The Green Specter

The smoothie was supposed to be healthy. Spinach, kale, apple, ginger—basically a salad in a cup. What I got was something that looked like it had been blended in a zombie apocalypse.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, green sludge clinging to my front teeth. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Maya! You coming or what?" my best friend Jessie yelled from downstairs.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on," I called back, frantically brushing my teeth for the third time. I was 14, and somehow I still hadn't mastered the art of eating leafy greens in public.

The party was at Sofia's house—her parents were out of town, which basically meant it was either going to be legendary or a total disaster. Probably both.

When I walked in, the air was thick with cheap body spray and nervous energy. People were scattered across the living room, sitting in circles that seemed deliberately designed to exclude anyone new. I stood by the doorway for approximately three seconds before Sofia materialized beside me.

"You made it!" She grabbed my hand before I could respond. "Come sit, we're doing palms."

"Doing what?"

"Palm reading! Leo's grandma taught him."

I was dragged to a circle where six people were already examining each other's hands like they held the secrets to passing algebra. A guy named Leo—black hair, nervous energy, surprisingly gentle hands—took my palm in his.

"You're going to live a long life," he said, tracing a line with his finger. "But you worry too much about what people think."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "Your hand says it." Then he leaned in closer and whispered, "Also, you have something in your teeth."

Every single drop of blood in my body turned to ice. After all that brushing. After all that paranoia. I was still the girl with spinach in her teeth at a party.

"Thanks," I managed, my voice approximately two octaves higher than usual. I excused myself to the bathroom, where I proceeded to attack my teeth with the ferocity of someone who had just been publicly humiliated.

When I finally emerged, Leo was waiting outside the door.

"I'm so sorry," he said, looking genuinely miserable. "I shouldn't have said that in front of everyone. That was messed up."

"It's fine," I lied. "I'm over it."

"No, you're not. You're literally still thinking about it. I can tell because your brow is doing that thing." He mimicked a concerned expression, and despite everything, I laughed.

"Your palm reading skills need work."

"Maybe." He held out his hand. "Try again?"

I looked at his palm—soft skin, long fingers, a small scar across the knuckle. "You're going to make mistakes," I said, making it up as I went. "But you're also going to own up to them. That's rare."

Leo smiled, and something in my chest did this embarrassing flutter thing. "Yeah? Well, your palm says you're going to give me another chance. At being friends, I mean."

"My palm says that, huh?"

"Definitely. It also says you should try the cupcakes. They're zombie-themed."

I laughed so hard my sides hurt. The green smoothie incident, the spinach humiliation, the awkwardness—none of it mattered. Because somehow, in the most mortifying moment of my teenage life, I'd found someone who could make me laugh about it.

"Okay," I said. "Show me these zombie cupcakes."

His palm was still warm in mine as we walked toward the kitchen.