Saturday Night Spy Games

Maya's hair wasn't cooperating. Again. She'd spent forty-five minutes trying to tame the frizz, but humidity had other plans. As she stood outside Jordan's house, clutching a red solo cup like it was a lifeline, she felt like everyone was watching. Like a spy cataloging her every awkward move.

"You okay?" appeared in a text from Carmen, her best friend who'd bailed twenty minutes ago with some family emergency.

Maya typed back: "Fine. Totally bearing it. LOL."

She wasn't fine. The kitchen was too loud, someone had spilled soda on the carpet, and she'd already said "no thanks" to weed three times. Being sixteen sometimes felt like an endurance sport.

Then she found herself in the backyard with a group crowded around something. A girl with mermaid-green hair was reading palms.

"Next!" the girl called, and somehow Maya was sitting across from her, hand extended.

"Your life line is super deep," the palm reader said, tracing Maya's hand. "You're gonna live through some serious stuff. But see this?" Her finger hovered over a tiny line branching off Maya's palm. "This means you're gonna surprise yourself. Like, big-time."

Maya wanted to roll her eyes. But then the girl added, "And you've got like, zero defense against spies. People gonna talk about you, but you'll handle it."

Maya pulled her hand back, laughing. "What does that even mean?"

"Means you're stronger than you think," the girl said with a shrug. "Also, your hair looks amazing."

A compliment. From a stranger. Who'd just pretended to read her future with zero actual credentials.

Maya didn't believe in prophecies. But for the first time all night, her shoulders dropped. She texted Carmen again: "Actually, I think I'm good."

The humidity hadn't changed. The party was still chaotic. She was still awkward. But somehow, that random prediction about being strong enough to handle people talking about her—being strong enough to handle the spies—made her want to stay. Even if it was just to see if the mermaid-haired girl was right.

Her palm still tingled where those fake predictions had been traced. Sometimes, she decided, you needed someone to believe in you before you could believe in yourself.