by Lyla Lee
The judges look expectantly at me, and suddenly, I’m back in our living room, watching a Korean talent show similar to You’re My Shining Star with Mom. Because Mom is a sucker for anything related to fame and glory, it was a sort of mother-daughter tradition for us to watch talent shows together whenever they were in season. Since Mom was always busy working, I looked forward to this special bonding time with her, even though she sometimes pointed out contestants to provide me with “extra motivation” to lose weight.
“Look, Haneul! Look how pretty that girl is!” she’d say. “Everyone loves her! You can be like that too. We just have to figure out a way to get you to exercise more and eat less!”
And of course, every time she said that, she’d be talking about yet another skinny girl with perfect makeup and impeccable fashion taste. A girl who was a size 0 and looked nothing like me.
But when I was in seventh grade, everything changed.
I exhale slowly and start talking.
“A few years ago, when I was in seventh grade,” I say, making direct eye contact with the judges, “a plus-size girl won a Korean talent competition similar to You’re My Shining Star. I was so happy because it finally felt like fat girls like me could do anything they wanted to do. But during the first year of her debut, the same girl changed right before my eyes. In each Instagram post, news photo, and TV appearance, she was thinner and thinner, until one day, there was a breaking news story about how the girl was hospitalized for malnutrition and exhaustion. When they interviewed her, she said it was ‘for her fans and her career,’ and my own mom used her as an example of what I could be like if I ‘tried a bit harder.’
“After that, I vowed to enter a K-pop competition and never change myself like that if I got in. That’s why I’m here now. I want to show people that it’s okay to not be model-thin and exhaust yourself to the point of hospitalization. That girl failed me, so I want to be my own hero.”
By the time I finish, the entire audience is silent.
Bora opens her mouth, looking like she’s about to protest, when Gary grabs his mic. He’s been so completely silent this entire time that I almost forgot there was a third judge.
“Well,” he says, giving me a huge smile, “you are clearly talented, so it’s a yes from me. While it’s true that the industry generally only has a . . . specific body type in mind, I think it’s time to shake things up a bit!”
He slams his hand on the round button in front of him, and sparks fly above my head.
Only a few people cheer.
From beside him, Bora rolls her eyes and mutters, “You are so American.”
She then turns to face me with a dead-set glare.
“Sorry, I’m going to have to say no,” says Bora. “It’s nothing personal, I’m just being realistic. Letting yourself gain weight like that signifies a lack of discipline. And being a K-pop star requires a lot of discipline and not that extra drumstick at the chicken place.”
Did she not listen to a word I just said? I bite my lip to stop myself from snapping back at her, reminding myself that this is going to be on TV. Everyone from all over Korea and other parts of the world will see if I yell at Bora and give her a piece of my mind. So instead of replying to what she said, I nod at her curtly, which is about as polite as I can be right now.
Everyone turns to look at Park Tae-Suk. His eyebrows are raised again, but now, he’s slightly grinning, like he heard a funny joke.
“Well, well,” he says. “I guess it’s down to me.”
I swallow. My hands are shaking, but I try not to show any nervousness on my face. The last thing I want is for my mom to comment on how scared I look when this episode airs. If she even watches this episode.
“You’re presenting me with an interesting conundrum, Miss Shin,” continues Park Tae-Suk. “On one hand, I think you are brave and definitely very talented. I totally agree with Gary there. But on the other hand, I also agree with Miss Jang. I know firsthand what kind of rigorous discipline is required to make it in this industry. We push our artists, unapologetically, because we expect them to be superstars of not just Korea but the entire world. And like I said before, not everyone can handle that. In fact, most people can’t. You’re not the first plus-size girl to stand up on that stage and tell me that you can handle the pressure. Many have gone into training before you and ended up dropping out. How can I trust that you will be different?”
“I won’t quit.” I clutch the mic tightly between my hands, trying to think of what I could say that’ll convince Park Tae-Suk to believe in me.
“If I quit,” I continue at last, “I’ll have to admit to my mom that she was right after all these years. And that’ll never happen.”
“Right about what?”
“That fat girls like me can’t dance. That fat girls like me can’t be up here onstage killing it like everyone else. You just saw me up here. You know I’m good. You said it yourself. So, please, just give me a chance. I can do way better than I did today. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
A quirk appears in the corner of Park Tae-Suk’s lips. It’s almost a grin. “Is that so?”
I nod, because I’ve already said everything I could think of saying. My brain and heart feel empty now, as if I’ve poured out my entire soul.
From beside him, Bora shakes her head. The two whisper to each other for what seems like an eternity. Park Tae-Suk frowns, and my heart sinks. I brace myself, expecting the worst as he finally turns to face me.
“You better prove your mother wrong, Miss Shin,” says Park Tae-Suk. “Because you just made it into You’re My Shining Star.”
He slams his hand down on the button in front of him, and for a moment, all I can see are bright lights.
Chapter Four
ON MY WAY OUT, I SPOT LANA, WHO’S STILL AT the front of the vocals line.
“You were ah-mazing,” she says, drawing out the last word. “Everyone in line was cheering for you. No one could take their eyes off the TV screens! And that speech you gave at the end? A masterpiece. Did you rehearse that ahead of time? Because, man, if they don’t use that as one of the highlight features for the audition episodes, they really don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Nah,” I say. “It all just came tumbling out. And honestly, that seems unlikely. Let’s be real. There’s probably going to be a fifteen-minute feature just on Henry Cho.”
Lana snorts. “True. You should have seen what happened after you left. Everyone insisted that Henry cut to the front of the line. It was either that or they were acting like they were best friends with him and saying they ‘saved a spot for him’ or something. Thankfully, Henry just opted to go wait in the auditorium, but it was still one of the most pathetic things I’ve ever seen.”
“Ugh. Meanwhile I stood in line at seven a.m. just to get my spot.”
“Yeah, and thank God you got in! Tiffany and I had to wait in line outside for a long time too, but luckily we could switch off when one of us needed to go to the bathroom.”
Just when I process that Tiffany must be the name of her blue-haired friend, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I check the caller ID. Mom.
“I have to go,” I say. “Good luck with your audition and hopefully I’ll see you at practice!”
“See you,” she says with a smack of her gum. “And yeah, hopefully. Hey, want to exchange numbers? I’ll text you if I make it in, I guess, since the show isn’t airing until October.”
“Sure.”
I hand her my phone, feeling reassured that if Lana makes it in, I’ll at the very least have one friend in this competition. Even though I know friendships are usually short-lived in cutthroat competitions like You’re My Shining Star, it still makes me feel a bit better that I won’t be going into all of this alone.
Plus, she’s really pretty in a way that makes my bi heart squeeze a little. If I were allowed to date girls, and if my parents knew I wasn’t straight, I’d totally date her.
A hand with black-painted n
ails reaches out and plucks my phone from Lana’s grasp. I follow the hand up to see the girl with the blue bob—Tiffany, my brain reminds me.
“What’s this?” she says. “Lana, you’re not cheating on me, are you?”
Her voice sounds like she’s joking, but her eyes are wary as they flicker toward me.
“Of course not, sweetie.” Lana gives the girl a light peck on the cheek. “Tiffany, this is Skye. Skye, this is Tiffany, my girlfriend.”
Tiffany gives me a self-satisfied smirk as she slings her arm around Lana’s shoulders. I know it’s meant to make me jealous, but all I can think right now is: Oh my God, they’re queer like me!
I’m grinning really widely, and I can tell from Tiffany’s confused face that this isn’t the reaction she was expecting. But I can’t help it. I’m just that happy. The LGBTQ Students Association at our school has plenty of queer girls, but none of them are Asian except me. Although I know queer Asian girls exist somewhere, I was beginning to lose hope of the possibility that I’d ever find them.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, trying my best to not sound like a creep. I finally manage to control my face so I’m no longer giving them a weird grin, so there’s that, at least.
Tiffany crosses her arms.
“Okay, what’s up?” she says. “Why are you acting like this?”
Even Lana looks a bit concerned, although she doesn’t say anything herself.
“We don’t really have any other queer Asian girls at my school,” I say. “At least, none that are out. Sorry, I know I probably look like a weirdo, but it’s just so nice to see people like me. Like, freakin’ finally.”
Lana bites her lip, looking nervous for the first time since we met. “Oh,” she says. “We’re not exactly out. I mean, all of our friends know, and so do our families, but if we were really publicly out . . . I’m not sure if we’d even have a chance at this competition.”
“Wait, but then why did you tell me?”
Lana shrugs. “Figured we could trust you. Besides, the way you were looking at me? It wasn’t very hetero.”
“Oops.”
Both Lana and Tiffany burst out laughing. Despite my embarrassment, I join in, because there’s no denying that I was totally checking Lana out.
At that moment, a staff member calls Lana’s name.
She lets out a quick breath. Tiffany gives her a tight hug.
“Good luck, babe,” she says. “Sing your heart out.”
Lana smiles sweetly at her, then gives us both a little wave before heading to the stage.
I wave back. “Good luck!”
My phone vibrates again. Tiffany hands me back my phone.
Crap. I forgot about Mom.
I say goodbye to Tiffany and run out of the now-crowded building. The lines are now ten times longer than they were when I arrived.
“Haneul?” Mom’s voice is frantic and sharp with worry when I call her back. She’s the only person who still actively uses my Korean name, even though everyone else—including Dad—calls me Skye. “Your school called and said you didn’t show up today. What’s going on? Where are you?”
I sigh. Here we go.
“I just got out of an audition,” I tell her, since she’s bound to find out eventually.
A pause. “Did you try out for You’re My Shining Star?”
“You know about it?”
“I heard a few of my customers talk about it. There was a spike in the number of appointments in the past few weeks since everyone wanted their skin to be in the best condition for the competition.”
“Oh.”
“Well? Did you get in?”
For a split second, I consider lying to Mom. I’m still kind of jittery from my audition, so I don’t want to have this conversation with her at this very moment. But not telling her the truth now will probably only make things harder for me later on, especially since I’ll have to attend the rehearsals every week. So, I slowly say, “Yeah.”
“Oh, Haneul!” Mom says. The happiness in her voice is so genuine that it startles me. “I always said you have a good voice. You could be the Korean Adele!”
I wince.
“I didn’t just audition for singing,” I say. “I also auditioned for dance. I got in for both.”
Silence. Any other parent would probably be even prouder of me, since it’s twice as hard to get in for both than to get in for one category. But Mom doesn’t say “I’m proud of you” or even “congrats.” Instead, she says, “Oh, I see.”
Her tone is completely different from just a few moments ago, when she’d been all bubbly and friendly. Instead, it’s eerily flat, like her voice always gets when she’s on the verge of yelling at me. But she doesn’t yell. She just stays silent, and I wish we weren’t talking on the phone so I could see the expression on her face.
“We can talk about it when I get to your studio,” I say, when it’s clear she isn’t going to say anything else. “I’m about to hop on the metro right now.”
“All right. See you soon.”
She’s going to try to talk me out of the competition. I can hear it in her voice. Before she can start, though, I hang up and run down the metro steps.
Mom’s studio is only one metro stop away, but on this simmering-hot day, even that short trip is pretty soul crushing. The train is full of sweaty people who look just as miserable as I do. It smells like pee and the seats are sticky, so I stand and wait for the train to come to my stop.
My mom is one of the top aestheticians in LA, which means that she gives facials and does makeup for everyone, from all our family friends to major celebrities. It’s how she single-handedly supported our family—working long, twelve-hour days six days a week—after Dad lost his job a few years back.
So, in a way, I get why she’s so obsessed about my appearance. Her job is to literally make people more beautiful. But it still stings that she never thinks I’m beautiful the way I am now.
By the time I walk over from the metro stop to Mom’s studio, it’s five p.m., but it’s still really hot and humid. I run inside, and I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven when the cool AC air hits my face.
“Uhseo ohsaeyo!” Sally, Mom’s secretary, greets me in cheery Korean. When she sees that it’s me, her expression immediately changes to one of an older sister worrying about her baby sister. I’m an only child, but Sally, who’s worked for Mom for five years and babysat me for the first two of those five, is the closest I have to an unni—an older sister. “Skye, are you okay? You weren’t walking outside, were you? It hit one hundred degrees today!”
“I was,” I groan.
“Were you really auditioning for You’re My Shining Star? Your school called, and I had to transfer the phone to your mom!”
I nod, too tired to talk anymore. My head’s starting to spin, so I plop myself down on one of the couches in the reception area. It’s super nice, and the fabric is just as soft and smooth as it was when we first got it. I’m still dripping with sweat, and I belatedly realize I’m probably going to leave sweat stains on the fabric. But Sally doesn’t say anything to stop me, and I’m too exhausted to get up.
“Did you get in?”
I nod again, vaguely surprised that Mom didn’t tell her. It occurs to me that she might be so ashamed of me that she won’t tell anyone. I feel sick, so I close my eyes.
“Here,” says Sally. Something cool touches my hand. I open my eyes to see Sally holding out a glass of cold water for me. “Your mom is with her last customer, but in the meantime, have some water. You really don’t look good.”
A prickle of discomfort rises up inside of me as I think about the many times I’ve seen American movies and Korean variety shows make fun of the “fat, sweaty kid.” In Korean shows especially, there are sometimes even laugh tracks and sweat droplets digitally drawn onto people’s faces so viewers at home can laugh at how out of shape and breathless the fat people are. Even though I’m usually comfortable in my own skin, and even though a skinny per
son would be just as sweaty in the sweltering heat as I am, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what Sally’s thinking when she says I “really don’t look good.”
I finish my water in just a few gulps, drinking so fast that I have to gasp for air when I’m done.
“Wow, that bad, huh?”
I nod, for what I hope is the last time. I love Sally, but sometimes she asks way too many questions. I rest my head back against the couch and close my eyes, pretending to fall asleep.
“Haneul-ah?”
I open my eyes at the sound of Mom’s voice. I’d fallen asleep for real.
“She must have gotten heat exhaustion,” says Sally. She hurriedly hands me more water.
I drink, slowly this time, wanting to make the glass of water last. As long as I’m drinking, I don’t have to talk to Mom.
In some ways, Mom and I are exactly the same, and in others, we can’t be more different. We have the same round, dark-brown eyes, the same button nose, and the same slightly wavy black hair. But she’s petite, while I’m big-boned and sturdy like Dad, and she still wears soft kohl eyeliner and lush pink lipstick like an ABG—an Asian baby girl—while I usually only wear a pastel pink lip gloss and light mascara. The only reason I’m wearing red lipstick and heavier makeup today is because I knew I was going to be up onstage.
The thought of my makeup nearly makes me groan. I’ve sweat so much that I probably look like a sad half-melted clown right now.
Mom grabs the wooden office chair from Sally’s desk and sets it down in front of me. When she’s seated, she says, “So. You skipped school to go to a K-pop audition. Which . . . okay, I just wish you would have told me in advance. I could have at least called the school to get you excused.”
“You wouldn’t have let me audition,” I say flatly. “Especially not for dance.”
“Well.” Mom huffs but doesn’t correct me. “I just don’t want you to make a fool out of yourself on TV, that’s all. Heavens, Haneul. Imagine what Karen-imo would say if she saw you galivanting onstage in—in that.” She pauses to wave her hand at my clothes for effect. “Or even all your imos and gomos in Korea!”