Palm Read at the Pool Party

I felt like a literal **zombie** walking into Jaxon's pool party. Finals week had turned my brain into mush, and the three Red Bulls I'd chugged weren't helping. But Maya had practically dragged me here, insisting I needed to "live a little" before summer ended.

The backyard was already packed—seniors I barely recognized, some sophomore girls taking selfies in the corner, and a bunch of people from AP Chem standing around the **water**, looking equally awkward. Maya immediately ditched me for some guy she'd been crushing on since homecoming, leaving me hovering near the snack table like a loser.

"You look like you're about to pass out."

I jumped. It was Riley, the quiet girl from my English class who always sat in the back and wrote in a notebook she never let anyone see.

"Yeah, running on zero sleep and anxiety," I admitted. "I'm Maya's **friend**, but sometimes I feel like her accessory."

Riley laughed, and it was genuine—not the fake laugh I heard all around us. "Want me to read your palm? My grandma taught me. It's actually kind of fun, not that I believe in it or anything."

I hesitated, then held out my hand. My **palm** was sweating, which was embarrassing, but Riley didn't seem to notice. Her fingers traced the lines gently.

"Your head line is crazy long," she said, tilting her head. "You overthink everything. And this"—she pointed to a tiny line near my thumb—"means you're about to meet someone important."

"Yeah right," I said, but I was smiling.

"I'm serious." She looked up, and her eyes were this really pretty hazel color I'd never noticed from across the classroom. "Someone who gets you. Who doesn't just drag you to parties and leave you alone."

We spent the next hour talking about everything—our parents' divorces (both), our obsession with true crime (same), how we both secretly hated the popular crowd even though we kind of wanted to be part of it sometimes. By the time Maya finally reappeared, looking annoyed that I wasn't waiting around like a sad puppy, I didn't even care.

"Party's over," Riley said, checking her phone. "You want to get food? There's a taco truck two blocks over."

"Absolutely," I said without hesitating.

As we walked out, leaving the noise and fake laughter behind, I realized something: I wasn't tired anymore. The zombie feeling had vanished, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time—like maybe, just maybe, I'd found something real.