The Unenchanted Tales of Jasmine White

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“Hey, Pink-head! What’re you doing here?”

            Finn’s voice is so loud, but his nickname for me is so much louder. I whip my head around so fast I hear a faint crack at my neck.

            “Hey, Sweaty-Pits!” I call back, giving my best glare at Finn. “I have a name!”

            Finn laughs meanly and shrugs with too much effort. “A name obviously not worth remembering.”

            A growl reverberates in my throat. Putting my foot forward in a defense stance, we both have a one minute stare down. Neither of us will back down, though my eyes are tearing up. I will not admit defeat.

            Then, Finn’s girlfriend – Grace – steps in between us. (It’s almost a relief. I grunt indignantly, but I could feel my eyes going red and painful. Not that I’ll ever express my teeny weeny gratitude.)

            “You know her?” She spits, sizing me up, her eyes unabashedly flicking up and down my face and body. The words are injected with a large dose of venom; her unwavering glower cold and hard. She’s probably unhappy about the fact that I was making googly-eyes with her beloved boyfriend.  Ha. Ha-dee-ha-ha.

            “Bad karma from my past life.” I mumble under my breath as Finn snorts, “As if.”

            We both shoot daggers at each other from the corners of our eyes.

            Grace threateningly hovers her hand over Finn’s sweaty head, as if to claim her territory and tell me, “Hey. Mine. Back off.” Then, hesitantly, she tousles his wet hair. Beads of perspiration flies everywhere. Grace’s features scrunches up in obvious disgust, her hand discreetly rubbing against Finn’s sleeve (which is also wet).

            I hold back a laugh.

            “What are you doing here for, exactly?” Grace questions, her voice wary as she folds her arms.

            “For try-outs.” I tell her matter-of-factly.

            “Sorry, no empty slots.” She says almost immediately, pursing her lips together.  

            “But I thought that Mary had to be—” A girl pips, but Grace shushes her and sends her a dangerous look. The girl’s eyes darts to the floor as she cowers back.

            “No empty slots.” Grace repeats, pushing her torso forward in a mocking way. Her fingers and feet tap impatiently.

            “Trust me, you’ll want me after I show you my moves.” I smirk, sounding cocky but hopefully confident.

            “Trust me,” She parrots back, “There are no more—”

            “Let the girl try, for god’s sake.” A no-nonsense voice interjects. Grace shuts her mouth immediately. I turn to see a slightly buff, but toned woman. Her skin is a healthy tan, and her hair is cropped short. Yep. It’s the Coach. “Is this really the time to be picky? Under your lead, Grace, the team has never even made it to the semis. Don’t even get me started on nationals.”

            Grace’s fist clenches. The veins on her neck bulges in fury after being so blatantly insulted. So this girl is an empty vessel that makes too much noise.

            “But—” She protest mildly, but the Coach is already looking at me with expectant eyes. I see a reflection of my previous Coach’s proud smile in her face, and somehow, it makes a small smile flicker across my face too.