Sweaty Palms & Finish Lines

I've been literally running from my feelings for weeks. Track practice was supposed to be my escape, but even here, my palms are sweating like I'm about to give a presentation to the whole school. Which is ironic considering I'm pretty sure my best friend Maya has been trying to tell me something important for days.

"Dude, you've been acting weird," she said yesterday at lunch, poking at my tray with the same intensity she used to dissect our English lit essays. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," I'd said, shoving a french fry in my mouth like it could somehow eat my words for me. My palm had been sweating so much I literally left a handprint on my notebook when I finally grabbed it to escape to third period.

The thing is, Maya and I had been best friends since seventh grade, when she accidentally spilled grape juice on my new white sneakers and instead of apologizing, she just said, "Well, now they look like art." We'd been inseparable since, but something felt different lately. Like the air between us had changed, or maybe I was just finally noticing it.

Today at practice, Coach Miller was timing our sprints, but all I could think about was Maya's palm reading app she'd showed me during free period. "This thing says your lifeline is super long," she'd said, holding my hand way longer than necessary. "And it says you're going to fall in love really soon." She'd said it with this weird little smile, like she knew something I didn't.

I'd pulled my hand back, suddenly aware of how small her hand felt in mine, how my heart was doing this weird flutter thing that had nothing to do with the two laps I still had to run. The app was obviously BS, but the way she looked at me made my stomach do somersaults.

"Marcus! Focus!" Coach yelled, snapping me back to reality. "You've got two seconds to beat if you want regionals!"

I nodded, wiping my palms on my shorts. Maya was sitting on the bleachers, watching me like she always did. But today, instead of looking at my shoes or the track or anything else to avoid her eyes, I just looked right at her.

She waved, and I found myself walking over instead of running another lap.

"So," I said, my voice sounding weirdly loud. "About that palm reading app."

Maya's face turned pink, matching her nail polish. "Yeah? What about it?"

"Maybe," I said, my palms sweating again, "maybe we could find out if it's actually right."

She grinned, and I knew I wasn't running anymore—from anything.