Static in the Palm

The air was thick enough to chew. Marco stood by the back fence, nursing a lukewarm soda and wishing he could teleport back to his room. This was exactly the kind of party he sucked at — too many people, not enough corners to hide in.

Then he saw her.

Chloe was standing near the old **baseball** diamond in the McKennas' backyard, laughing at something Tyler said. Tyler, who somehow made everything look effortless. Tyler, whose hair actually did the swoopy thing without trying.

**Friend**. That was the label Marco had been given, printed and laminated since seventh grade. The Forever Friend™. Great for emotional support, terrible for making moves.

"Yo Marco!" Tyler called. "We're doing a home run derby. You in?"

Before Marco could summon a convincing excuse, the sky ripped open. **Lightning** cracked like the universe had dropped a stack of plates, and suddenly everyone was sprinting toward the house.

Everyone except one person.

Chloe's golden retriever, Buster, had bolted toward the woods. "Buster!" she screamed, already running after him.

Marco's legs moved before his brain could finish processing what a horrible idea this was. The rain was coming down sideways now, each drop like a tiny cold slap.

He found them three minutes later — Chloe soaked to the bone, sitting on a log, with Buster curled happily beside her looking completely unbothered.

"He's such a drama queen," she said, smiling as thunder rattled the trees above them. "Thanks for coming, though."

Marco's heart was doing something genuinely concerning. He sat down beside her, their shoulders brushing through wet fabric.

"Always," he said, and immediately wanted to dissolve into the earth.

Chloe looked at him, really looked at him, with water dripping from her eyelashes like something out of a movie. Then she reached out and gently took his hand, interlacing their fingers. The **palm** of her hand was soft and impossibly warm against the cold rain.

"You know," she said quietly, "for someone who's supposedly just my friend, you run pretty fast."

Marco couldn't breathe. He couldn't tell if this was real or if he'd hallucinated the entire weekend.

"Chloe, I — "

She squeezed his hand. "Lightning storm, remember? Bad time for speeches. Good time for... other stuff."

They sat there as the storm passed, completely soaked, with the **dog** snoring between them, and Marco understood: some labels were meant to be rewritten.