Palm Reader's Dog Day

The sign said MYSTICAL MADAME ZONA but really I was just Leo, a sixteen-year-old sweating through his eyeliner at the county fair booth. My mom had scored me this summer job, probably hoping it'd build character or at least get me off my phone. Instead, I was currently swimming—drowning, really—in anxiety as my third customer of the day leaned across the velvet table.

"So what do you see in my palm?" Brittany asked, flicking her hair. Brittany, who I'd had a crush on since seventh grade science when we'd paired up for that frog dissection and she'd made jokes about formaldehyde the whole time.

"Uh," I said brilliantly. Her hand was soft, her nail polish chipped in a way that felt weirdly intimate. I was supposed to be channeling ancient wisdom, but mostly I was channeling a complete mental void. "Your palm shows... potential?"

Her dog—a tiny, trembling chihuahua in a pink harness she'd insisted on bringing inside—suddenly decided THIS was the moment to bark at absolutely nothing, loud enough to make us both jump. Brittany laughed, her hand slipping from mine.

"Sorry about Churro," she said. "He's basically my emotional support animal, except he provides zero support and 100% chaos."

"Solid name though," I managed, feeling brave. "Does he like churros?"

"Bro, he will fight you for one," she said, and something in her relaxed posture made me realize she was nervous too. The fluorescent lights caught the glitter on her eyelids. "So, the palm reading? Am I gonna become famous or what?"

I looked at her hand again, really looked. And instead of some fake mystical nonsense, I found myself saying, "You're gonna do something creative. Your fingers are long, like a piano player's, but you've got this tiny callus here on your middle finger—"

"From writing," she interrupted, eyes widening. "I write fanfic. Literally nobody knows that."

The dog chose that moment to escape his harness and bolt toward the funnel cake stand, and we both sprinted after him, laughing helplessly, chasing him through the crowded fairground until we cornered him near the carousel. Brittany was breathless when she finally scooped him up, her cheeks flushed, hair everywhere.

"Okay, Mystic Zona," she said, grinning. "You're actually kinda good at this."

"I'm definitely not," I admitted. "But I write too. Maybe I just know the hands of fellow writers."

She pulled out her phone. "Give me your number. I'll send you my AO3 link. Fair trade?"