Palm Readings & Papaya Smoothies

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping, which was gross and definitely not the vibe you want when you're about to fake-read palms at your first high school party.

"You're totally bluffing," said Jordan, sliding onto the grass next to her and extending his hand. "Read mine. Bet you can't."

The bonfire crackled behind them. Someone's phone was playing that song everyone pretended not to like. This was it — the moment she'd been overthinking since seventh period when Jordan had actually noticed her existence for the first time ever.

Maya wiped her hands on her jeans. "Okay, but real talk? I learned this from YouTube, so..."

Jordan's dog, a chaotic golden retriever mix named Barnaby, chose that exact moment to go running past with a stolen slice of pizza in his mouth, Jordan's little brother Chase sprinting after him screaming about his dinner.

"BARNABY, NO!" Jordan scrambled up, already laughing.

And that's how Maya ended up running across the Reynolds' backyard at 11 PM on a Friday, helping chase a theft-committing dog through a neighbor's meticulously landscaped garden. Her converse slipped on something suspicious near the vegetable patch.

They finally cornered Barnaby behind a impressive cluster of palm trees the neighbors definitely shouldn't have been growing in this climate.

"Dude," Jordan panted, bent over with his hands on his knees. "Your first party and you're already part of a federal investigation. We're literally hiding behind tropical vegetation."

Maya's heart was doing something genuinely concerning. "Is this usually how your Friday nights go?"

"Only when you're around, apparently." He straightened up, grinning. Then: "Hey, you want to get out of here? There's this place downtown that makes papaya smoothies and they're open til midnight."

Maya paused. This was it — the threshold moment. Stay and keep pretending to be someone she wasn't, or leave and figure out who she actually was.

"Yeah," she said. "Let's bounce."