with that stupid grin. "See? Was that so hard?"

"Shut up."

"You know," he said, swimming closer, "I've seen you checking your palm all summer. You read that stuff online? About how your palm lines supposedly tell your future?"

My face burned. "Maybe."

"Yeah? What's it say?"

I looked at my hand in the moonlight. The water had washed away the sweat. The lines were just lines.

"I don't know," I said, and it was the truth. "I think it says whatever happens next."