The Palm Reader's Prophecy

Maya's hands wouldn't stop sweating. Which was unfortunate, considering they were currently cupped in Missy Rogers's perfectly manicured ones at what was supposed to be the chill kickback of the summer.

"Your palms are telling me..." Missy closed her eyes dramatically, "disaster."

The entire basement went silent. Even Spotify seemed to pause.

"What?" Maya choked out. This was it. Her social life was over before junior year even began. First her hair decided to have a mind of its own this morning—three hours of straightening and it still looked like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket. Now Missy, who allegedly learned palm reading from her weird aunt, was predicting doom.

"I see..." Missy traced the lines on Maya's hand, "a cat. A dog. Complete humiliation."

Maya's stomach dropped. She knew it. She'd be that girl forever. The one who—

"OMG!" screamed someone from the kitchen. "Is that a CAT?"

No. Nonono. Missy's grandmother's prize-winning show cat, Mr. Whiskers, had escaped. Again.

The basement dissolved into chaos as everyone scrambled toward the kitchen. Maya followed, heart pounding, only to witness pure pandemonium: Mr. Whiskers perched on top of the refrigerator, looking down at Missy's golden retriever, Buster, who was barking like he'd never seen a feline before. People were sliding across the spilled soda. Someone's phone got knocked into a bowl of chips.

Then disaster struck: Mr. Whiskers, in full panic mode, leaped from the fridge—straight into Maya's hair.

Screaming. Flailing. Complete and utter chaos. Her carefully straightened hair became a battlefield. By the time Mr. Whiskers bolted for the safety under the couch, Maya looked like she'd gone ten rounds with a fur tornado.

She ran to the bathroom, ready to transfer schools. Maybe move to another country.

"Hey." It was Ty, Missy's older brother, leaning against the doorframe. He washolding a lint roller. "Mr. Whiskers does this to everyone. Last month he took out half the football team."

He helped her pick fur out of her hair. They talked. Actually talked. About how much palm readings sucked, about how Buster thought he was a cat, about how high school was basically four years of walking disasters waiting to happen.

"Your hair's actually pretty cool," Ty said, finally. "Like, punk rock. Way better than the Instagram look everyone's doing."

Maya caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was messy, kind of wild, and absolutely covered in orange fur.

And for the first time all night, her palms were dry.

"Yeah," she smiled. "Yeah, it kinda is."