Palm Reader's Secret

The sun beat down on my neck as I clutched my iPhone to my chest, my thumb hovering over Maya's Instagram story for the third time today. Pool parties at Jake's house were basically social pyramids—the popular kids at the deep end, the rest of us scattered along the edges like debris.

I sat under a palm tree, its shadow stretching across my legs, watching water droplets trace paths down the condensation-covered plastic cup in my hand. Being sixteen felt like constantly drowning in shallow water—everyone acting like they had it figured out while I was still trying to decide who I even was.

"Hey," someone said.

I jumped. It was Sofia from my English class, floating in the pool with her makeup somehow still perfect. "You're that quiet girl, right? The one who wrote that poem about mirrors?"

My face burned. "Yeah. That's me."

"It was good," she said simply. "Everyone's been talking about it."

Before I could process this, Maya appeared beside me. Phone in hand, she gestured toward the popular group by the waterfall feature. "They're not as perfect as they look, you know. I've been spying on them all summer—Chloe got a nose job, Jake's parents are divorcing, and Tyler failed algebra twice."

I blinked. "Why are you telling me this?"

Maya shrugged. "Because you're real. They're all just playing parts."

Sofia swam over. "She's right. That pyramid scheme they call popularity? It's all smoke and mirrors."

I looked down at my iPhone, at Maya's story that had started all this. Something shifted inside me—like the moment you realize everyone else is just winging it too.

"Want to play chicken fight?" Sofia asked.

I set my phone on the dry grass and waded into the water. Maybe sixteen wasn't about having it figured out. Maybe it was about learning you didn't have to.