The Palm Reader's Spy

Maya had been officially spying on Zara for three weeks.

Not, like, in a creepy way. Okay, maybe a little creepy. But ever since Zara started sitting with the theater kids at lunch instead of their usual table by the vending machines, Maya had been hyper-aware. She knew Zara's Spotify wrapped changed from indie pop to showtunes. She knew Zara was wearing different socks — mismatched ones, with little pizza slices and clouds. She knew Zara had dyed a tiny streak of purple in her hair that she hid behind her ear.

Things Zara would've told her, back when they were the kind of friend who shared everything.

Now Maya just watched from across the cafeteria, surreptitiously checking Zara's stories between classes, feeling like the world's lamest detective. Her phone battery was always at 15% by noon.

"You're literally obsessed," said Jace, sliding into the seat beside her. "It's giving 'former friend energy.'"

"Shut up," Maya muttered, but her palm was sweating against her phone case. "I'm just... concerned. She's different."

"People change, May. That's literally what high school is for."

The school's spring carnival rolled around two weeks later, and Maya spotted Zara heading toward the fortune teller booth — the one with the neon purple curtains and the handwritten sign that said PALM READING: $5 OR A SNACK.

Maya's feet moved before her brain could catch up.

"I'll go next," she announced, appearing behind Zara like she'd just materialized from the ether.

Zara jumped. "Maya! I didn't... I mean, hey."

The fortune teller was actually Mr. Harrison's niece from college — a sophomore with too much eyeliner and a collection of scarves. She took Maya's hand, traced the lines on her palm with a purple manicured fingernail.

"Hmm," she said, dramatically. "You're holding on to something. See this line? It's all clenched up."

Maya blinked. "What?"

"Your palm," the girl said. "You're gripping so hard you can't receive anything." She looked up, suddenly not dramatic at all. "Whatever you're trying to control — you can't. People have their own paths."

Zara was staring at her shoes. The purple streak caught the light.

"Oh," Maya said, very quietly.

She'd been so busy spying, so busy tracking every change, so convinced she was losing Zara, that she hadn't considered maybe Zara wasn't being lost. Maybe Zara was just becoming someone else, and Maya could either meet her there or stay stuck monitoring the version of Zara that didn't exist anymore.

"Your turn," Maya said to Zara, stepping back. "I'll pay."

Later, as they walked toward the ferris wheel, Zara said, "I miss you too, you know."

Maya's phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't check it.

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."