The Palm Reader's Prophecy

Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actually dripping onto her phone screen as she stared at the text from Marcus: *party @ derek's tonight. U coming?*

This was it. The moment she'd been waiting for since freshman year. Derek's parties were legendary—the kind that got mentioned in Monday morning announcements with a thinly veiled warning about "responsible decision-making." Getting invited meant she'd finally climbed the social pyramid that towered over Jefferson High, invisible but absolutely real. The popular kids at the top, the band kids somewhere in the middle, and everyone else just trying not to slide down.

"You're overthinking it again," said Zara, Maya's older sister, leaning against Maya's doorframe. "Just go. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do—which, honestly, gives you plenty of options."

Maya groaned. "What if it's awkward? What if I say something weird? What if—"

"What if you go and realize half the people there are just as nervous as you?" Zara raised an eyebrow. "Besides, Marcus asked you. That's gotta mean something."

Marcus. The guy who'd sat behind her in bio since August, making terrible puns and somehow making her actually laugh during lectures about cellular respiration. The guy she'd caught looking at her when he thought she wouldn't notice.

The party was exactly what she expected: too loud, too warm, with someone's older brother dispensing suspicious-looking red cups from the kitchen. Derek's parents were apparently "out of town"—a phrase Maya had learned to translate as "please raid our liquor cabinet."

She found Marcus on the back porch, away from the chaos.

"Hey," he said, and his palms were sweaty too. She noticed when he gestured at the empty space beside him. "You came."

"Yeah." She leaned against the railing. "This isn't really my scene."

"Me neither." Marcus laughed, short and self-deprecating. "Derek's been trying to get me to join the lacrosse team all semester. Says I'd be good at it. Which is bull, by the way. I have the hand-eye coordination of a drunk giraffe."

Maya snorted. "I'd pay to see that."

They talked for hours—about everything and nothing. About how much they both hated that the school's social pyramid determined who sat where at lunch. About Zara's prediction that Maya would meet someone special this year, which Maya had dismissed as nonsense but now wasn't so sure about.

When the party started winding down, Marcus walked her to her car.

"So," he said, "maybe we could—I don't know—hang out? Without the terrible music and questionable beverages?"

Maya smiled, her heart doing something weird and fluttery. "I'd like that."

"Cool." He grinned. "Cool, cool, cool."

He held out his hand for a fist bump. When their hands touched, neither of them pulled away too quickly.

"Your palms are sweating," she said softly.

"Yours too," he replied, and he didn't let go.