The Friday Night Infiltration

The moment I stepped into Maya's living room, I felt like an undercover agent who'd lost her briefing. I adjusted my flannel shirt—why did I wear flannel to a house party?—and tried to look casual. But my palms were sweating so much I could barely grip my phone.

"Dude, you look like you're about to interrogate someone," Leo said, materializing beside me with two red cups. He was my oldest friend, the one person who knew I'd rather be home rewatching Supernatural than "socializing."

"I feel like I'm operating without a license," I muttered, accepting the cup he offered.

Leo leaned in closer. "Word of advice: Maya's aunt is apparently some legit palm reader from Santa Fe. She's in the corner telling people their futures. Stay away unless you want to hear about how your love line is tragic."

I laughed, but my stomach did a nervous flip. I'd had a crush on Maya since sophomore year, and she'd barely spoken to me since we'd been paired up for that English project last month. The one where we'd spent three days analyzing Frankenstein and she'd actually laughed at my jokes.

"Besides," Leo continued, "you've got—"

"What?"

He pointed at his own teeth. I bolted to the bathroom mirror.

Sure enough, a giant piece of spinach was wedged between my front teeth. Because apparently the universe had decided I needed to be THAT person tonight.

I scrubbed it away with my finger, mortified. How long had it been there? Since lunch? Had Maya seen it when she waved to me earlier?

When I came out, Leo was gone, and somehow I'd ended up near the palm reader. She was Maya's aunt, a woman with silver-streaked hair and dozens of silver bangles that jingled when she moved.

"You're carrying something," she said, catching my eye. "Come here."

Against every instinct screaming RUN, I sat down and extended my hand.

She traced the lines on my palm. "You think you're invisible, don't you? But you're not a spy in your own life. You're just... waiting."

My throat tightened. She wasn't wrong. I'd spent the last two years waiting—for what, I didn't know. College? Real life? The courage to actually talk to Maya without feeling like my tongue was made of sandpaper?

The school week had transformed me into a walking zombie, surviving on fragmented sleep and caffeine. By Friday, I moved through classes like someone from The Walking Dead, my brain barely functioning beyond basic survival.

As the party thinned out, Maya appeared beside me, dropping onto the couch with that effortless grace that made my heart stutter.

"My aunt says you're going to do something brave soon," she said, her shoulder pressing against mine.

I almost laughed. Brave? Me? I couldn't even order pizza without rehearsing what I'd say first. But her dark eyes were serious, and closer than they'd ever been.

"Maybe," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "Or maybe she just tells everyone that."

"She doesn't." Maya picked up my hand, turned it over. "Your palms are still sweating."

"It's a permanent condition," I admitted. "I'm basically a medical marvel."

She smiled, and it wasn't her usual polite smile. It was real. "Good to know."

Then she stood up. "I'm going to get more chips. You coming?"

I looked at Leo across the room, who gave me an exaggerated thumbs-up.

"Yeah," I said, standing up. "I'm coming."

And for the first time all night, I didn't feel like I was undercover. I didn't feel like a spy in my own life, gathering intel on how to be normal.

I just felt like me—sweaty palms, zombie-like exhaustion, and all.

Waiting, maybe, but not alone.