The Palm Reader's Prophecy

My palms were sweating so much I could practically water plants with them. Which was ironic, considering where I was standing.

"You gonna buy that smoothie or just hold it all day?"

I jumped, nearly knocking over the display of organic wheatgrass. The cashier—Jake, senior, varsity jacket, currently working his first shift at Green Life—was actually talking to me.

"Yeah, sorry." I fumbled with my phone, dropping it twice. "The, uh, spinach one. Please."

"Good choice." His grin had this crooked thing going on that made my stomach do weird gymnastics. "You're at the smoothie bowl bar, though. Smoothies are over there."

My face burned hotter than the jalapeño explosion on the menu.

"Right. Obviously. I knew that."

I speed-walked away, mentally calculating how fast I could transfer schools. Maybe Mars had a high school.

Outside, my rescue dog—a ancient golden retriever named Couch Potato who I'd adopted from the shelter last month—was tied to the bike rack, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. His fur was matted with something suspiciously green.

"No," I whispered. "Please tell me you didn't."

He thumped his tail, proud of himself.

Someone laughed behind me. Jake, somehow outside now, holding a smoothie cup. "Your dog found the kale demo station."

"He's educational," I said weakly.

"Nah, he's just got good taste." Jake crouched down, letting Couch Potato slobber all over his hands. "What's his name?"

"Couch Potato. Because that's what he does best."

"Classic." Jake looked up, still petting him. "Hey, my sister works here. She said there's a meteor shower tonight. Behind the old palm tree by the creek? Everyone's going."

"Everyone everyone?"

"You know. The everyone that matters." He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You should come. Bring Potato."

"Couch Potato."

"Right." He grinned again. "See you at eight?"

"Yeah," I managed, even though I was pretty sure I'd throw up. "Eight."

He walked back inside, and I looked down at my dog, who was now attempting to eat a discarded salad wrapper.

"We're not ready for this level of social interaction," I told him.

He wagged his tail, spinach stuck to his nose like a tiny green mustache.

But for the first time since starting at Ridgeview High, I thought maybe I could be.