Soda-Stained Prophecies

Maya's iphone buzzed in her sweaty palm, lighting up the darkened bathroom with a notification she couldn't ignore anymore.

"Maya? You okay in there?" It was Liam, the boy whose hair curled perfectly even after three hours at Jordan's party.

She wiped her palms on her dress, took a breath, and opened the door. "Yeah, just— fixing my face."

"Cool," he said, leaning against the doorframe like something out of a Netflix rom-com. "Jordan's doing palm readings in the basement. You coming?"

Palm readings. Because apparently that's what passed for entertainment when you were fifteen and someone's parents were out of town. Maya's palms had never been sweatier.

"Sure," she heard herself say. "Why not."

The basement smelled like orange Fanta and teenage desperation. Jordan sat cross-legged on a sleeping bag, surrounded by a circle of their friends, holding Maya's classmate Chloe's hand with theatrical intensity.

"Your lifeline says you're gonna date a football player," Jordan announced, and everyone giggled except Chloe, who actually played football and looked like she wanted to disappear.

Maya slid onto the floor next to Liam, their shoulders brushing for exactly three seconds before he shifted away. Her iphone screen glowed in her lap—someone had tagged her in a photo where her eyes were half-closed. She deleted it immediately.

"Maya! Your turn!" Jordan grabbed her hand before she could protest. "Hmm... interesting."

The whole circle went quiet. Maya's heart did that thing where it tried to escape through her throat.

"Your palm says..." Jordan squinted dramatically, "you're afraid of something. Something that's gonna happen—"

"Spit it out," someone said, and then—

An ice-cold orange soda can tipping over. Spilling everywhere. All over Maya's dress, all over Jordan's sleeping bag, all over the moment.

Everyone gasped. Then someone laughed. Then everyone laughed.

But Liam didn't laugh. He stood up, grabbed a towel, and started mopping up the orange mess with his flannel. "It's cool," he said to Maya, so quietly nobody else could hear. "Happens to me all the time."

Maya looked down at her palm—still orange-stained, still sweaty, but somehow not shaking anymore.

"Your palm was right," she told Jordan later, after the laughter had faded to conversation. "I was afraid."

She caught Liam's eye across the basement. He smiled. Her iphone buzzed again, but she didn't check it.

Some prophecies, she decided, were worth waiting for.