Palm Readings and Other Firsts

The summer before freshman year, I worked at my aunt's exotic animal rescue. That's where I learned that teenage boys and rescued foxes have a lot in common — both are skittish, both will bite if you move too fast, and both act way cooler than they actually are.

Tyler had started volunteering there, too. He was the kind of cute that made my brain short-circuit, all shaggy hair and lazy grins. I was supposed to be showing him how to feed the rescued cat that had been found in a dumpster, but I was mostly trying to figure out if my palms were sweating (they were).

"You're good with her," Tyler said, watching me scratch the cat behind its ears. "Most new volunteers are scared she'll scratch them."

"My grandma taught me palmistry," I blurted out randomly. WHY did I say that? I'd never told anyone. It was this weird thing I did with her, reading palms at family gatherings, everyone laughing but half-believing.

Tyler's eyes lit up. "For real? Read mine."

My heart did this embarrassing flutter thing. I took his hand, trying to look confident instead of like I was internally screaming. His life line was long, heart line deep. I almost made something up, but instead I whispered, "You're going to do something brave this year. Something that scares you but you do it anyway."

Later that night, everyone from school was at Jessica's beach party. Palm trees swayed overhead, their shadows stretching across the sand like they were trying to touch the ocean. Tyler found me by the bonfire, his face flickering in the firelight.

"I did it," he said quietly. "I told my parents I'm not playing football this year. I want to join the drama club instead."

My stomach did that flip thing again. "That's huge."

"Yeah." He looked down at our hands, fingers almost touching. "You were right about the brave thing."

Sometimes you bear witness to someone becoming who they're meant to be. And sometimes, just sometimes, they let you be part of it.