The Palm Reader's Secret

Maya's hair refused to cooperate that morning. After forty minutes with the flat iron, she'd settled on a messy bun that screamed 'I tried but also gave up.' Perfect.

"You're literally going to spy on him?" Jaz whispered between classes, eyes wide. "That's so unhinged. I love it."

"I'm not spying," Maya lied, adjusting her bun. "I'm merely... observing from a strategic distance. For science."

The plan had formed during third period lunch: Maya's crush, Ethan, was supposedly hanging out behind the bleachers after school. Jaz had insisted Maya stake it out, and somehow that had evolved into a full-blown reconnaissance mission.

But fate intervened in the form of Principal Chen, catching Maya mid-crouch near the gymnasium. Rather than detention, she got voluntold for the Spring Carnival setup committee—which is how she ended up running the palm reading booth, surrounded by glitter and cheap scarves.

"Can you actually read palms?" Some freshman asked, dropping into the folding chair across from her. They extended their hand, palm up, expectant.

Maya stared at the lines crisscrossing the skin. She knew nothing about palmistry. She did know that her hair was definitely falling out of her bun, and that Ethan was probably still behind the bleachers, and that she was missing her chance to spy—observe—from a strategic distance.

"Your lifeline is..." Maya squinted. "Complicated. But your heart line shows you're going to have a really good spring carnival."

The freshman lit up. "That's actually so specific though?"

By the end of the day, Maya had read twenty-seven palms. Each prediction more ridiculous than the last, each received with breathless sincerity. She'd told someone they'd meet a tall stranger (everyone at high school was a stranger, statistically). She'd predicted another would ace their math test (finals were next week, so—solid guess).

Ethan never appeared. But as Maya finally gathered her things, hair properly messy now, she caught him by the exit.

"Hey, I heard you're, like, psychic now," he said. "Can you read mine?"

He held out his hand, palm up.

Maya's own palms were sweating. This wasn't reconnaissance anymore. This was real.

"Your palm says..." She traced the lines with her finger, heart hammering. "You should ask someone to the carnival tomorrow. Maybe the person running the palm booth."

Ethan grinned. "That's surprisingly specific."

"I'm literally a professional," Maya said, and somehow, her hair felt perfect after all.