The Palm Reader of Room 204

The rumor started because I was bored in third period English and decided to doodle a hand on my notebook. Maya leaned over, squinting at my drawing of a palm with random lines crisscrossing everywhere.

"Whoa, are you actually into palm reading? That's so fire." Her eyes went wide. "My cousin in LA says everyone there sees psychic readers now. It's literally mainstream."

I opened my mouth to say no, that's total **bull**, I was just procrastimating on the essay about symbolism in *The Great Gatsby*—but then I noticed Ethan watching us from across the room. Ethan, who'd been ghosting me since homecoming even though we'd made out at Jacob's party. Ethan, whose new profile pic was him and some college girl at USC.

"Yeah," I heard myself saying. "I've been reading palms since I was twelve. My grandma taught me."

Maya gasped like I'd just admitted I was secretly a K-pop idol. "You have to do mine at lunch. Everyone's gonna lose it."

By lunch, I was fully committed to the bit. Maya dragged me to our usual table, where her friends were already waiting. I sat down with my **palm** sweating against my jeans, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. I was gonna be exposed as a fraud in approximately three minutes.

But something weird happened when I took Maya's hand. I started saying whatever came into my head—vague predictions about future success, "I see creative energy," "there's a big decision coming in spring." Everyone nodded like I was dropping ancient wisdom. Like this wasn't just me improvising based on her acrylic nails and the fact she'd mentioned college applications yesterday.

By the end of the week, I had a whole business going. Five bucks a reading. People I'd never spoken to were sliding into my DMs, asking if I had openings. Even Ethan came by Friday after school, looking all nervous and cute in that stupid denim jacket he thought made him look indie.

"So, uh, Maya said you could tell me about..." He rubbed the back of his neck, not meeting my eyes. "About what's gonna happen with me and—"

"You and Chloe?" I finished, my stomach doing this stupid little flip. "You want me to predict if you'll get back together."

He shrugged. "It's not getting back together if we never really dated. But, like, is there potential?"

I took his hand, his fingers warm against mine, and suddenly I wasn't pretending anymore. I traced the line that supposedly indicated emotional connections and remembered how he'd looked at me that night at Jacob's, before everything got weird. How he'd said he liked how I actually listened when people talked, unlike all the girls who just waited for their turn to speak.

"You're gonna have a choice," I heard myself saying softly. "Between someone who seems perfect on paper but doesn't really get you, and someone unexpected who actually sees you. Choose wrong, and you'll spend the whole next year wondering what if."

Ethan's face did this complicated thing where he looked surprised, then thoughtful, then like he was seeing me for the first time all over again.

That weekend, I Facetimed my grandma, who's definitely not psychic but is definitely the person who taught me that sometimes people need to hear the right thing more than they need to hear the true thing. We talked for two hours about everything and nothing. By the time we hung up, I felt lighter, like I'd just taken some emotional **vitamin** I didn't know I was missing.

Monday morning, Ethan found me before first bell. He was wearing a different jacket, still stupid but in a way I couldn't really hate anymore.

"I've been thinking about what you said," he said, leaning against my locker like he belonged there. "About the choice. I think I might've been picking wrong."

"Yeah?" I raised my eyebrows, trying to look casual while my stomach did gymnastics. "So what's the move now?"

"I don't know." He smiled, and it was real this time, no game-playing, no trying to be cool. "Maybe you could read my palm again? See if my fate's changed since Friday."

"Ten bucks this time," I said, but I was already reaching for his hand.

"Deal."

And okay, maybe I'm still making it up as I go. But aren't we all?