The white dobok fabric now had a spreading stain. "What's this?" Allison asked, picking up Jasmine's belt before she could grab it. "Some kind of costume?

Are you in the showcase?" "Give it back," Jasmine said quietly, standing up. Something in her tone made Allison hesitate. She dropped the belt with a nervous laugh.

Whatever. It's probably for some weird cultural thing. Jasmine checked her father's gold chain, thankfully still safe in an interior pocket, and assessed the damage to her uniform. The water stain was noticeable, but would eventually dry.

The real question was whether it would dry in time. During her free period, she slipped into the empty girl's bathroom and used the hand dryer to blow hot air on the damp fabric. The noise attracted unwanted attention when Ms. Bennett, the guidance counselor, entered. Miss Taylor, what exactly are you doing?

Jasmine quickly stuffed the uniform back into her bag. Just drying something that got wet, ma'am. Miss Bennett's eyes narrowed. I understand you've entered the showcase tonight.

So they were monitoring her. Yes, ma'am. I hope you understand the sensitivity of your position here at Oakridge. The showcase is a tradition for our legacy families.

It would be unfortunate if anything disrupted that tradition. The threat was thinly veiled, but Jasmine met her gaze steadily. I'm just there to perform, ma'am, like everyone else. After Ms. Bennett left, Jasmine leaned against the sink, doubt creeping in.

Was she risking too much? The scholarship, their financial stability, her future, all for what? A moment of recognition, a chance to show her true self. As these thoughts swirled, her phone buzzed with a text from Ms. Powell.

Gym office is empty. Seventh period, if you need a quiet place to focus, keys under the mat. The small act of support steadied her. During seventh period, Jasmine slipped into the gym office, locking the door behind her.

She spread her uniform out to finish drying, then sat cross-legged on the floor, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing. 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, but 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 dobok 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 Oakridge 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 donning her dobok 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?

This isn't a community center talent show. Jasmine met her gaze calmly. It's taekwondo. And I guess we'll see what the judges think.

Whitney's face hardened. "My parents are the main sponsors. The judges know what's expected." She turned away, gathering her friends around her like armor.

The showcase began with a classical piano piece performed by a senior whose family had donated the music wing. Polite applause followed, setting the pattern for the early performances. Technically proficient displays of privileged talents, violin solos, ballet routines, operatic vocals. Each met with appropriate appreciation from the audience of parents and patrons.