Palm-Sweat Espionage

My palms were sweating like crazy, which was honestly pathetic because I was literally just sitting in a cafeteria. Not even a fancy cafeteria. Just the regular kind with lukewarm pizza and plastic trays that smelled like artificial cheese and regret.

But this wasn't about the pizza. This was about Harper Chen, currently laughing at something Jordan said across the room, her hair doing that effortless thing that took me forty minutes to approximate each morning.

"You're doing it again," Maya said, sliding onto the bench next to me. "The spy thing."

"I'm not spying." I pressed my clammy palms against my jeans. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

"Mmmhmm." Maya popped a vitamin gummy into her mouth—she took like twelve daily because her mom was into that holistic wellness era. "You've been watching Harper since September, dude. Either talk to her or accept your role as the mysterious quiet kid who everyone thinks is deep but is actually just anxious."

I hate when she's right.

The problem wasn't that I didn't know Harper. We'd been in classes together since middle school. The problem was that Harper had leveled up over the summer while I was still playing the same character. She'd dyed her hair purple and started wearing those chunky boots that made her look like she had secrets. Meanwhile, my biggest personality development was discovering I could bear the taste of black coffee if I added enough sugar.

"Her cat's name is Pickles," Maya said casually. "She posted about him on her story yesterday. You literally have the same cat backpack from seventh grade."

"That's not—" I started, but then Harper actually looked up and caught my eye. And I did the single worst thing possible: I immediately looked away, fast enough to give myself whiplash.

"Smooth," Maya said.

"I hate everything."

"Watch this." Maya stood up and actually walked over to Harper's table, and I wanted to die, but then she was beckoning me over with that terrifying grin, and suddenly I was standing there, palms still sweating, heart doing something concerning.

"Hey," Harper said, looking at me with those eyes that were somehow both brown and gold depending on the light. "Love your backpack."

And then she smiled, and it wasn't fake or polite or anything I'd rehearsed in my head. It was real.

"Thanks," I said, and my voice didn't even crack. "His name's Pickles."