by Shyla Colt
“Thank you.” The words are the encouragement I need.
“Now that I know what you’re packing for ...” Ava picks up my duffle bag and turns it upside down.
“Hey.”
“I can’t let you go like this.” Rolling her eyes, she points at me. “You want to catch their eye and tell a story with your clothing.”
“What story am I trying to tell?”
“I’m interesting, chic.” She strikes a pose and then bats her eyelashes. “And doing this for my baby sister.”
“And you know how to tell all of that with clothing?” I ask skeptically.
“You may be a magician with a make-up brush, but I’m a surgeon with articles of clothing.” She skips over to my closet, and I feel a spike of fear. I’ve never been as daring as my eldest friend. When it comes to my face, I’m fearless. I enjoy trying bold colors, putting sparkles on everything when I’m in the mood. Distorting or accentuating different features is a challenge I strive to reach. I don’t limit myself to fashion beauty, I enjoy theatrical and horror looks as well. It’s where I express myself and purge the good and bad vibes that come out of me.
Clothes drift onto my bed as Ava turns into a mad scientist, mixing and matching to create a vision only she sees. She shakes a sheer, white dress with white polka dots overlaying the white dress.
“I haven’t worn that in years.”
“Mmhmm.” She holds it up to me. “Hold this.” I press it to my body, and she pulls down my hat boxes. Resting the pink and white striped bins on the bed, she riffles through them. She chooses a straw hat with a ruffled edge and a pink strip of leather around it with a buckle. Plopping it on my head, she gathers my hair in two fists. “With pigtails and light, fresh make-up, but highlighted freckles.” She hums. “Shoes. Shoes. Shoes.” Turning, she moves to the bottom of my closet. She holds up a pair of white canvas shoes. “This is it.”
I glance down and frown. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I feel it.” She grabs her breast, referencing one of our favorite movies, and I laugh.
“Oh yeah? Your tit is tingling, and it’s saying this is going to earn me a spot on the show?”
“Yes, it is.” She bobs her head, cartoonishly.
“Lies,” I say in a sing-song voice.
“Facts.” She taps the end of my nose.
“Fine,” I concede.
“Excellent.” Rubbing her hands together, she beams. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
“Brat.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “This is how I feel when you use your common sense and logic on me.”
“That’s different.”
“Seems like a bit of poetic justice to me.”
“Evil woman.” I carefully fold the dress and place it into my bag. “Happy?”
“Very.” She starts to put back the clothing, and I repack the essentials.
“Are you guys going to make a weekend of it?”
“I think getting away for a bit would be nice. The walls here hold ghosts. Every corner is a trigger for a memory, and each person looks at us with pity.” I glance at the family picture that rests on my dresser from happier times. “It’s hard to move forward when it feels like your surroundings are keeping you in the past.” I place my hand over the top of the clothing piled in the bag.
“I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but I’m here to help, however I can.”
I look at her and smile. “You do that by continuing to treat me the same and never judging me.”
“This will always be a safe space.”
“And I love you for that.”
“I love you back. Are you sure you’re up to doing this?” Concern leaks into her voice.
“Yeah. It just ... hits me all at once out of nowhere sometimes.” I blink back the tears and inhale. “You sure you can’t get out of your shift on Saturday?”
“I think this is a trip you and your baby sister need to take alone. It’ll be good for both of you. Plus, we have a gig that evening.”
I swallow down the words that will voice the doubts and concerns about not being enough for Fiona. The tiny part of me that feels my mother’s shoes are too big for anyone to ever fill.
YOON
Being in America should be exciting. Yet, all I can feel is bone-deep exhaustion. Our filming schedule on top of promotions has us bustling back and forth. It takes a lot of energy to smile, charm, and look good, all while attempting to interpret. It’s more than a language barrier. I speak English adequately. It’s the manners and traditions that are difficult to master. Americans are very different from Koreans. Comprehending what they’re saying doesn’t equate to what they may mean. It makes me appreciate the obvious hierarchy of my country.
“Yoon, how do you feel about Austin?” My manager, Sang-Hoon, holds a pretend microphone up to me.
“It would seem—”
“No, this is America. They don’t phrase things that way. We must respect our culture but adapt to our new surroundings.”
“Yes.” My stomach twists and growls. I can’t look ignorant in front of others. It’ll upset Sang-Hoon and the company. We’re here to make a good impression.
“Try again,” Sang-Hoon insists.
I clear my throat. “What I’ve seen of it has been beautiful, and you’ve all been very welcoming. Thank you.”
“Good.” He grunts. “Do you have a significant other?”
“No, my work keeps me very busy. Currently, my main focus is on making the best show I can for my fans.”
The manager gives me a thumbs-up. “Excellent. What do you look for in a woman?”
I fight the urge to flinch. It’s such an invasive question. Hollywood here seems to have an obsession without the romantic relationships of stars.
“I enjoy a woman with a sweet spirit who likes music and reading.”
“Very nice. Continue to keep it vague, so anyone out there can picture themselves as the one who gains your attention.”
The pilot gives the fifteen-minute warning ’til landing, and blessed silence falls as Sang-Hoon begins to gather his things.
The plane lands. Flight attendants in peacock blue dresses and pointed hats begin to unbuckle their flight seats. We come to a stop. They’re immediately on their feet, flashing blinding white smiles as they stow their seats. Black heels accentuate their shapely legs, and the dresses highlight their slender frames. Their beauty does nothing for me. Working in a world built around an image, I’m trapped by expectations and craving someone real.
A dark-haired attendant with olive-toned skin and a round face sends me a suggestive look and winks. I avert my eyes, ignoring her subtle invitation. I won’t find a sincere connection hooking up with a stranger I’ll never see again. I’d be a feather in her cap she can brag to her friends and coworkers about. I’ve seen lives ruined by bad press and rumors. My career means more to me than that. I refuse to put myself in another comprising position again. My stomach sours as I think about her.
I always had strong emotions buried deep inside of me. First music, and later drama allowed me to express them acceptably. After six years as an idol in a K-Pop group, where I was told when to wake, how much I could eat, and the proper way to act, I wasn’t sure who I was.
The door lowers, and people scramble for their things, hurrying to the aisle way, where they line up to deboard. I tense, bouncing my leg as I lean forward in my seat. Traveling through public places makes me nervous. Wide-open spaces make it easy for crowds to get out of hand.
Our stylist, Cho, clucks her tongue from the seat across from me.
“Neither of you can be seen like this. Let me give you a quick touch up.” Spritzing water onto my costar, Jiwoo Park’s hair, Cho begins to work through it with a wide paddle brush. “We must always look our best in public.”
“It seems to me that you are right, Cho,” Jiwoo agrees.
“We owe them a great debt. Their love for you makes this possible,” Sang says.
As if I needed a reminder.
“Yoon. Wipe your face with a calming cleanser wipe to prepare it for hydration and concealer,” Cho commands.
I take the green packet of wipes from her and wipe off the travel grime and remnants of make-up. I place the used wipe into the airsick bag and use a hydrating spray. Men aren’t exempt from the impossibly high standards of beauty. If I want to keep my contract with the skincare line, I can’t look ragged. I glance over to see Jiwoo’s transformation. She’s gone from looking run down to resembling a living porcelain doll. Fluttering her false lashes, she smiles coyly.
“Ahh. You’re ready.” Cho nods her approval.
Cho slips from her seat beside Jiwoo and comes over to me. She tilts my head roughly to the left. “Make sure you’re drinking enough water. Close your eyes.” Her cold fingers dab heavily under my eyes. I flinch as she does a quick cover job. “Purse your lips. That’s it.” The nude gloss rolls on smoothly, and she pats my shoulders. “Now, you are ready to be seen.”
Smoke and mirrors.
Finally, we line up to exit the plane. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, feeling like a zombie with my heavy limbs and lids.
“Remember, there may be fans who’ve waited to see you. We want to give them the best impression we can, so remember to smile and spread happiness.”
Fans. Everything we do is for them, and still, they love us with a stifling intensity. I fix a believable smile onto my face as I blink to bring back moisture to my eyes. It’s a little past five in the morning. The sun is starting to peak up on the horizon as we exit. Already, heat rises up from the concrete—sweat beads on the back of my neck and on my forehead. I take in the barren area, unimpressed. I thought I would see rolling green hills. Everything is supposed to be bigger in Texas, but the airport itself isn’t huge. A security team of eight guards clad in all black greets us.
“We have over fifty fans who’ve camped out overnight to see them. It’s more than the airport anticipated. We’ve done our best to create a clear path from here to the white van waiting to take you to your hotel. We held you back on the plane to allow time to load your suitcases.”
My heart pounds as we walk through the darkened space. I can hear the low murmur of voices already. Sweat coats the palms of my hands, and the muscles in my back tighten. My breath quickens as I remember the mauling that happened to me in the mall during my time in the K-Pop Band Super X.
The minute we pass the escalator that overlooks the floor below, high-pitched screaming begins. Cameras click, bright lights flash. I smile harder to mask my discomfort as we’re ushered into an elevator. The girls swarm around the yellow barrier railing like a group of fish. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Ding. The metal door opens. The security guards bark orders as they push forward ahead of us.
I wave, keeping my cool, the way I’ve been taught. The bodies surge forward, and the barriers become obsolete as they are climbed over and pushed aside. I go with the flow as we’re moved from left to right. A hand grabs my shirt. I push forward, and it gives, ripping. I duck down to avoid the reaching hands. A small hand slips between the guards’ bodies and grasps my hair. I bite the inside of my cheek ’til I bleed as she escapes with a DNA-laden prize.
“Run,” the guards yell.
Rushing forward to the van waiting with open doors, I throw my body across the bench as Jiwoo follows behind me, and the managers pile on next. The tires squeal as we pull away from the curb. I rest my head against the cool glass of the window, grateful to be out. My shoulders slump as the fatigue washes over me. The wheels on the road rock me to sleep. All too soon, my manager is shaking me away.
“Wake up, look alive. Even here, you might encounter fans,” Sang murmurs.
I shove down my negative emotions and follow my manager into the hotel. A few fans are seated around the front entrance with their mothers.
“Do you have time to sign an autograph, please? My daughters and I have been waiting here since yesterday,” the woman, who I assume is their mother, asks politely.
“Of course, we love our fans,” Sang replies.
Jinwoo and I bow and smile. “Thank you for welcoming us to Austin,” I say. The two girls, who can’t be more than fifteen, giggle and hold out their Secret Heiress posters. They’re wearing hand-decorated shirts with our faces on them. This is the type of interaction I prefer.
“You’re welcome. We love you, Yoon.” They move to Jinwoo. “You’re so pretty.”
“It would seem to me that you honor me with your words.” She bows, and they gush. She has a sweet spirit. It’s been a pleasure working with her on this series. I’m glad it was renewed for a second season. K-Dramas have been gaining success here in America, but not on this level. We’re paving the way for others. I’m proud of that. When one of us wins, we all win.
I DRINK MY WATER AND nod at the young girl nervously speaking into the microphone.
“My name is Snow Kim, and I’m eighteen years old. I want to compete because I love K-Drama, and I want to grow up to be an actress.” She’s adorable with large, brown eyes and sleek, black hair cut in bangs across her forehead and hanging around her shoulders. Her crooked smile is charming, and I can feel her excitement from here.
“My family and I watch to help me maintain my fluency in Korean. My parents moved here from Seoul when I was young, and I try my best to stay bilingual.”
“You’re doing an excellent job,” Jiwoo praises her. The translator repeats everything in English for the audience.
“Gam sa ham ni da.” Snow grins.
“What would you consider your talent to be?” the host asks.
“Singing.” Her tone is good, and she has the right attitude for the variety show style contest. She finishes her song, bows, and exits the stage.
“Number seventy-four.”
A slender woman with glowing brown skin walks forward in a white polka dot dress and steps onto the stage. She bows. I exchange surprised looks with Jiwoo. None of the other native Texans have adhered to our customs.
“Hello. My name is Hartley Warren, and I’m twenty-six, and I’m here for my sister. We lost our mother to cancer two days before her sixteenth birthday this year, and she’s grieved hard ever since.”
I sit up. This is the last thing I expected—an utterly selfless reason for competing.
“K-Drama brought joy and laughter back to her life. I want to win this contest, not for myself, but for her. Because she deserves it.”
“That’s very admirable, Hartley.” The petite host smiles.
“My sister is worth it.” She smiles, and I find myself enchanted.
“What is your talent?” Sang asks.
“Skin and beauty. I’m a make-up artist. I work for a department store and freelance for different events and occasions. I also make my own all-natural beauty products.”
Sang turns to me. “She would be a perfect match for our audience,” he whispers.
I nod.
“This must be why your skin is so flawless,” Jiwoo compliments.
“It seems to me that you flatter me,” she says softly.
“Aaaah.” Sang grins, and I know she’s in.
Hartley’s made a positive impression, and her cause is noble. Is it in her nature to continually be caring?
“Can you show us your talent?” Sang asks.
Hartley looks thoughtful. “I did bring my kit. I’d be happy to do a demonstration if someone volunteers.”
“I will go first.” The words are spoken before I can think it through.
“Yoon Kim is volunteering himself,” the host cries. The viewers cheer. “We’ll get the two of you settled in the back and send for your kit. I hope you’re ready to show us what you got.”
“You know it.” She winks. “Hwaiting.”
We return the good luck cry, and I think of all that I can ask her politely as I’m guided off the stage. They lead me to the green room, and I sit down on the couch, eager to meet the
woman who’s captured my attention. She walks in a few minutes later with a large, black case.
“Thank you for volunteering. I know it takes a lot to trust someone with your look. I promise to do no more than bring out the best version of you that already exists.”
I smile. “Most seek to cover up flaws.”
Her lips turn down at the corners. “I think our imperfections are what make us unique.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Hart.”
“Yoon.” I hesitate for a moment before holding out my hand. I’m in America, and this is their custom. A spark travels from her hand to mine. I peer up into her eyes and find an equally surprised expression on her face. She felt it, too.
Blinking, she clears her throat. “May I ask a couple of questions?”
“Yes.”
“Is it okay if I cleanse your face quickly to have a clean palette?”
The thought of her hands on me causes a shiver to snake its way up my spine. “Of course.”
Setting her case onto the table, she opens it. “Do you have any allergies?”
“None that I know of.”
She pulls out a spray bottle. “This is a rosewater and witch hazel with vitamin C. It’s wonderful for taking off make-up while adding moisture into the skin. Close your eyes for me.” She steps in front of me. Her scent is slightly sweet and inviting, and her hands are warm and gentle as they cleanse my face.
“You have beautiful skin.” Her warm breath caresses my face, and I catch a hint of mint.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I allow myself to relax. It’s the most peace I’ve had in days. A woman who inspires such a level of calm could be addicting, and that’s dangerous. People will do whatever they can to get close to celebrities and exploit them.
“Now I’m just adding a moisturizer. It’s all-natural and comprised mainly of shea butter, cocoa nut oil, jojoba oil, and a few other things I keep a secret.” It’s cool and smells lovely and herby. I exhale, relaxing into the light facial massage. “I’m just working it into your pores now.”
“That feels nice.”