Sweaty Palms and Scheme Dreams

Jordan's palms were sweating. Again. She wiped them on her jeans—third time in five minutes—which only made her more nervous because now her jeans had these obvious damp spots and why did social anxiety have to be so literal and so embarrassing?

"You're gonna crush it," Maya said, bumping Jordan's shoulder with her own. They sat cross-legged on Maya's bedroom floor, surrounded by what looked like a multilevel marketing pyramid of skincare products. "This is literally the opportunity of a lifetime. My cousin's friend's sister made three grand last month alone."

The word friend had been getting a lot of workout lately. Maya's cousin's friend's sister. The CEO's best friend's daughter. Everyone was someone's someone in this pyramid-shaped ladder to success, and Jordan was just... Jordan. Regular Jordan with sweaty palms and a savings account from babysitting that she was seriously considering draining for "starter inventory."

"I don't know, May," Jordan said. "My dad says these things are basically—"

"Your dad also says TikTok is a phase," Maya cut in. "Trust your gut, not the boomers."

Jordan's gut said something was off. Her gut had been saying that since Maya had texted her at 11 PM last Tuesday with: WE NEED TO TALK. IMPORTANT.

That text had given Jordan butterflies. Not the cute kind. The kind that felt like her stomach was hosting a violent protest.

Now here they were, and Maya was pressing a glossy brochure into Jordan's hand, and Jordan was genuinely considering spending three hundred dollars on face wash that supposedly contained rare botanical extracts from places she couldn't pronounce.

"Let me think about it," Jordan said weakly.

Maya's face fell. A micro-expression, barely there, but Jordan caught it. Disappointment? Annoyance? Something behind the eyes that didn't match the bright, encouraging smile Maya plastered back on half a second later.

"Sure! Totally. Just don't wait too long. Spots are filling up."

Jordan gathered her things and practically speedwalked home, heart pounding, palms still sweating, mind racing with what-ifs and I should'ves and what's wrong with me that I can't just say yes like a normal person?

She was so wrapped in her spiraling thoughts that she almost tripped over him—a scrawny, scruffy dog tangled in what looked like kite string or maybe fishing line, whimpering in the alley behind her apartment building.

Jordan dropped to her knees, palms suddenly not sweating at all. "Hey buddy," she whispered. "You okay?"

The dog—some kind of terrier mix, maybe, with one ear that stood up and one that flopped down—trembled but didn't snap as Jordan carefully worked the string loose from his leg. It had cut deep. She'd need supplies.

"Come on," she said, scooping him up. He weighed nothing. "Let's get you sorted out."

Her dad was asleep on the couch when she slipped in, but she knew where the first aid kit was. She cleaned the wound, wrapped it gently, and gave the dog water and some leftover chicken from the fridge. He ate like he'd never seen food before.

"You're a disaster, huh," she murmured, scratching behind his good ear. His tail thumped against the linoleum. "Same, honestly."

Her phone buzzed. A text from Maya: DID YOU DECIDE?? TIME SENSITIVE!!

Jordan looked at the dog, who was now curled in a contented, slightly smelly ball on her sweatshirt. He looked up at her with eyes that said, I was stuck, and you helped. No ulterior motive. No pyramid scheme. Just help.

Some instinct she couldn't name—gut? intuition? whatever adults called it when you suddenly just KNEW—clicked into place.

She texted back: no thanks. not for me.

Then she blocked the number.

The dog's tail thumped again, like he approved. Jordan's palms were finally dry. She'd figure out what to do with him tomorrow—find his owner or maybe convince her dad to keep him—but for the first time in weeks, her gut felt quiet. And her gut, she decided, was way smarter than Maya's cousin's friend's sister.