The Lightning in My Palm

Marcus's party was supposed to be lit, but I was basically dying in the corner with my sister's chihuahua, Pepe, who kept trying to escape. Every five seconds, I'd have to drag this tiny dog back from stealing someone's chips. Not exactly the vibe I was going for.

Then I saw HER. Sasha. Standing by the orange soda bowl like she was waiting for something interesting to happen. Which, let's be real, she was. I'd been lowkey spying on her from across the cafeteria since September, which sounds creepy when I say it out loud, but it's not like I was documenting her movements or anything. Just... appreciating from afar.

Thunder rumbled outside. The storm was supposed to hit any minute.

"Your dog is trying to eat my shoe," someone said.

I looked down. Pepe was indeed gnawing on a very expensive-looking Nike. Before I could apologize, the lights flickered—once, twice—then died completely.

"Everyone, calm down!" Marcus yelled from somewhere in the dark.

Then it happened. Lightning flashed through the huge garage windows, illuminating everything in this blinding white-blue electric moment. And there she was. Sasha. Looking right at me.

My palm was sweating so hard I could've watered plants with it. This was it. My chance. Or my complete humiliation. Probably both.

"Nice dog," she said, sliding into the space beside me.

"He's not mine. He's my sister's. I'm basically a dogsitter against my will."

She laughed. Actually laughed. "That's the most honest thing anyone's said all night."

We sat there in the dark while the storm raged outside, occasional lightning painting the room in sudden flashes. Her orange jacket glowed in the bursts of light. We talked about everything—how fake high school could be, her obsession with horror movies, my failed attempt at learning guitar last summer.

"I saw you watching me in the cafeteria," she said softly during a lull.

My stomach dropped. "You—wait, what?"

"Relax, I liked it." She smiled. "You were less creepy about it than most guys."

The lights came back on. Party resumed like nothing happened. But something had shifted. Something fundamental.

She grabbed my hand—my palm still sweaty, whatever—and squeezed. "Next time you want to spy on me, just say hi instead."

I think I'm in love.