Palm Reader's Strikeout

Maya's palms were sweating. Again.

She wiped them on her jeans—third time in five minutes—and stared at the orange slices arranged in a perfect spiral on the concession stand counter. Below, on the field, the baseball team was warming up. Jake Rodriguez, the senior shortstop with the smile that made half the sophomore class forget basic English, was swinging a bat like he was born with it in his hands.

"You're doing it again," said Chloe, sliding onto the stool next to her. "The palm thing."

"I'm not doing the palm thing." Maya wiped her palms again. "I'm just... preparing. In case I need to handle cash transactions. Rapidly."

"You're not even working the register today, genius. You're just here to watch." Chloe snorted. "Also, everyone at school says your palm readings are disturbingly accurate. Katie's been weirdly obsessed with her 'future success' since you told her she'd have a breakthrough this month."

Maya shrugged. "I read her palm between periods and saw she had coffee stains on her hand. That wasn't psychic—that was just basic observation."

Below, Jake hit a line drive that cracked against the backstop. The sound echoed through the stadium like thunder.

"So," Chloe said, "are you gonna tell him or what?"

"Tell him what?"

"That you've been practicing your swing every night since February. That you can throw a baseball farther than half the guys on JV. That you're trying out for the team tomorrow." Chloe raised an eyebrow. "Or are you gonna just keep staring at him like he's a particularly attractive orange you're afraid to peel?"

Maya's stomach did that thing it always did when she thought about tryouts. The same way it had done before she'd given her first palm reading in eighth grade, when she'd been so nervous she'd accidentally told Sarah Miller that her "future romantic prospects" looked cloudy.

(It had been right. Sarah was still single. But that was beside the point.)

"What if I'm not good enough?" Maya said quietly. "What if I make a fool of myself?"

"What if you don't?" Chloe countered. "What if you're exactly what this team needs?" She gestured at the field. "Half those boys couldn't hit a baseball if it was served on a silver platter. Meanwhile, you've been secretly practicing at the park behind your house since you were twelve."

Maya looked down at her hands. Her palms had stopped sweating.

Jake Rodriguez was walking toward the concession stand, grinning, his uniform dirty from sliding into home. Her heart sped up.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the counter. "You're Maya, right? From chemistry?"

"Yeah," she managed. "Hi."

"I heard something," he said, all easy confidence and warm brown eyes. "Heard you can throw a baseball. Like, actually throw it."

Chloe was visibly vibrating with excitement next to her.

"I... yeah," Maya said. "I'm trying out tomorrow."

"Cool." Jake grinned wider. "We need an arm like that. See you there."

He walked away, and Maya exhaled.

"Okay," Chloe said, grabbing an orange slice from the display. "That just happened. Also, I know you didn't read his palm, but I'm calling it now: you're gonna make this team, and it's gonna be iconic."

Maya looked at her hands—steady now, sure.

She looked at the field, where Jake was throwing practice pitches to the catcher.

She thought about tomorrow.

"Yeah," Maya said, and she almost believed it. "Maybe."

Her palms were dry. She was ready.