Sweaty Palms Summer

My palms were sweating. Again. I shoved them into my denim shorts, hoping nobody noticed the moisture pooling in my hands as I watched Marcus laugh across the cafeteria. The new girl, Priya, was talking to him, flipping her hair like she'd been practicing in a mirror for hours.

"You're staring," whispered Lily, sliding onto the bench beside me. "Again."

"I am not," I lied, smooth as sandpaper.

She rolled her eyes. "Your face says you're not, but your sweaty palms say you absolutely are." She pointed at my hands, still jammed in my pockets. "Tell him you like him already. The suspense is literally killing me."

I couldn't. Not yet. Not until I figured out who "I" even was anymore. Freshman year had turned my identity inside out like a sock.

That's when I started my vitamin C ritual. Every morning, two chewable orange tablets, promising myself they'd make me brave. Or at least less likely to panic every time Marcus looked in my direction. My mom thought I was just being health-conscious. She didn't know I was treating supplements like confidence potion.

The only witness to my awkward transformation was Barnaby, my cat. He'd watch from my windowsill as I practiced what to say to Marcus—everything from "Hey, nice hair" to "Want to go to the fall dance together?" Then I'd immediately delete the texts and groan into my pillow while Barnaby yawned, entirely unimpressed with my teenage drama.

"You're a cat," I told him one afternoon. "What do you know about social anxiety?"

Barnaby blinked slowly, then stretched and jumped off the sill, probably to go do cat stuff. Like judge me from a distance.

The Friday before school ended, I found Marcus at his locker. His palms were resting on the metal door, casual and un-sweaty. I marched up, heart hammering like a trapped bird in my chest.

"Hey," I said. My voice squeaked. Because of course it did.

He turned. "Oh hey. What's up?"

"Iwaswonderingifyouwantedtohangoutsometime," I rushed out, like ripping off a bandage.

Marcus smiled. And for the first time all year, my palms were dry.

"Yeah," he said. "That would be cool."

I walked home floating, Barnaby waiting at the door like he knew exactly what had happened. He rubbed against my ankles, purring like a tiny, furry motor of approval.

"Maybe those vitamins worked after all," I whispered, scratching behind his ears. Barnaby just purred louder, like finally, I'd done something worth watching.