by Jessica Jung
An image of myself tackling her to the ground and yanking out her fake eyelashes flashes through my head. But Mr. Noh calls my name and I step forward onto center stage.
The spotlight falls on me. I can just imagine how my splotchy, half-made-up face looks in the glare. But I shove the insecurity aside and plaster a smile on my face, just like I’ve been trained to do. I bow to the execs, then straighten up. Head up. Legs turned in, ever so slightly. Tummy tucked, shoulders back. I smile wide—like the whole world is my best friend.
A few of them smile back, but most are blinking in confusion at my wardrobe choice and my rumpled hair.
Make them forget how you look and care only about how you move, I tell myself. Easier said than done, though. At least there are no cameras on me today, I think ruefully, remembering yesterday’s media class.
The music starts, one of Leah’s favorite Electric Flower songs, and my body immediately responds. It’s muscle memory. I’ve practiced this routine a thousand times. But my head is still pounding and I’m sloppy. I keep missing the beat, stepping left when I should be stepping right.
The frustration is building in my chest, weighing me down even more. I’m getting too much in my own head, but the more I try to let go, the worse it gets. I can’t get my movements to pop as much or my legs to kick as high. By the time I land the last offbeat step, I’m out of breath and a light sheen of sweat dots my forehead. I fight the urge to wipe it away. Don’t bring more attention to your flaws. K-pop dancing is all about luring listeners into the song—but by the expressions on the execs’ faces, ranging from awkwardly smiling to looking like they want to run out of the auditorium screaming, I know I’ve done the exact opposite.
“Ouch,” Mina whispers to me as I retake my spot in line. “That wasn’t pretty.” She leans in to take an exaggerated whiff of my breath and gasps. “Omo, are you hungover? You really shouldn’t party so much the night before an important day like this. Or at least brush your teeth.”
I don’t look at her, but I’m absolutely seething. I will not stoop to her level.
Still. The image of ripping into her hair is the only thing keeping me from screaming onstage. I wouldn’t take it all, just a big patch at the front so she’s half-bald for a few weeks.
One by one, the girls go up to dance. Akari is graceful as always and, as much as I hate to admit it, Mina is the best of the bunch, her powerful moves hurtling her across the stage in perfect time to the music. Some of the girls make little mistakes, but none as badly as me. It’s quickly becoming apparent that I’m the worst.
I’m never the worst.
I can’t afford to be the worst.
I don’t come alive in front of the camera, shiny and adorable like Mina and so many of the other trainees. When I first got recruited to DB, I was so excited—a whole program full of kids who felt the same way about K-pop and Korea as I did—or so I thought. It wasn’t long before the constant “Princess Rachel” insults and subtle comments about my American background made me feel just as rejected as I used to feel back home in the States. Their words were like this constant buzzing in my brain. While Mina and her minions strutted around in front of the cameras with this innate sense of belonging, when the camera was on me, that buzzing was all I could hear. Even after years of training, I still feel like the camera is my enemy—reminding me of all the people out there who look at my face and think, She doesn’t belong here. So, instead, I focused on my skills, making them as close to flawless as possible—not one step offbeat, not one note out of key. And so far it’s worked. I may not be perfect, but I’m talented enough that month after month, year after year, I’ve earned my spot.
And now it could all come crashing down. Will this be the end for me? Will I get kicked out of the trainee program? I try to tell myself to calm down, that they have to take my past performances into account, but I’m lying to myself. One year they cut a girl because she wouldn’t agree to get double eyelid surgery. Another year they cut an entire trainee group for posting a single picture on Instagram. They can do whatever they want, whenever they want. And they are ruthless.
A lump wells up in my throat, and I struggle to swallow it down. Crying onstage—showing any emotion of any kind—will only further anger the execs.
I take another deep breath as they call me up again to sing. This is my time to redeem myself. I have to be the best I’ve ever been, right now, or it’s over.
Someone hands me a microphone as the instrumental starts. It’s a slow song, a K-pop classic from the early 2000s. I take a deep breath and start to sing and my voice cracks on the first note, the trapped emotion coming out and bumping me off-key. The execs’ faces are unreadable, but one of them is clearly trying not to wince. No. I can’t let this happen. I won’t.
I close my eyes and keep going. I think of that day in bed when I was a kid, watching K-pop videos with my mom. How growing up, Leah and I would go to the whispering gallery at Grand Central every chance we got, whispering the songs to each other, back and forth, for hours. And then, when I was a newbie trainee, how Yujin would pick me up after school and take me to her favorite noraebang, the two of us singing cheesy K-pop love ballads from the early ’90s all afternoon. Since I was a kid, music has been my happy place. K-pop has always been there for me, showing me my place in the world, giving me a reason to be proud of who I was even when the world told me I shouldn’t be. Through everything, it has always felt right. Felt like a part of me.
I’m finding my stride now, my voice riding the melody like a surfer on the waves. And that’s when I finally find it. The joy. The reason I’m doing all this. Despite my pounding head, I hold on to that spark, my face breaking into a smile as I continue to sing.
Just as I hit the chorus, I hear a brilliant harmony float alongside my own voice. Everyone in the audience gasps. What’s happening? Am I having a hangover hallucination? But it’s not my voice. It’s a deep male tenor, and when I turn my head, I see Jason emerge from backstage, singing along with me.
I’m stunned, but it doesn’t break my flow. In fact, his voice is like another strong wave, carrying me further into the song, lifting me higher. He takes a look at my pajamas and raises his eyebrows at me like he’s remembering an inside joke. We don’t break eye contact as our voices intertwine and blend together. He takes a step toward me from the other side of stage. Even without a microphone, his voice soars, complementing mine perfectly. I take a step forward to match him. The space between us feels charged somehow, our voices crashing together, lighting up the stage like lightning in the night sky. The entire auditorium is holding their breath, watching us.
A surprising thought flashes through my mind. We are meant to sing together.
We walk toward each other until the space between us is no more than a finger. He’s almost as close as when I fell into his back yesterday. Or when he pulled my body into his on the couch.
He leans forward, and I can see the deep golden brown of his irises. They’re locked on to me as he lets the microphone I’m holding pick up his voice. We’re truly singing together now. Perfectly harmonized, perfectly joined.
He wraps his arm around my waist as the music slowly fades away, and together we sing the last line of the chorus. We smile at each other, breathing hard. His arms feel warm and strong around me, and for one moment silence hangs in the air.
Then the crowd erupts into applause and cheers. The other trainees and the junior trainers are cheering and clapping. Only Mina and her minions are silent and sullen.
I don’t know what that was, but it was some kind of magic. I smile, my heart beating in my chest, and Jason smiles back. Unlike his cocky grin from yesterday, this one is warm and makes my breath catch. It’s almost enough to make me forget how horrible I feel.
And then, without warning, my stomach lurches. It rolls and twists, and I barely have a second to think, Oh shit, before I throw up all over Jason’s white shoes.
Jason blinks and stares down at his previously pristine Ni
kes. The silence is static. Someone lets out a burst of laughter. I don’t need to look to guess who it is.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and my body convulses with another wave of nausea. I have to get out of here.
I race off the stage, stumbling out of the auditorium and tearing down the hallway to the nearest bathroom. I burst into a stall as I feel the acid and bile rise from my stomach. At least this time it’s into a toilet and not onto an international K-pop star’s shoes. Ugh.
I puke until I feel like there’s nothing left in me. I puke out the entire contents of my stomach and my pride.
Groaning, I curl up on the floor and drop my head into my knees, feeling absolutely miserable. I have no idea how clean these tiles are, but I don’t really care right now. I’m pretty sure that was the worst thing to happen onstage in all of DB history. I’m never going to be able to show my face here again. Goodbye, Jason. Goodbye, K-pop stardom.
The bathroom door opens, and I tense up inside my stall, curling into myself. I hear Eunji’s and Lizzie’s voices as they clatter around the sink, the sound of lip gloss tubes popping open.
“So, what’s your bet?” Lizzie asks.
“I can’t believe they didn’t cut her.”
They didn’t cut me. My body nearly crumples in relief.
“Mr. Noh said they didn’t cut anyone today because it was all about that duet with Jason.”
I hear a snap of gum and I can imagine Eunji pursing her lips.
“Did anyone catch it on camera? We should get someone to leak it on social media.”
Shit. Did someone film that disaster? I crane my ear to hear what Eunji says next.
“No, but trust me, the memory of it is vivid enough. It’s all anyone is going to talk about for months.”
Lizzie giggles and sighs. “You’re right. We should make T-shirts or something. ‘I survived the Princess Rachel Vomit Extravaganza of 2020.’ ”
Ugh. I really hope they don’t do that.
“I just wish I could have seen her face when the board picked Mina to do the duet with Jason,” Eunji says.
Of course. They chose Mina.
“She’ll find out soon enough, and her face will be priceless.”
“Let’s try to get a pic of it—we can put it on the T-shirt!”
Lizzie smacks her lips together. “Okay, enough Princess Rachel talk. Mr. Noh was looking right at me when he announced the autumn DB Family Tour.…”
Her voice fades into the background as my head snaps up—too quickly—and I cover my mouth as my body recoils from the sudden movement. I let out a soft groan. A new family tour. The first one in seven years.
DB is debuting a new girl group.
Suddenly all the pieces start to fall into place: Mina didn’t just want this duet. She wanted me out of the way. She must have known about the tour. And she knew whoever got to sing with Jason would have the best chance to debut before the tour started in the fall.
I hear the bathroom doors open. Laughter and shouts from the hallway fill the room before the doors shut. How can I go back out there? Lizzie’s right—this is all anyone is going to be talking about.
The more people are talking about you, the more you’re worth talking about. Jason’s words from last night ring in my head.
I stand up slowly, making my way to the mirror along the back wall. Someone pale and sweaty—and oh my god is that vomit on my shoulder?!—but determined stares back at me. Mina might think she got exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t get everything. I’m still here. And I’m going to make sure I’m worth talking about.
Five
“Look alive, Rachel!”
I duck, covering my face with my tennis racket as a fluorescent yellow ball whizzes over my head. Whew. That was close. I peek over my racket to see our newest tennis coach crossing her arms. Our school doesn’t really believe in gym teachers. Instead, we have a rotation of professional-athlete instructors—Adam Rippon for ice-skating, Katie Ledecky for swimming, Simone Biles for gymnastics. Right now I’m being scowled at by the sixteen-year-old Canadian wunderkind who just beat Serena Williams in the Australian Open and is on the most recent cover of Sports Illustrated and Vogue.
“The idea is to use your racket to hit the ball,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not use it like some kind of Captain America cosplay shield.”
“Sorry, Coach Sloat.” I straighten up, adjusting my white tennis skirt and matching white visor.
Most days when I’m at school, I’m counting down the minutes to the weekend, to getting back to DB and to training. I even have a countdown app on my phone set to 3:30 p.m. every Friday afternoon. But right now the app is on silent and school is an absolutely necessary distraction to keep me from constantly reliving the moment I threw up all over Jason, on a stage in front of every single trainee, trainer, and exec in DB.
It’s been three days, and the burn of embarrassment has faded from a raging fire threatening to engulf me from the inside out to a full-body sunburn. Still stinging and in need of some major damage control, but I’ll survive. Probably. As long as I don’t get taken out by a rogue tennis ball in gym class.
I jog over to the Cho twins, who are serving tennis balls into cones arranged around the court.
“Rachel, you’ve got terrible panda eyes,” Juhyun says, lowering her racket and leaning in to inspect my face. “I have Depuffing Raspberry Eye Gel in my locker. You can borrow it.”
“Are they really that bad?” I ask, touching my face self-consciously.
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if you said you had gotten into a fistfight with Mina and lost,” Hyeri jokes, serving a tennis ball perfectly into a cone. She pumps her fist in the air. “Ah-ssa! It’s all about the angles, baby.”
I sigh, stifling a yawn. “I wish a black eye was all Mina did to me. I haven’t been able to sleep since the Incident.”
“You have to stop replaying it in your mind,” Juhyun says. “Don’t think about how you totally flubbed your audition and threw up all over the most famous and adored K-pop star in the world.”
“Just his shoes,” I say defensively.
“Right, exactly. That’s not even that bad. Pristine white Nikes, was it?”
Hyeri sighs mournfully, raising her eyes to the sky. “RIP Jason Lee’s shoes. Your time came far too soon.”
The twins giggle behind their tennis rackets. I’m about to jab back, but I interrupt myself with a humongous yawn.
“Damn, you really have been staying up all night thinking about it, haven’t you?” Hyeri says.
“Not just thinking about it,” I say. Our coach walks by, and I pretend to swing my racket back and forth. She nods in approval and continues on. I slip my phone out of my tennis skirt and pop up a photo of Jason and Mina singing together on Instagram, holding it out to the twins. “Looking at it too. DB announced Jason and Mina’s duet.” I grimace. As their voices burst out of my phone, the only thing I can find to take solace in is the fact that Mina’s face has that squashed-in look I’m familiar with from six years of voice lessons with her—meaning she can’t quite hit the high notes in the chorus she’s singing with Jason. But clearly DB hasn’t noticed. Like all K-pop labels, DB has a zero-tolerance policy for social media (to go along with their zero-tolerance dating policy)—as in, trainees do not post and are not posted about, ever. On pain of being cut from the program and, if the rumors are true, shipped off to military school. If they shared this about Mina, that means they have some seriously big plans for this duet. And for her.
Hyeri scrolls through the comments, reading them out loud. “ ‘Daebak, I’ve been waiting my whole life for a Jason Lee solo. And this girl is sooo pretty!’ ”
“ ‘If she’s singing with Jason, she must be the best trainee at DB,’ ” Juhyun reads over her sister’s shoulder. “ ‘They look so good together. Imagine the babies they would make.’ ”
I groan, grabbing the phone back and shoving it in my pocket. “Please. I was up all
night reading the comments. I don’t need to hear them out loud.”
From across the court, Coach Sloat blows on her whistle. “Game time, girls! Tennis doubles. Line up for your turn.”
“Hey, Juhyun! Loved your video on wing-tip liquid liner last night.” Wan Somi smiles sweetly at the twins and squeezes into line between me and Hyeri, her tennis racket smacking me in the knees as she boxes me out.
I’m used to it. Seoul International School is one of the most exclusive private schools in Korea, educating the one percent of the country’s one percent: children of K-drama stars, government officials, and girls like Somi, whose parents and grandparents have run the Sitisung corporation for the last fifty years. She’s constantly sucking up to Juhyun and Hyeri, but with my lack of a trust fund and no heiress status to speak of, I’ve never been important enough for her to notice. Even my K-pop trainee status doesn’t get me on her radar. I take a swig from my water bottle when suddenly Somi whips around to face me.
“Hey, Rachel, I heard about the duet.”
I choke on my water. Wan Somi is talking to me? I glance over at the twins, who look as mystified as I do.
She purses her lips in mock pity. “Choo Mina’s the daughter of the C-MART president, right? We spent a summer with them in Provence once, when we were kids.” Of course you did. “Rich and talented.” She clucks her tongue at me. “That’s two for two, and you’re still at zero. And here I thought DB had standards for their K-pop trainees.”
Juhyun takes a step forward, looking ready to swing her tennis racket into Somi’s face, but gets pushed back by Goo Kyungmi, another classmate, as she hurls herself between me and Somi.
“Don’t listen to her, Rachel!” Kyungmi shouts. I stare at her in shock. Kyungmi is Juhyun’s biggest fan and is always offering to carry Juhyun’s books and her lunch tray and leaves little presents taped to her locker. Once she even brought a puppy to school for Juhyun to play with between classes, but the principal made her take it home when it peed all over the putting greens in the south lawn. But this is the first time she’s ever spoken to me.