The Summer I Couldn't Read

I lied about reading palms at Sarah's party. Said I'd been practicing on YouTube, which was technically true—I'd watched three whole minutes of a tutorial before my dad called me down for dinner. But when Jake Morrison sat across from me and extended his hand, palm up like he was offering me something precious, my own palm started sweating against my jeans.

"So what's the deal?" Jake asked, grinning. Those dimples that made half the sophomore class forget their own names. "Am I gonna make varsity soccer or what?"

I stared at the lines on his hand. They looked like... lines. Just lines. But my brain supplied: *Your lifeline is strong, you'll live long, you'll have three kids and a golden retriever.* So I said it.

"Whoa," he breathed. "That's actually sick."

That was the moment I sealed my fate as the new psychic of Northwood High.

Meanwhile, my mom had decided papaya was the key to my academic success. Every morning: a papaya-vitamin smoothie that tasted like sunshine mixed with regret. The worst part? She'd started leaving little motivational notes on the blender. *Today's smoothie: Brain Power!* *Adding extra vitamin D for focus!* I tried pouring one down the sink once and caught our neighbor's golden retriever, Buster, lapping it up like it was gourmet.

"Don't judge me," I whispered to him. He licked papaya pulp off his nose. We were both victims here.

The real problem was the padel court. All the popular kids hung there after school—Jake included—and I'd promised Chloe I'd come watch her play, even though I had zero clue what padel even was. Something like tennis, but with walls?

"You coming Friday?" Jake asked at lunch, sliding into the seat next to me. My stomach did that traitorous flutter thing. "Chloe said you might."

"Maybe," I said, trying to match his casual energy. "If the planets align."

He laughed. "You and your psychic stuff. But seriously?" His hand found mine on the table, palm against palm. My heart kicked against my ribs. "I hope you do."

I showed up Friday with zero idea what I was walking into. Padel turned out to be tennis's cooler, younger cousin—racquets, walls, way more trash talk. Chloe dominated the court, yelling "LET'S GO" every time she scored. Jake sat on the bench beside me, our knees brushing.

"You're really good at the palm thing," he said, watching Chloe serve. "But you know what's actually crazy?"

"What?"

"You got the varsity prediction right. Made the team this morning."

I stared at him. "Wait, seriously?"

"Dead serious." He bumped my shoulder. "So what else did you see in my future?"

"I..." My face burned. "I might have made some stuff up. About the golden retriever. And three kids."

Jake was quiet for a second. Then: "That's actually terrifyingly accurate. My family's had goldens forever. And yeah, I want three kids someday." He looked at me, really looked at me. "You sure you didn't see anything else?"

Our hands found each other again. This time, I didn't need to fake anything.

"Maybe," I said, "but some prophecies are better left unspoken."

He smiled, and somewhere between the papaya smoothies and the palm reading lies, I realized I'd been telling myself the wrong story all along. This summer? It wasn't about predicting the future. It was about showing up for it—even if I had to fake my way there first.