Palms and Prophecies

The **orange** sunset streaked across the sky as I leaned against the chain-link fence, my chest still heaving from practice. Coach Martinez said I had potential, but potential doesn't get you out of being the quiet kid who sits alone at lunch.

My phone buzzed. "Party at Maya's. You coming?"

I hesitated. Maya's parties were legendary—mostly because her parents were never home and her older brother bought whatever anyone wanted. The kind of parties where people discovered who they really were, usually in embarrassing ways.

Rusty, my neighbor's ancient golden **dog**, limped over and nudged my hand with his wet nose. He was fifteen years old and falling apart, but he still made it to our fence every evening like clockwork.

"You're better at this social stuff than me," I told him.

Rusty thumped his tail against the **palm** frond that had fallen into my yard. The **palm** trees along our street always looked like they were trying to escape Florida, leaning away from the heat.

My phone buzzed again. "Everyone's asking about you. Just come for an hour."

I was **running** out of excuses. Literally **running**—that was my thing. Track gave me something to say when people asked what I was into. It was easier than explaining that I spent most weekends watching Netflix with my grandmother.

The real problem: Jason was going to be there. Jason with the crooked smile and the way he actually listened when people spoke. We'd been partnered in history last month, and I'd spent three weeks thinking about how he'd corrected my essay with gentle comments instead of red marks.

"You're being **bull**-headed," my best friend Lena had told me at lunch. "Just talk to him already."

I arrived at Maya's as the **orange** light faded to purple. The air smelled like coconut sunscreen and something sweet. Through the sliding glass doors, I saw people already dancing, laughing, being the confident versions of themselves they only were at parties.

Jason stood near the **palm** tree in Maya's backyard, holding a red cup. His eyes found mine through the crowd, and he smiled—that crooked smile.

My heart was **running** a marathon. I stepped onto the patio, Rusty's encouragement still warm on my skin, and finally stopped running from what I wanted.

"Hey," I said. "Cool party."

"Yeah," Jason said, **orange** lights flickering in his eyes. "I was hoping you'd come."

Behind me, a dog barked in the distance. I took a breath and stepped closer. Some prophecies don't come from palms or stars—they come when you finally stop running toward what you actually want.