Palms Sweating Like Crazy

Maya's palms were sweating so bad she could practically water plants with them. She gripped her phone tighter, staring at Leo's Instagram story from fifteen minutes ago. Everyone at Jake's party. Everyone except her.

Her cat, Oreo, head-butted her ankle demanding dinner. Typical. Even the cat had more confidence than she did.

"You going?" Oreo seemed to say with those judgmental yellow eyes.

"Shut up, Oreo," Maya muttered, but she was already reaching for her favorite hoodie. The black one. The lucky one. Because clearly sweat-stained palms needed all the luck they could get.

The party was exactly three blocks away, but it felt like crossing into another dimension. Inside, bass thumped against her chest. People she'd known since seventh grade were suddenly strangers in perfect lighting.

Then she saw Leo by the backyard sliding door, looking unreasonably good in that flannel. Maya's stomach did that thing where it forgot how to be an organ.

"Hey!" someone shouted behind her. "Who let the loser in?"

Tyler. Of course. The same Tyler who'd made seventh grade living hell with his daily creative new insults.

Maya's hands balled into fists. Her palms stopped sweating. Something else took over—something fiery and old and so done with this bull.

"Actually," she said, voice clear as crystal, "I let myself in. Because I was invited. Which is more than I can say for whatever insecurity-driven performance you're about to unleash."

Dead silence. Then Tyler's friends snickered. His face went the color of tomato soup.

Leo appeared behind her, grinning. "Maya! You made it. Nice."

The cool evening air felt perfect. She could smell jasmine and pizza and possibility. Her cat would be proud.

"Yeah," she said, finally breathing. "I'm here."

Some bull you just have to walk through. And sometimes, you come out the other side actually liking who you find there.