Her mind kept returning to the night before her first major tournament 3 years ago. Her father had sat beside her on their worn couch, sensing her nervousness. "Everyone feels fear, Jazz," he'd said. "The trick isn't getting rid of it. It's making it work for you instead of against you.
How? She had asked. By remembering who you are, not who they say you are, who you know yourself to be. As the final bell rang, signaling the end of classes. Jasmine opened her eyes.
Her uniform was dry and her mind was clear. She carefully folded the Dobach and belt, placing them back in her bag alongside her father's chain. Tonight, she would remember who she truly was, and so would everyone else. The Oakidge Academy Performing Arts Center gleamed under spotlights, a monument to privilege draped in the school's blue and gold colors. Luxury cars lined the circular drive as families arrived for the annual showcase.
Women in designer dresses and men in tailored suits creating a parade of wealth. Inside the plush auditorium seats were filling with parents, alumni, and donors. The elite of the elite gathered to applaud their children's talents. Backstage, Jasmine slipped through the chaos of performers preparing, keeping to the shadows. She clutched her backpack tightly, the weight of her uniform and belt inside, grounding her against the rising tide of nerves.
Finding an empty dressing room, she quickly changed the familiar ritual of dawning her doough centering her mind and spirit. As she tied her belt with practiced precision, she took her father's gold chain and wrapped it around her wrist, securing it tightly. It wasn't traditional, but tonight wasn't about tradition alone. It was about bringing her whole self to the stage, honoring both her training and her history. The muffled sounds of the audience settling in vibrated through the walls.
A production assistant with a clipboard knocked on her door. 10 minutes to curtain. All performers to the green room, please. Jasmine nodded, taking one final look in the mirror. The person staring back seemed transformed, focused, powerful, unafraid.
She made her way to the green room where other students gathered in cocktail dresses, formal wear, and performance costumes. Their chatter died down as she entered, the white uniform drawing every eye. Whitney stood at the center of the room in an elaborate dance costume, her face carefully made up to project confidence. But Jasmine could see the slight tremor in her hands, the tension around her eyes. When Whitney spotted Jasmine, confusion crossed her face.
Quickly replaced by dismissal. "Are you working the event or something? " Whitney asked, eyeing the uniform with disdain. "Before Jasmine could respond," the stage manager entered. "Everyone, check the board for your performance order. Whitney Caldwell, you're up sixth.
Jay Taylor, you're 14th. " Whitney's head snapped toward Jasmine, realization dawning. "You're Jay Taylor? You entered the showcase? " Her incredulous laugh drew attention from others. With what? Some kind of karate thing?