Poolside Palm Reader

The invitation to Jordan's pool party sat in my phone like a loaded grenade. I'd been dodging pool situations since sixth grade, when I emerged from the community center changing room with my swimsuit on backward. The social damage had been catastrophic.

"You're going," Maya said, shoving a neon orange bottle into my hands. "These are new. Vitamin D-infused, tropical flavor. Mom says they're basically liquid courage."

"Your mom literally sells essential oils for a living," I pointed out, but I shoved two gummy vitamins into my mouth anyway.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived. Jordan's backyard had been transformed into an oasis—string lights, Bluetooth speakers bumping that summer playlist everyone seemed to have downloaded simultaneously, and a pool that looked like something from a resort brochure. People were swimming, laughing, existing in that effortless way I'd been trying to master for years.

And there, holding court on a floating lounge chair, was Tyler. The living embodiment of every jock stereotype, currently explaining his bench press routine to three girls who looked like they'd rather be doing literally anything else. The bull of the social hierarchy, I thought bitterly, then immediately winced. Even my internal monologue was cringe.

I was considering a strategic bathroom escape when someone grabbed my wrist.

"You have a long lifeline," said a girl I didn't recognize, studying my palm like she was reading a treasure map. "But your heart line is all over the place. Conflicted much?"

"Chloe does this," Jordan called from the pool. "She read my palm last week and predicted I'd fail my chem test. Nailed it."

"I'm also seeing..." Chloe squinted at my hand, "something about water. A challenge coming up? You're going to have to dive in literally or figuratively, and honestly? Both versions seem equally terrifying for you."

I laughed despite myself. "That's not creepy at all."

"I charge in friendship," she said. "Also, those gummy vitamins you took? They're not going to kick in for twenty minutes. Just so you know."

She pushed me toward the pool's edge.

"Go on. The water's fine. And Tyler's bull act is just—he's actually afraid of deep water. Has been since he was little."

I looked at the pool. At Tyler, carefully staying in the shallow end. At Maya, already swimming toward me with that look that said I-will-not-let-you-live-this-down.

"Fine," I said, and jumped.

The water was perfect. Cold and shocking and absolutely nothing to be afraid of.

Sometimes, I thought later, floating on my back while the sun set and someone started a cannonball competition, the scariest part is just standing on the edge.