by Lyla Lee
I’m back to watching people perform on TV again when I get a text.
HENRY CHO: How are you holding up? Is it time for you to go yet?
ME: Not yet. Trying not to let my nerves get to me. How about you?
HENRY CHO: Just left for the venue rn. Dance performances start right after you guys finish.
My heart aches a little bit at the mention of dance. But I still try to be encouraging as I reply to Henry.
Good luck! Lmk how it goes.
HENRY CHO: Will do. Good luck to you, too.
He sends me a picture of Snowball eating a dog popsicle, and I stifle a giggle.
ME: SO CUTE.
HENRY CHO: Looking at these pics makes me realize how much I spoil this dog.
ME: She deserves it!!!!
I smile to myself until, out of the corner of my eye, I spot Melinda scowling at me from across the room. Her face is full of accusations, as if she knows I’m texting Henry. I try to ignore her the best I can. I really don’t want any drama today.
But of course, at that moment, since this is that type of show, the stage manager walks into the room and says, “Skye and Melinda, you two are up. Please come stand by backstage.”
Why am I even surprised?
I suppress a groan as I follow Melinda out of the green room. It’s clear from the pairings today that the show producers did everything they could to make things as “dramatic” as possible. I’m honestly disappointed in myself for not expecting this.
If looks could electrocute people, Melinda would have fried me a hundred times over by the time we get onstage. I try to shake it off as best I can. I’ve already been eliminated from one part of the competition. I really can’t afford to be distracted now.
“Ladies,” Davey says after we reach our marks. “Here’s how this round will proceed. First, we will ask Melinda to sing. Then Skye. The judges will give evaluations for both of you after Skye finishes. The winner of this round will move on to become one of the top five vocalists for the final round of You’re My Shining Star.”
Unlike the other times I’ve stood onstage, the studio audience is completely silent, waiting in hushed anticipation as Melinda gets ready to sing. The moment the opening notes of her accompaniment begin to play, though, everybody—including me—gasps.
She’s singing “No One,” by Lee Hi, the artist I covered in the first round.
Oh no she didn’t! I can’t stop my jaw from dropping in disbelief, even with one camera trained on me to capture my reaction. Although it’s not as bad as singing a song by the same artist I’m singing today, it’s still pretty bad, and the audience’s reaction confirms it. For the first few lines, they remain completely silent.
I have to give it to her, though. Melinda’s Korean pronunciation is excellent, and she’s serving every bit of the sultriness that this song deserves. Swaying her hips back and forth to the beat, she’s soon got the audience captured in the spell of her fairylike soprano voice as she sings about being lonely at night. All the while, she looks straight at the camera with sexy confidence, like a teenage Victoria’s Secret model.
By the time Melinda reaches the chorus, everyone cheers for her, and a few guys at the front even drool as they watch her sing. I try not to grimace too noticeably on camera. Melinda’s song choice, the audience’s reactions . . . it’s all a bit too much.
I have to win against Melinda, I think. I have to.
But even as I try to focus, my vision starts blurring under the hot stage lights.
“. . . Skye?”
At the sound of my name, I jerk back to attention. Melinda’s finished singing, and the judges, the audience, the cameras, everyone, is staring at me. I want to scream. How could I have let myself be so overwhelmed?
“It’s your turn,” Mr. Park says in a slightly annoyed tone. He’s probably thinking about how I’m bringing shame on him as his mentee.
“Right.” I nod, indicating that I’m ready to start.
“Next up is Skye Shin!” Davey announces.
The opening flute notes of Chungha’s “Gotta Go” start playing, and I let out a quick breath before I come in. I can’t pull off wispy fairy magic like Melinda can, but sexy confidence? I can do sexy confidence.
Snapping my fingers to the beat, I come in at my cue, trying my best to convey the wistfulness of having to leave the love of your life at midnight. I sing, letting the music take over me so I’m completely lost in it by the time I hit the chorus.
Chungha is such a dance-focused artist, so I can’t help but break into some of the choreography as I sing the song, rocking my hips back and forth and waving my arms around my body. Bora raises her eyebrows, but Mr. Park watches me with a proud look in his eyes.
By the time I hit the bridge, the audience is roaring, and I spot a bunch of people dancing along with me in the audience. When I hit the high note toward the end of the song, I let my voice ring out in the theater to thunderous applause.
“There you have it, folks!” Davey says. “Melinda and Skye, two ladies of wondrous talent. Who will be asked to stay and who will be sent home?”
Mr. Park picks up the mic first.
“Miss Shin,” Mr. Park says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Well done. You made me proud today, no matter the result.”
Gary looks at Melinda, and then me.
“Wow,” he says. “This is a really hard choice to make. Melinda, you did an amazing job. This round was definitely not easy for you, with the language barrier and everything. And your rendition of Lee Hi’s song was so well done. You took all my tips and suggestions to heart.” He then turns to me. “Skye, you were phenomenal as usual. The emotion, the high notes, the sexiness. It was all there. This is going to be a really hard decision for me to make.”
He pauses, and in that moment, my heart feels like it’s about to collapse. Bora’s definitely not going to vote for me, so without Gary’s vote, I’m doomed. I close my eyes, praying to whoever’s out there that he’ll vote for me.
“Gah,” Gary says, sitting back in his seat. He waves at Davey. “Come back to me. I still need some time to process.”
When it’s her turn, Bora doesn’t even look at me. “Melinda, you were fantastic. You are truly talented.”
She then, of course, votes without hesitation for Melinda. My heartbeat grows louder and louder, and my ears are ringing by the time Gary picks up his mic again.
“Okay,” he says. “I think I’ve made my decision.”
“The anticipation is killing us!” Davey exclaims, and the audience roars in agreement. “Who will Gary vote for? Melinda or Skye?”
I know Davey’s only amping up the suspense because that’s his job, but at this moment, I want to hit him. As even more seconds pass, my legs start shaking, and I feel like I’m about to collapse onto the ground.
“Melinda,” Gary says.
My stomach drops.
“I am so proud of you. You’ve come so far.”
Melinda smiles.
But then Gary turns to look at me.
“But Skye, you were the superior singer tonight. I don’t think I can ever listen to the original song again without thinking of your version of it.”
Cheers erupt from the audience. Melinda starts screaming angrily, and she rushes forward like she’s about to attack me. Luckily, Davey steps in between us and holds up my arm.
“Congratulations, Skye!” he says. “You are the fourth member of the final five.”
He then turns to the cameras and says, “Remember: the final performance will be broadcast live and you—yes, you—will have the chance to vote for your favorite competitor to win You’re My Shining Star! December fifth, six p.m. PST, and December sixth, eleven a.m. KST, right here on SBC. Please tune in to vote for your fave!”
We’re then escorted offstage, with Melinda cursing at me the entire time. But I don’t care, because at that moment, I spot Henry waiting for me backstage.
“You did it!” he says. “You knocked Melinda out of this com
petition.”
My heart’s still pounding from the judges’ evaluations, and the huge smile on Henry’s face only makes it beat faster. Before I realize what’s happening, he wraps his arms around me in a big hug that makes me melt.
The cameras are all around us, but in this moment, I couldn’t care less.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Congrats, she’s gone.”
He laughs. “I’m the one who should be congratulating you. I’m so proud of you.”
“All dancers should remain in the green room!” the stage manager yells then, with a pointed look at Henry.
He lets go of me and says, “Hey, listen. Let’s hang out soon. I’ll text you, okay? There’s somewhere I really want to take you.”
“Okay,” I reply, trying to keep it cool despite the blush burning on my face. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Henry gives me his genuine lopsided grin before leaving backstage.
Chapter Thirty-One
COMPARED TO HOW JAM-PACKED THE LAST month was, the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving break crawl on by. In my new moments of free time, I find myself checking social media. Before, I occasionally saw a post or tweet because my school friends linked me to them. But this is the first time since the premiere that I let myself fully immerse in Twitter and Instagram.
When Clarissa learns I’ve lifted my self-imposed social media ban, she shows me the #QueenSkyeFanClub hashtag, with which so many other plus-size girls from all over the world have posted personal messages about how I inspire them. I really want to reply to everyone and tell them how much they mean to me, but Rebecca stops me.
“It’s better not to engage,” she warns. “They’re not your friends. At best, they’re fans. And fans can turn nasty at any second.”
“Yeah,” Clarissa chimes in. “Think about how quickly people cancel celebrities on social media. It’s a real thing!”
My friends’ advice, as always, makes a lot of sense. So, for the time being, I don’t reply to any of the tweets or mentions on Instagram.
All the attention is bizarre and makes me feel so grateful, but I also feel incredibly guilty because no one—not even my school friends—knows that I got eliminated from dance after my performance with Henry. Not yet, anyway. That episode premieres tomorrow night.
I can’t stop thinking about what it’ll look like when I get eliminated—even if it’s just from one category—after standing up against Bora. I’m worried that I might become another “lesson” to fat girls who might be too afraid to stand up for themselves.
I lie in bed and find myself scrolling through Instagram, looking at posts from people who are still in the dance portion of the competition. Henry’s last post was of him lying on the floor of his rented studio, looking flawless as ever, with the caption “brief respite after a long day.” Imani’s was of her stretching at a barre with some of her ballet friends. I finally stop.
It’s embarrassingly late by the time I close Instagram. Luckily, it’s a Friday night, so it sucks less than it would if it were a school night. But still, I have practice tomorrow morning, so I could use the rest.
I’m about to go to sleep when I notice I have unread notifications. The most recent one is from Henry, who sent me a funny dog meme several hours ago.
It’s been so long since he sent the meme that I don’t know how to respond. I type “LOLLLLL,” then delete it and write something less cringey. Before I can hit Send, though, a speech bubble with three dots appears.
HENRY CHO: You still up?
I bolt up into a sitting position and stare at the text, feeling kind of embarrassed that Henry saw me struggle with a response. I take a few quick breaths before replying.
Yeah, couldn’t sleep. They’re broadcasting the episode with our dance performance tomorrow.
HENRY CHO: I know.
There’s a pause, and the three dots fade in and out again like Henry’s trying to figure out what to say. My heart is about to burst from the anticipation when finally, I get another text.
HENRY CHO: Do you want to go up to the Griffith Observatory tonight?
For a long beat, I think I’ve misread the text. The Griffith Observatory is a little north of Hollywood, up on a hill near the Hollywood sign. Back when Dad lived at home, he used to take me hiking up to the observatory every month or so for father-daughter bonding time. On those Sunday mornings, Dad and I used to talk about anything and everything. It was one of my favorite things to do as a kid, but the last time I went up there was years ago, right before Dad moved to NorCal.
And now, Henry wants to spontaneously go there. At three a.m.
Uh, I’m sure it’s closed by now, I reply. And I live pretty far from LA.
HENRY CHO: I can pick you up. And the park around the observatory is open 24 hours. We just have to hike up there, but it’s not that bad. I’ll bring Snowball.
It’s the last line that wins me over. Or so I tell myself.
I just want to see Snowball, I think over and over again. I try to keep it casual as I reply.
Cool! Text me when you’re here.
Henry sends back a smiley face and a thumbs-up.
I rush back and forth in my room, doing my best not to make any noise. It’s chilly during the nights now—or at least as chilly as it gets in LA—so I change into a warm but cute pink sweatshirt and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
Dad is back home for the weekend, and his snores echo through the hallway as I sneak downstairs and out the back door. Three a.m. is like the only time in LA when there’s little or no traffic, so Henry gets to my house in less than an hour.
I was expecting him to show up in the SUV, but instead, he shows up in a sky-blue vintage convertible. He’s wearing a navy-blue leather jacket, and the outfit combined with the car makes him look like he’s from a fifties movie. Snowball’s sitting in the back seat, and in the dim twilight of the streetlights, the two of them in the convertible look like something out of my dreams.
“Are you for real?” I whisper when he stops in front of our house. Mom’s a pretty light sleeper, so I don’t want to wake her up. “Man, you really pull out all the stops when you’re trying to impress a girl.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” he whispers back with a grin. “It’s been a while.”
Henry leans over to open the passenger door. Snowball tackles me as soon as I’m seated and licks me all over my face. I hug her tight. Her white, fluffy fur is so soft and thick. I nestle my face against her as we pull onto the highway.
“The Suburban is Steve’s and I didn’t want to wake him or Portia this early in the morning. This is my actual car,” Henry explains. “It’s the first thing I bought when I signed my modeling contract. I only drive it late at night or early on weekend mornings when there’s no traffic, though. Getting stuck in LA traffic in a convertible is hell on earth.”
“Understandable.”
We go up the 5, which is pretty deserted at this hour. It’s cold enough that I’m glad I thought to wear a sweatshirt as Henry’s convertible speeds down the highway in the quiet of the night. It never snows in SoCal, but winter temperatures get down to forty degrees, and snow is visible on the peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains surrounding LA. The moon is out, and I can see the stars in the cloudless night sky.
Henry’s silent for the entire drive to the observatory, although he does turn on some Korean hip-hop and puts the volume on low. The music and the engine create a soft hum, and soon I find myself dozing off.
“Hey, we’re here.”
I wake up to find that Henry’s parked in a forested area. There are a few cars parked near us, despite the fact that it’s so late. Henry gets two flashlights from the back seat.
“Take one,” he says. “We’re going to need them to see during the hike up.”
We get out of the car and turn on the flashlights. Snowball jumps out too, and she rushes ahead of us as we slowly make our way up the hill.
“She always likes to go up ahead and wait for me at the top,” Henry
explains. “Let’s hope she doesn’t show up with a dead rabbit or something.”
“If she does, chances are, we won’t be able to see it.”
Other than the area lit by our flashlights, everything is pitch-dark. I can’t even see my own legs when I look down.
“Why does it feel like we’re about to bury a dead body?” I ask as we continue hiking.
Henry laughs. “The view is worth it, I promise. I always come up here late at night when I need a quiet space to think or relax. Here, take my hand.”
Before I know what’s happening, Henry’s leading me up the trail with his hand securely around mine. It’s nice and warm, and I’m glad that it’s too dark for him to see me blush.
I have no grasp on how long it takes for us to go up the hill because of the darkness. It feels like forever, especially since I have to be careful not to trip on the rocks in our path. But soon enough, I see a faint golden glow of the observatory up ahead. And I hear the jingle of Snowball’s tags.
“We probably only have a minute left now,” Henry says. “Snowball! Come here!”
The jingling grows louder, and without warning, I get a face full of dog slobber.
“Gross! Snowball!” I laugh and shine my flashlight down on her. She’s thankfully rabbit-free and looks up at me with what can only be described as a dog smile.
It kind of reminds me of Henry’s grin.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I tell her, petting her head.
“Skye, look up.”
I glance up, and the sight before me takes my breath away.
Bathed in golden light, the Griffith Observatory sits on top of the hill, just a few feet away from us. The observatory’s white walls and gray domes look pretty plain during the day, but now, lit up against the dark night sky, the building looks like it could be anything from a mystical temple to an alien spaceship about to take flight.
But the observatory isn’t the only beautiful thing we can see from up here. Behind the building is a stunning view of the Los Angeles skyline. LA isn’t an attractive city; it’s sprawling and messy, with the occasional searchlight and flashes of passing helicopters. But even though I know the city is really a mess, from up here in the hills, the gold and white lights of the skyscrapers and the buildings around them are stunning.