Thunder in My Palm

The spinach incident at lunch was supposed to be funny—Aurora caught it in my teeth with the precision of a surgeon—but my face burned like I'd swallowed embers. Third period humiliation complete.

"You're welcome," she whispered, sliding into the seat beside me in chemistry. Her palm brushed mine when she reached for a graduated cylinder. Just that. A brush. My heart did this stupid thing where it forgot how to beat.

Coach Miller was in full bull mode after school. "District qualifiers this Saturday! No excuses, no whining!" His spit landed on my track bag. "Marcus, you've been running like you're asleep. Wake up!"

I nodded, staring at the lightning forming behind the bleachers. Storms always made me jittery—or maybe it was the text I'd sent Aurora: *Want to hang before the meet?*

*Sure. My place. 7. Don't be weird.*

Don't be weird. Famous last words.

Her house smelled like cinnamon and something floral. We ended up on her front porch, watching the storm roll in. She grabbed my hand and started tracing lines on my palm.

"My sister taught me this," she said, tongue poking out. "Life line, head line, heart line..." Her finger stopped on a small crescent near my thumb. "This means you're gonna do something huge. Like, soon."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm never wrong about these things."

"That's such bull," I laughed, but my voice cracked.

Lightning cracked the sky open. We jumped, shoulders bumping. The rain started, cold and sudden, and we scrambled inside, soaking wet, breathless from nothing and everything.

"I'm nervous about Saturday," I admitted, dripping on her entryway rug.

"You'll be amazing," she said, and her hand found mine again. "I saw it in your palm, remember?"

The next day, I outran everyone. Coach Miller actually smiled. Aurora was waiting at the finish line, spinach-free and grinning like she'd never doubted me for a second.

Sometimes the universe gives you exactly what you need, wrapped in thunder and the touch of someone who sees everything before it happens.