Sweaty Palms & Electric Bulls

My palms were literally dripping. Not like, cute-gross sweaty, but full-on dripping down my fingers gross. Jordan was walking toward the funnel cake stand, and I was about to make a complete fool of myself. Again.

"You gonna let that sophomore steal your thunder?" Maya elbowed me, clearly enjoying my panic.

I smoothed my hair for the eighteenth time. Mom had made me get it cut short for freshman year, claiming it'd be "low maintenance." Spoiler: it wasn't. It stuck up in weird places when I got nervous, and apparently, Jordan approaching made me very nervous.

At least the county fair gave me options for distraction. My sister had dragged me to this palm reader tent earlier, some lady who'd taken my hand, traced the lines with weathered fingers, and dropped this absolute bomb: "You'll face something fierce this summer, but you'll bear it gracefully."

Bear what? Bear Jordan's rejection? Bear the humiliation when my voice cracked three times talking to him last week?

"There's Jordan," Maya hissed.

And then I saw it—the mechanical bull. The one I'd been avoiding because I'd probably fly off in three seconds and everyone would laugh. But Jordan was standing right there, watching some senior girl ride it like she'd been born on it.

I marched over before I could chicken out. Three bucks and a death grip on the handle later, I was bouncing around like I'd never voluntarily moved my body in my life. But then something clicked. My thighs squeezed, my core engaged (thanks, Mrs. Chen's PE class), and suddenly I was riding.

I caught Jordan's eye as the operator cranked it up. He was grinning. At me. Not the girl who'd just fallen off squealing, but at me, hair flying everywhere, probably looking ridiculous, staying on.

When I finally got tossed, Jordan caught my arm. "That was insane. You good at everything or just lucky?"

My palms were still sweating, my hair was definitely a mess, but I'd just ridden a mechanical bull in front of my crush and survived. "Mostly lucky," I managed, without my voice cracking even once.

The palm reader hadn't been wrong. Something fierce had happened, and I'd borne it—on a mechanical bull, in front of everyone, and Jordan was still holding my arm like he wasn't planning to let go anytime soon.