Three AM Palm Reader

The flashlight beam cut through Maya's basement like a lightsaber, illuminating 47 different takeout containers and one very judgmental calico cat. Mr. Whiskers sat on the sleeping bag, tail twitching, like he knew something we didn't.

"Okay, gimme," Maya said, grabbing my hand. She'd been up since Friday playing Zombie Apocalypse 7, which explained the purple half-circles under her eyes and the way she kept groaning "brains..." every time someone mentioned homework.

I hesitated. Maya was my best friend since seventh grade, but ever since high school started, she'd been different. More performative. Everything was content now.

"Your palm says..." Maya squinted dramatically, tracing a line with her thumb. "You're going to marry someone whose name starts with J."

"Jaxon from chem lab?" I snorted. "He called me 'dude' three times yesterday."

"The universe works in mysterious ways," she said, yawning so hard her jaw cracked. Mr. Whiskers chose that moment to abandon my sleeping bag and saunter toward the door, like he'd witnessed enough secondhand embarrassment for one night.

Something in my chest tightened. I wanted to tell her that I didn't care about Jaxon or anyone whose name started with J. I wanted to say that I missed when we could talk about real stuff instead of whatever would get the most likes. But the words stuck in my throat like gum.

Maya flipped my hand over. "Wait. This line... it's weirdly deep."

"Probably just from carrying my phone everywhere," I muttered.

"No, dummy." Her voice softened. "It means you've got... like, choices coming. Big ones. And you're scared you'll pick wrong."

The flashlight flickered. In that half-second of darkness, I realized she saw me. Really saw me, zombie brain and all.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Terrified."

Maya set down the flashlight and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like vanilla lip gloss and old popcorn. "Then we'll figure it out together. Not as Instagram besties. As actual, real-life friends."

Mr. Whiskers returned at dawn, curling up between us like a furry judgment zone. Some prophecies, I decided, were better left unspoken.