Palm Sweats and Perfect Lies

Marcus stood outside Jenna's house, heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. His **palm**s were so sweaty he could barely grip the cold **orange** soda he'd been nursing for twenty minutes. Inside, muffled bass thumped through the door, and every laugh made him want to bolt back to the safety of his bedroom.

“You good, bro?”

Marcus jumped. DeShawn stood there, phone in hand, probably documenting Marcus’s pre-party meltdown for his insta story. The irony wasn't lost—Marcus had spent weeks curating his **iPhone** feed to look like he actually had a social life, and now that he was finally at an actual party, he was frozen.

“Yeah. Just. Yeah.” Marcus took a swig of flat orange soda. DeShawn’s eyebrow raise said everything.

The door swung open. Tyler—THE Tyler, varsity basketball captain, currently making everyone's life miserable in AP Bio—stumbled out, practically falling into Marcus. Tyler’s eyes were glassy, and he smelled like cheap cologne and bad decisions.

“Yo, Marcus!” Tyler slurred, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to spill orange soda down Marcus’s favorite hoodie. “You coming in or what? Don’t be a little **bull** about it.”

Something in Marcus snapped. Maybe it was the hoodie—which he’d saved three months of allowance for—now stained. Maybe it was Tyler calling him “little bull” like that was somehow the most clever insult ever. Maybe it was just that he was tired of being the guy who watched everyone else live from behind a screen.

“Actually,” Marcus said, voice steadier than he felt. “I think I will come in. And Tyler? That’s not even close to being a good roast. You sound like my dad trying to be cool.”

Silence. Then DeShawn choked out a laugh. Tyler blinked, processing, before erupting, “DAMN, okay then!” and actually stepping aside with something like respect.

Marcus walked into the party, orange-stained hoodie and all. Jenna waved from across the room, and his palms were still sweating, but for the first time all night, he didn't want to disappear.

Sometimes the scariest part of growing up wasn’t the parties or the people—it was realizing you could actually handle them.