The Unenchanted Tales of Jasmine White

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I am so horribly, horribly uncomfortable right now.

            To think that my mother, the rich, renowned celebrity model – Amy White, would have bought her daughter at least a ticket from a better airline, oh I was very wrong. I’m not saying I’m one of those brats that flaunters their parents’ money, because I’m not. I earn my own pocket-money by working at Taco Bell every Wednesdays and Fridays, when I’m not at practice. I travel by foot, for heaven’s sake, because I don’t have a car. I don’t even go for parties with my friends who saunter about in skimpy black dresses. They practically pounce on every chance to get close with boys because we study in an all-girls academy—Maple Wood Girls’ High. My mother would never have to worry about me hooking up with boys, because I don’t. The only interaction I’ll ever have with guys is during not-so-friendly matches with Jefferson Boys Soccer Team.

            And here I am, wedged between two obese men who reek of mayonnaise and armpit sweat, and are dangerously tipping towards me while they doze off, just because my mother didn’t want to buy me a more comfortable seat. As if I deserved this.

            I thought that my mother was spouting out a bunch of nonsense in a fit of anger – all those crap about sending me to some remote part of America to “make sure I don’t skip etiquette lessons anymore” and that I won’t be able to come back unless I prove to her that I’m ladylike enough to do so.

            It turned out, she was serious about it. Dead serious.

             The day after the big argument, I trudged back from school and conveniently swept the mail off our front doorstep. There was a letter addressed to me, and it was not from the principal about how my misbehavior in classes were not welcomed in the school grounds or how my pink streak had to go or else. Those, I could gladly ignore, but this letter seemed strange.

            As it turned out, it was a letter informing me about my flight to Tennessee and a bill attached to it.

            “That’s weird,” I muttered to myself, confusion settling between my eyebrows.” I didn’t book a ticket to—“ Then realization set in and with a sharp intake of air, I dashed into the house, pushing a surprised Julie aside.

            “Hey!” Julie yelled. “You spilt my drink, you idiot! Clean it up!”

            Tuning out her screams, I shouted back, “Have you seen Mom?”

            Julie gave me a roll of her eyes and pointed crossly at Mom’s bedroom door. Of course. Where would Mum be? I was so freaked out to the point that I couldn’t think straight. 

            I barged into Mom’s room, completely ignoring how Mom would always say, “Knock before you enter, that is only proper etiquette.” Etiquette, etiquette, etiquette. Who cares about stupid etiquette! The thought of that word made my blood boil.

            As expected, Mom was calmly lying on her bed, twirling a lock of her blonde hair between her fingers, with the other hand cupped against her ear as she talked into her phone. She barely raised her gaze at me and then abruptly ended the call.

            “Oh, Jasmine would be so delighted to hear that. Thanks so much, Jessica. I knew I could count on you. Talk to you later, love you!” Mom pressed her lips together to make a disgusting kissing sound and tapped her phone with her delicate long fingernail to end the call.

            I fought back the itch to pull every single manicured nail out of their roots.

            “Care to explain this?” I thrust the piece of paper out at her face, the top already crumpled by my grip. “And what would I be so delighted to hear?”