Powell agreed. But sometimes it's not about winning, it's about being seen. The conversation stayed with Jasmine as she walked home, the possibility taking root. If she entered the showcase and performed well enough, even if politics prevented her from winning, perhaps a video of her performance could help secure sponsorship for the championship. But just as this seed of hope began to grow, her phone exploded with notifications.
Whitney and her friends had created a fake social media profile using Jasmine's photo. The profile was filled with posts written in exaggerated slang reinforcing every stereotype about lowincome black students. Already half the school had seen it. Comments piling up with crying, laughing emojis. Jasmine's hands shook as she reported the fake account, knowing it would do no good.
The damage was already done. For the first time since arriving at Oakidge, she let herself cry. Not from sadness, but from pure incandescent rage. In that moment, her decision was made. She would enter the showcase.
She would show them exactly who Jasmine Taylor was, and they would never forget it. The girl's locker room was empty after school hours, or should have been. Jasmine, avoiding the usual afterchool crowd, had waited until the building was nearly deserted before retrieving her gym clothes. As she rounded the corner to her locker, hushed, panicked voices stopped her short. "I can't do it, Allison.
I've been practicing for weeks, and I still can't get it right. " Whitney's voice, stripped of its usual arrogance, sounded brittle with fear. "The showcase is in 3 weeks, Wit. Your parents are expecting you to win, especially since they're sponsoring it. Allison, Whitney's loyal second in command, sounded exasperated. Don't you think I know that?
Whitney hissed. If I don't win, my father will cut my allowance. And if anyone finds out I copied the routine from that viral video. Jasmine pressed herself against the wall, barely breathing. No one will know, Allison reassured her.
Just keep practicing. Your parents practically own this school. The judges won't dare give first place to anyone else. Their voices faded as they moved toward the exit. Jasmine remained frozen, processing what she'd overheard.
Whitney, for all her bravado, was a fraud and terrified of being exposed. That night, Jasmine sat at their small kitchen table, the showcase entry form glowing on her laptop screen. Her finger hovered over the submit button. If she entered, she risked everything. Her scholarship, her invisibility, perhaps even her future.
But the $2,500 prize could change everything, opening the door to the national championship and potential college scholarships beyond. She thought of Whitney's panic in the locker room, of Ms. Powell's challenge, of Master Park's belief in her abilities. Taking a deep breath, she typed J. Taylor into the name field, anonymous enough that Whitney wouldn't recognize it until the actual performance, and clicked submit.