Reading Between the Lines

The carnival lights flickered against my sweaty **palm** as I gripped my phone like a lifeline. Jayda had ditched me for Tyler—again—and I was stuck watching couples share cotton candy like they were in some cheesy teen romance.

"Fortunes! Five bucks!" a voice called out. The sign above the booth read "MADAME ZORA" in fake glitter letters. I'd never believe in this crap, but desperation makes you do stupid things.

The woman inside had **hair** that defied physics—a purple bouffant that could probably be seen from space. She grabbed my hand without asking, her nails pressing into my skin.

"You're hiding something," she said, eyes widening dramatically. "The **hair**... it's not you."

I flushed. I'd dyed it electric blue yesterday, hoping to look edgy. Different. Not just the quiet girl who sat in the back of AP Bio.

"That's **bull**," I said, pulling my hand back. "You're just guessing."

"Am I?" She tapped the lines on my **palm**. "Someone's waiting. But you won't let them see you."

I was about to walk away when someone called my name. Marcus—THE Marcus, who'd been in my homeroom since seventh grade and whose smile could literally stop time—was standing there, holding two tickets to the midnight showing of that horror movie everyone was talking about.

"I, uh, noticed you seemed alone," he said, rubbing his neck. "Wanna go?"

Madame Zora winked at me.

Later, as we walked out of the theater, my hand brushing against his, Marcus said, "I've always wanted to tell you... I like what you did with your **hair**. It's brave."

My **palm** wasn't sweating anymore. And for the first time, I didn't feel like hiding.

Maybe that carnival fortune-teller was full of **bull**. Or maybe she just knew something I didn't: sometimes you have to let someone see the real you—even when you're terrified they won't like what they find.