Palm Sweats and Vitamin Pills

My palms were basically Niagara Falls. Standing outside room 304, clutching that crumpled note like it was a bomb about to detonate.

"You good?" Maya asked, leaning against her locker with that effortless cool I'd been trying to copy since seventh grade. "You look like you're gonna hurl."

"Just adrenaline," I lied. My palms were so sweaty the note was practically disintegrating.

I'd been crushing on Jordan since September, when he'd helped me pick up my spilled books in the hallway and made some stupid joke that made me laugh so hard I snorted. Three months later, I still couldn't form full sentences around him without my brain short-circuiting.

Maya dug through her backpack and pulled out an orange bottle. "Here. Take one of my brother's focus vitamins. He says they help with nervous energy."

I stared at it. "That sounds sketchy as hell, Maya."

"Dude, they're literally just vitamins. B-complex or something. You'll be fine."

I downed it dry because I was desperate and maybe a little stupid. Fifteen minutes later, I didn't feel focused. I felt... something else entirely.

The plan was simple: slip the note into Jordan's backpack during third period while everyone was at lunch. Simple. Clean. No confrontation.

But instead of focusing, I spent the entire period vibrating with energy that was definitely not normal. When the bell rang, I practically sprinted to the cafeteria, then remembered I was supposed to be going the OPPOSITE direction.

So I did the only logical thing: I went full spy mode.

I crouched behind a row of lockers, peeking around corners like I was in some low-budget spy movie. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. This was fine. Everything was fine.

Jordan sat at his usual table, laughing at something his friend said. Sunlight hit his profile and I swear I forgot how to breathe. This was it. My moment.

I crept closer, staying low, using lunch trays as cover. I was getting weird looks from the freshmen table, but whatever. Spy life chooses no one.

I made it to his table. His backpack was right there. This was it.

Then my palms, traitorous little ponds they were, caused the note to slip right out of my hand. It fluttered to the floor and slid directly under Jordan's sneaker.

He looked down.

I froze.

He picked up the note, unfolded it, and looked up. Right at me. Because I was literally standing three feet away, crouched behind a chair like a complete weirdo.

"Hi," I squeaked.

Jordan read the note—some embarrassing thing about how I thought his band was good—and then looked at me again.

"You wrote this?"

"No," I said brilliantly. "I mean, yes. I mean—I'm just leaving. This didn't happen. I was never here."

He started laughing. Not mean laughing. Real laughing.

"Stay," he said, kicking out the chair next to him. "Your spy technique could use some work, but your taste in music is solid."

My palms were still sweating. But maybe that was okay.