Palm Reader Called Bullshit

Maya dragged me toward the fortune teller booth at the Fall Festival, my palms sweating against my denim shorts. I'd spent forty minutes in the bathroom mirror trying to look effortless, but now Taylor—the cute junior who worked the ring toss station—kept glancing my way, and I was spiraling.

"Just let her read your palm," Maya insisted. "It's ironic, okay?"

The fortune teller was Elena, a senior with fishnet gloves and perfectly messy hair. She grabbed my hand, tracing the lines with fake gravity. "You're hiding something."

My stomach dropped. I'd had spinach stuck in my front teeth for twenty minutes and was too paralyzed to check.

"Also," Elena continued, "you pretend not to care what people think, but that's bullshit."

The word hit like a slap. Maya froze. Behind us, someone snorted.

"You let fear make your decisions," Elena said, suddenly serious. "Your friend line is long, but you don't trust them. You think if you're real, people won't like you."

I pulled my hand back. "This is supposed to be ironic."

"Is it?" Elena raised an eyebrow. "Because Taylor's been waiting for you to come over there all night."

My palms weren't sweating anymore. I ducked into the nearest restroom, scrubbed spinach from my teeth with aggressive force, and marched back to the ring toss booth. Taylor's eyes lit up like they'd been hoping.

"Want to try?" Taylor asked. "Three throws for five bucks."

"I'm Jordan," I said. "And I think you're cute."

Taylor's grin was genuine. "I know. I was waiting for you to stop hiding."

Behind me, Elena called out, "Called it!" Maya high-fived her. The social hierarchy I'd been stressing over for weeks suddenly felt ridiculous. Standing there, with spinach-free teeth and dry palms and Taylor's number in my phone, I realized some bullshit is worth calling out yourself—even if a fake fortune teller has to do it first.