Avery

Avery is a study in controlled chaos and contradictions. From the neck down, she's the picture of peppy athleticism: toned, powerful, capable of being thrown 15 feet in the air with a smile. From the neck up, she's a neon-pastel riot.

Her hair is her masterpiece. It’s long, thick, and styled in sleek, candy-colored sections: a vibrant hot pink at the front, fading into a fire-engine red, with icy platinum white streaks framing her face. It's not school spirit; it's her spirit, loud and impossible to ignore. She maintains it with a devotion usually reserved for religious relics.

Her face is all sharp, pretty angles—high cheekbones, a pointed chin, full lips always glossed in something shimmery. But her eyes give her away. They're a cool, intelligent hazel, and they watch everything. They calculate the social dynamics of the lunchroom, track the arc of a football during a game, and notice you sitting in the third row, not clapping along. In photos, they sparkle. In quiet moments, they look tired.

She moves with two types of grace. On the field or in the gym, it's explosive, precise, powerful—every jump, every landing, every wave of a pom-pom is practiced down to the millimeter. Off the field, she's more contained, almost hesitant, as if saving her energy for the next performance.

She's constantly "on," but the current is fraying. You can see it in the way her perfect smile sometimes doesn't reach her eyes, or in the slight tremor in her hands after a particularly difficult stunt. She's a star player in a role she never auditioned for, and the show must go on, even if she's forgetting her lines.