Three Strikes at the Palm Reader

The plastic bag with the goldfish inside swung back and forth as I trudged toward the baseball field. Another carnival, another consolation prize because I couldn't knock down three milk bottles with a baseball. My little brother's goldfish, Finnick, stared at me through the plastic like I was the disappointment.

"You coming to practice?" Marcus called from the dugout. His voice carried that effortless confidence that made my palms sweat every time.

"Yeah," I managed, though I'd rather be anywhere else. Baseball wasn't my thing—never had been. But Dad kept signing me up, saying I'd "grow into it" like some magical puberty for athletic ability.

After practice—which was mostly me striking out while everyone else actually hit the ball—Tanya invited me to her party. Her parents were out, which meant the kind of chaos that only happens when seventeen-year-olds are unsupervised.

By midnight, someone had broken out a makeshift palm reader kit. "Come on, let me see your hand," Tanya giggled, grabbing my wrist. Her touch sent electricity through my arm, which was pathetic and I knew it.

"Love line's short," she announced dramatically. "But your life line... hmm."

My palm was sweating against hers. The goldfish bag sat on the counter behind her, Finnick still judging me.

"You're gonna do something unexpected," Tanya said, her eyes bright. "Something brave."

And then, without thinking, I did something unexpected. I told her I hated baseball. I told her I loved marine biology and wanted to study fish, not stand in a field missing balls I couldn't hit.

"That's the bravest thing I've heard all night," she whispered.

Later, walking home with Finnick, I realized something: first base wasn't the only place you could start fresh. Sometimes you had to drop the bat, pick up what you actually loved, and let your sweaty palms do what they were meant to do.

Finnick finally swam to the front of his bag, and I swear, he was nodding.