Palm Reader's Prophecy

Maya's palm was sweating against the velvet tablecloth. The Fall Fling mixer was exactly the kind of social disaster she'd spent sixteen years perfecting the art of avoiding.

"You're going to meet someone tall, dark, and undead," she deadpanned, staring at the freshman girl's outstretched hand. "Probably in chemistry."

The girl giggled and dropped a dollar into the tip jar. Because apparently Maya's sudden reputation as a palm reader was now the most interesting thing about her.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

"Nice hat."

Maya looked up. A guy in a zombie costume—full face paint, torn flannel, surprisingly detailed fake wounds—was leaning against her folding table. He wore a beanie pulled low over unkempt brown hair.

"It's a fortune teller turban," she said, gesturing to the purple fabric wrapped around her head. "And you're supposed to be dead."

"Fox told me you were legit." He nodded toward the gym floor, where Maya's best friend Fox—youngest squad captain in dance team history, hence the nickname—was currently dominating the cha-cha slide.

"Fox would say that. Fox thinks my predicting that Mrs. Henderson would give a pop quiz was 'psychic ability' and not 'she gave one every single Friday since August.'"

Zombie boy grinned. "Elena said you're different. That you see things."

Maya's stomach did something weird and juvenile. Elena was the senior captain. Elena was everything.

"I see a guy who's wearing fake blood to a school dance," Maya said. "That's not exactly oracle-level insight."

"It's face paint," he corrected. "I'm an artist. Well, trying to be. My mom thinks I should focus on 'practical things.'" He made air quotes. "Like accounting."

"Palm reading isn't exactly practical either," Maya pointed out.

"No," he agreed, studying his own hands. "But maybe that's not the point."

They sat there while the DJ played something bass-heavy and terrible. Around them, the gym swirled with costumes and clique hierarchies that usually felt like a minefield. But here, at this folding table, something shifted.

"I'm Marcus," he said.

"Maya."

He reached across the table, palm up. "Your turn."

She hesitated. Then she took his hand.

"You're going to make art," she said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "And your mom's going to frame it eventually. She just doesn't know it yet."

Marcus squeezed her hand. His palm wasn't sweaty anymore. Neither was hers.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Also, you should probably wash that fake blood off before your mom sees it."

He laughed, and Maya realized something: prophecies weren't about seeing the future. They were about seeing what was already there, waiting for someone to notice.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

Maya looked at Fox, who was watching them with the smuggest expression in the history of forever. She looked at her purple turban, her supposedly mystical setup, the ridiculous beautiful absurdity of it all.

"Okay," she said. "But if this turns out to be a zombie apocalypse initiation, I'm never trusting your friend group again."

"Deal."