Shine

“Well, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I was worried you might miss the newbie bowing ceremony!”

I groan, stopping in my tracks. “Um, no. Please don’t make me go to that. You know I hate it.”

“Hate it or not, ‘the bowing ceremony represents family – and at DB, family comes first.’” Akari giggles, her face contorting into a disturbingly accurate replica of Mr Noh, DB Entertainment’s CEO – or, as he would say, the head of the tight-knit DB family. Ha. She wiggles her eyebrows. “Plus, I heard there’s catering.”

My stomach rumbles at the thought of food and I remember I haven’t eaten anything all day. “You should have led with that,” I say, letting her drag me down the hall. “You know I never say no to free food.”

“Who does?” Akari shouts as we step out into the main lobby. It’s teeming with people –trainees rushing to classes and staff rushing to their offices, prepping for the big Electric Flower concert in Busan next weekend. We pass the cafeteria – famous for being the only Michelin-starred corporate cafeteria in all of Asia. Even international superstars like Joe Jonas and Sophie Turner have come here just to eat the food. Too bad it’s wasted on most of the trainees and idols who are actually repped by DB, as we’re meticulously weighed each week. Can’t afford to pop out of our costumes onstage (sarcasm intended).

The auditorium is one of my favourite places on campus, all gleaming blond wood and faux-industrial iron chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. The stage rises dramatically in the centre of the room (to more accurately reflect the experience of a stadium tour, of course) with plush, velvet-covered seating surrounding it.

Mr Noh is already standing onstage with the new trainees lined up behind him as we slide into the first row of seats. I look at the kids onstage; they are fidgeting and smiling with the excited, nervous energy that other kids might feel on their first day of school. Mr Noh, tacky as ever in head-to-toe Prada, looks the way he always does: narrowed, critical eyes hidden behind mirror-tinted glasses, able to spot an underperforming trainee from a mile away, but with hands resting gently on the newbies’ shoulders in a failed attempt to seem fatherly.

As he drones on about the challenges that await this fresh batch of future K-pop stars, my eyes wander over to the food set up on tables at the side of the auditorium. It’s a lavish Western-style spread of prosciutto and fig sandwiches, rosewater doughnuts, and fruit platters bursting with fresh mango and lychee. A small group of DB execs and senior trainers have already set up camp around the banquet tables, stuffing their faces. I see a familiar flash of neon-pink hair among them and wave at Chung Yujin, DB’s head trainer. Yujin was the one who first scouted me while I was singing “Style” inside a noraebang in Myeong-dong. I was eleven years old, and Leah and I were visiting our halmoni in Seoul for the summer. I’m seventeen now and Yujin’s still the person at DB I look up to most – she’s my mentor, my unni. No one but Akari knows about our history, though, and how close we really are. Yujin always says my life as a K-pop trainee is already hard enough (what with Mr Noh’s interest in me and my special schedule), that she doesn’t want to pile on by telling everyone I’m her favourite. She waves back discreetly, pretending to look interested as a wrinkled old exec grabs her by the arm and starts gabbing in her ear. She catches my eye from across the auditorium and mouths, Help.

I giggle to myself, my eye sliding to a big orange-and-white sign displayed on the table: ON BEHALF OF CHOO MINA AND HER FATHER, WE ARE PROUD TO BE PART OF THE DB FAMILY. BON APPÉTIT!A My grin vanishes. Maybe I can say no to free food after all.

“I think I just lost my appetite,” I say flatly.

Akari follows my eyes to the sign. “Oh,” she says. She laughs, trying to lighten my mood. “Come on, Mina’s not that bad.”

“Remember what happened at my bowing ceremony?”

Akari smiles, eyes crinkling. “Ooh, yeah, I love this story.”

On my first day as a DB newbie, I had no idea I was supposed to bow to the senior trainees at this ceremony. I was fresh off the plane from New York City – and even though both my parents are Korean, bowing isn’t really something you do all that much in the States. When I was a kid it was just something we did when we visited my parents’ friends from church during the new year, and that was the full formal Korean bow (and it was worth it, too, for the crisp twenty-dollar bill they always handed to us afterwards). I thought the ceremony was just a welcoming event, a chance to meet the other trainees. Yujin-unni, knowing I wouldn’t know what to do, whispered in my ear that I should bow to the elder trainees. So I did – to the older teens standing in a row. But when I got to Mina, a girl my own age, I just stuck out my hand to shake hers, thinking it was the right (and polite!) thing to do. I might as well have kicked her in the stomach and spit in her hair for the tantrum she had.

By now Akari has taken over the story, mimicking Mina’s world-class meltdown. “‘Who does this bitch think she is?’” She crows with laughter. “‘She thinks she’s some kind of hotshot because she’s from America? Learn some manners, newbie.’” I roll my eyes, recalling how she immediately tattled on me to Mr Noh, demanding I be punished for my lack of respect to a sunbae (literally anyone with more experience than you, even if that person is your same age or younger). Thankfully, Yujin put a stop to that. But since then, Mina has basically made it her goal in life to destroy me.

“God. The temper she has.”

“But you still didn’t bow, did you?” Akari says.

“It’ll take more than some baegchi daddy’s girl with a god complex to make me bow to Mina,” I say.

“That’s my girl.” Akari pats me on the back. “Young Rachel would be so proud of you.” I flash her a quick smile, but inside, my heart starts to sink. If I could go back in time, knowing the proper etiquette, would I really do it the same way? I want to say yes, that obviously I would put Mina in her place, but even I don’t know if I’m being honest with myself. I think back to the way I ran out of the training room this morning, the way I avoid confrontation with all the other trainees – Yujin’s always telling me to rise above, to focus on training, and I play those words over in my head constantly. But . . . would eleven-year-old Rachel be proud of me? Or would she call me a coward?

Akari and I join the ceremony onstage, waiting our turn in line with the other senior trainees to receive bows from the newbies.

“Excuse me,” Lizzie snaps at us. “Jjokbari and bananas to the back of the line.” The girls around us gasp in shock.

Beside me, Akari whirls around to face her. “Excuse you,” she snaps back, her face inches from Lizzie’s, her eyes narrowed in anger. “We’re more senior than you. We’re not going anywhere.”

Lizzie’s eyes nervously dart over to Mina, who’s looking at us with a smug smile on her face. But there’s nothing she can say—they both know Akari is right. “Whatever,” she huffs, clearly defeated. “You’re still foreigners.” All around us, trainees are staring and giggling. I’ve had enough.

“Come on, Akari,” I mutter, my cheeks bright pink. “It’s not worth it.”

I can tell Akari is seething by the way she walks, back tall and stiff, but she follows my lead. It’s not worth it, I tell myself. It’s unprofessional to throw down at the newbie ceremony. I’m no Mina.

Instead, we make our way over to the banquet table. Yujin grabs my hand, squeezing it hard. “Everything okay up there? It looked . . . tense.”

I give her a tight smile. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about,” I say as I ignore her arched brow and grab a plate. Distractedly, I reach for a sandwich, intent on eating away this shame spiral that’s started to grow in my stomach, when Akari pulls my hand back, shaking her head.

“Cucumber,” she says, pointing to the sign.

“Gross.” I shudder, plopping a white pizza bacon grilled cheese on my plate instead. “Thanks. You saved my life.”

“What are friends for?” She smiles. “Plus, I’m never reliving the horrific cucumber catastrophe of 2017. I still get nightmares thinking about you vomiting all over the cafeteria after one tiny bite of cucumber salad.”

“Don’t blame me! Cucumbers are like the jogging exercises of the vegetable world! People pretend to like them because they’re supposed to be healthy for you, but really, they’re the worst. And they leave a horrible taste in your mouth. And they should be illegal.”

“Sorry, chingu, but I believe cucumbers are technically a fruit?” Akari laughs, and I throw a crumpled napkin at her face.

Walk into any K-pop trainee lesson and you’ll find some of the most talented teens in the world – expert dancers, accomplished singers, and of course, world-class gossipmongers. “I heard he dyed his hair orange,” Eunji says.

“Not just any orange, but the exact same custom shade that Romeo from BigM$ney has,” a first-year trainee in silver pants chimes in, his voice barely past puberty.

Looks like class is in session.

All the gossip, of course, is focused on one thing: Jason Lee, DB’s newest K-pop star and the latest addition to the coveted plaque on the yearbook, after his group, NEXT BOYZ, debuted at #1 with their single “True Love Boy”. You couldn’t take a step on to campus – or anywhere in Seoul, really—without hearing Jason’s brooding tenor singing about finding his one true love. Mr Noh had never looked happier. But now, apparently, sweet, humble, loyal Jason and the execs are in a big fight and no one knows why. I sip a can of Milkis, happy to forget all about my day and listen to the theories swirl around me.

“I heard he stole from Mr Noh’s vinyl record collection,” a third voice whispers, hiding behind a thick reddish-brown fringe.

“Angel Boy? Stealing? He would never!”

“Would Mr Noh even notice? He has, like, a thousand records.”

“Are you serious? He’s obsessed with those records.”

“Who cares if he’s a thief? He’s too cute to be fired!” Half a dozen trainees all start nodding in agreement.

I shake my head slightly in disbelief. Stolen records and dyed hair? That’s the worst the vicious DB rumour mill can come up with? A few months ago, when a female trainee, Suzy Choi, was suddenly let go in the middle of a training cycle, rumours had run rampant that she had a drug problem and she owed thousands of dollars to her dealers, who sold her to one of those North Korean–themed restaurants in Cambodia. (Akari, on the other hand, claimed she had seen Suzy on the street holding hands with some cute boy, but I don’t believe it. There’s no way Suzy would have ever broken DB’s strict “no dating” rule – in this industry, illicit drugs are more believable than an illicit boyfriend.) Another time last year, my mum and dad were both working on a Sunday and asked me to bring Leah to training with me – the rumours that she was my illegitimate child and that I took care of her during the week and that was the reason I didn’t train during the week have only just died down. Of course, the fact that I’m only four years older than her didn’t seem to matter to anyone.

“What we should really be focusing on is training harder, not gossiping,” Mina says primly, stretching as she stands up and glances in Mr Noh’s direction. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Could she get any more obvious?

Zeroing in on me, she saunters over, smiling brightly at the plate in my hands. “Rachel. So sorry you couldn’t participate in the bowing ceremony. It’s probably better left to those of us who know what we’re doing, don’t you think? But I do hope you’re enjoying the food.”

That’s it. I’ve had enough of Mina for today. “Yes,” I say brightly back, plucking a piece of bacon off my plate and crunching down on it. “I’m lucky to be so naturally thin that I don’t have to watch what I eat.” I let my eyes linger on her plateful of peeled celery and dotori-muk while a group of younger trainees swivel towards us, eyes agog and giggling.

Mina’s eyes narrow in shock and anger – she’s not used to me biting back. I’m sure she’ll make me pay. Raising her voice several decibels, she says, “If you and Akari are free tonight, why don’t you join us for vocals practice at the trainee house? We do it every Saturday night, and I wouldn’t want you to fall behind.”

The trainee house. Yeah, right. Umma would never let me go and Mina knows it.

Before I can respond, Mr Noh strides over. Mina’s loud voice has obviously paid off. At least she’s getting something out of all those extra singing lessons; the girl knows how to project.

“What’s this I hear about a late-night practice?” His eyes move across the group, landing on me. “Rachel, was this your idea?” he asks, smiling. “Our most hardworking trainee!” His eyes focus in on me as all around us trainees have gone silent, everyone sitting up as straight as they possibly can, alert and ready to be called on and impress at a moment’s notice.

Beside me, Mina looks furious that Mr Noh has singled me out yet again. I force a smile on to my face and open my mouth to respond, but Mina cuts me off at the last moment. “I’ll be there, sir!” she practically shouts, a few pieces of celery flying off her plate.

Mr Noh’s eyes widen in shock, but he quickly recovers. “Wonderful attitude. And good for you, Miss . . . uh . . .”

“Choo. Choo Mina. My father is Choo Minhee . . .” Mina’s face falls. “You two are old friends . . .”

“Right, right, of course, Minhee’s daughter!” Mr Noh chuckles, a look of relief in his eyes. “Thank you for reminding me.”

A smile bursts across Mina’s face, “Thank you, Mr Noh,” Mina says, simpering. “Will the two of you be getting together any time soon? Father’s always saying how much he enjoys your company at the annual Choo Corporation’s Christmas party . . .”

“Yes, yes, I’ll have to give him a ring.” He chuckles before turning his attention back to me. “And what wonderful taste in friends you have, Rachel! You and Mina are fine examples for the other senior trainees. You should all be making this late-night session a top priority.” Mr Noh’s eyes lock with mine, and I can see myself in the reflection of his glasses. “Especially those of you who wish to debut soon.”

My insides are on fire, but I don’t waver. I can feel Mina’s smug expression burning a hole in the side of my head, but I take another sip of Milkis and smile.

“Count me in,” I say. Mr Noh nods in approval, and I raise my can to him as if making a toast. To family and to being utterly screwed. “I can’t wait.”

Sweat pours down my forehead as I take another swing at the sagging punching bag in front of me. Thud. Mina’s smug smile. Thwack. Umma’s strict rules. Bam. Me, walking away from all those girls in media training instead of standing up for myself. Ugh. I beat them all to a pulp, everything that annoys me, everyone who stands in my way – even me.

Appa, who’s holding the punching bag steady, grunts as I throw blow after blow. “You must look up to me a lot,” he says.

“Why do you say that?” I ask, my breath ragged from exertion.

“You’re obviously trying to follow in my steps.” He chuckles. Appa is a former pro boxer. “Why else would my sixteen-year-old daughter be torturing this punching bag?”

“Seventeen, Appa. In Korea, I’m seventeen.” In Korea they consider you to be age one when you’re born, which means you’re a year older than you are in the US. A year closer to passing my prime. A year closer to being too old to debut. I punch the bag again.

“Sorry, Daughter,” Appa says with a sigh.

I deliver one last punch and take a few steps back, breathing hard. My ponytail is sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. If this were DB, I would be embarrassed – trainers hate it when the trainees sweat, even after hours of practice, saying it makes us look unprofessional and sloppy. Plus, most of the girls practise in makeup, and runny mascara is never a good look. But at the boxing gym I revel in it. It makes me feel like I’ve just kicked someone’s ass, even if it is imaginary.

Appa gives me a thoughtful look. “Is this father-daughter talk or friend talk?”

He nods to the other side of the gym, where Akari and my friends from school, the Cho twins, are sparring, decked out in helmets and gloves. They come with me now and then when I visit Appa at our family’s boxing gym; Appa tells us stories about his glory days and we get our cardio fix.

“Friend talk,” I say. As cool as Appa is, I know that whatever I tell him about training life will eventually make its way back to Umma. Not that Appa can’t keep a secret. In fact, I know he’s keeping a pretty big one of his own from Umma. “How are those classes going, by the way?”

He glances around as if Umma might be hiding behind a punching bag. But aside from me and my friends, the gym is empty. As usual. “They’re fine.” He clears his throat. “You still haven’t told your mother or Leah, have you?”

I shake my head. The only reason I know that Appa’s been taking secret law school night classes in the first place is because I spotted a law textbook in his office during one of my gym visits. When I asked him about it, he got flustered and tried to pass it off as light reading. Eventually he broke down and told me the truth, but he made me promise not to tell Umma or Leah. “No. But it’s been, what, two years? Don’t you think it’s time to mention it to them? I mean, you’re about to graduate!”

“I don’t want to get their hopes up,” he says now, the same as he did the day I found out. “We all know the gym isn’t doing well. It’s not like before . . .” He pauses, and I think about what life was like back in New York. Appa was semi-famous from his pro-boxing days, and the gym he ran in our neighbourhood in the West Village was always brimming with people. Umma was close to getting tenure as an English Literature professor at NYU. Everyone was busy, but somehow the four of us were always together. After school, Leah and I would sit in the back row of Umma’s classes, colouring and doing our homework. At the weekends, we used to run around handing out cups of water and towels to all the boxers at Appa’s gym, and Umma would be helping out in the office, arranging class schedules and taking deliveries. Afterwards, we would always get ice cream and take Leah to see the guy who made gigantic bubbles in Washington Square Park.

But everything is different now. Umma’s working twice as hard to get back on the tenure track at her job, which could be years away. Leah spends hours alone after school each day while our parents are working and I’m doing homework or trying to keep up with my training. And Appa’s gym . . . well, he bought this gym about a year after we moved to Seoul, but it’s never really taken off. Some weeks, me and my friends are the only ones who come in at all.

For the third time today, I feel a lump in my throat. I know Appa is happy for me and my life as a K-pop trainee, but I can’t help feeling guilty for the dreams he gave up in order to let me pursue mine. Appa shakes his head and gives me a small smile. “I love this gym, but I love you and Leah and Umma even more. You three are what’s important now, and becoming a lawyer will give us some financial stability. But I just . . . don’t want to disappoint them. Especially Leah. She’s only twel— thirteen! – and you know how excited she gets about the smallest things. Let’s just wait a little longer to see if I even have a chance at succeeding.”

I nod my head in understanding. The thought of disappointing my family – the ones who gave up so much so I could train at DB, so that I could be a star – haunts me. But that’s why for me it’s not a matter of if, but when. For me there’s no other choice but to succeed.

“Enough old-man talk,” Appa says, trying to keep his tone light. “Go have fun with your friends.”

Now Akari is holding the punching bag for the twins as they take turns jabbing and crossing. Cho Hyeri and Cho Juhyun are my best friends from Seoul International School, since the first day of fifth grade, when the principal assigned them as my official welcoming committee. I was so nervous of what everyone would think of my K-pop training – would they think I was weird? Or spoiled? Or maybe they would want me to bow to them like Mina? – but Hyeri and Juhyun waved it off like it was nothing, grabbing my hand before I could move or say a word and racing me around the school. They were more interested in the glittery patches I had sewn on to my Converses and what growing up within walking distance of the boutiques in SoHo and the tents at Bryant Park during fashion week was like – not that I had much to say on either subject. They’re both willowy and tall, with high cheekbones and silky brown hair that falls in natural (or so they claim) waves over their shoulders. They could be models if they wanted to be and, as heiresses to the Molly Folly makeup corporation, they’d have the connections to get there too. But the only thing Hyeri is interested in doing for the family beauty company is revolutionizing their entire engineering and design department. She’s always going on about chemical reactions needed for glow-in-the-dark liquid liner or obsessing over experiments for one hundred percent organic, compost-friendly packaging for a new range of eye shadow palettes. As for Juhyun, she’s practically famous due to her YouTube beauty channel. Even while sweating it out in the gym, her makeup is impeccable, from her matte red lipstick to her perfectly curled eyelashes.

“Water break?” I suggest, tugging off my boxing gloves.

“God, yes please,” Hyeri says, getting in a final jab. “I think I heard talk about ice cream and hotteok after this?”

“You were the one who mentioned ice cream,” Juhyun says.

“So?” Hyeri grins, giving her sister a soft punch on the shoulder. “You were the one who said, ‘Who can eat ice cream without hotteok on the side?’”

Juhyun let out a snort. “Well, I’m not wrong.”

Akari lets go of the punching bag, and it creaks back and forth. We all grab our water bottles and take long swigs, Akari squirting some all over her face.

“You okay, Rachel?” Juhyun asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “We saw you going extra hard today.”

“Are you still thinking about what happened with Mina?” Akari asks worriedly.

“Ay, shib-al! What did the bitch do now?” Hyeri groans.

I fill in the twins about Mina’s invitation to the late-night practice in front of Mr Noh. They nod understandingly. It’s not my first time venting to them about DB and Mina.

“She totally set me up!” My face flushes as I remember what I said to Mina. I let out a heavy sigh. “I never should have made that comment about being able to eat whatever I like. My mum never lets me go to the trainee house, and when I don’t show up tonight, you know she’ll make sure Mr Noh hears about it. And then I can kiss my future goodbye.” The thought of it makes my skin prickle with panic.

“So go,” Akari says. “Go and show her and all those other trainees that you deserve this just as much as they do.”

“What about you? She invited you too, you know.”

Akari shrugs her shoulders. “It’s ‘family night’ on the base and attendance is mandatory. I would if I could – not that it really matters, though. I’ve been at DB for five years and I don’t think Mr Noh even knows who I am. If it wasn’t for Yujinunni I’m sure they would have cut me by now.”

I wince. Even though she lives on the base with her family, she’s at DB every single day, training alongside Mina and the girls. And Akari’s dancing skills are unbelievable – Yujin even says she puts Frankie from Red Hot, objectively the best female K-pop dancer in the industry, to shame. But everyone knows that when it comes to being a trainee, talent will take you only so far. That’s why we’re all desperate to do whatever we can to get noticed by Mr Noh and the rest of the DB executives. Because every thirty days, like clockwork, trainees gather in the auditorium with DB’s executive board, waiting to be evaluated and judged, deemed worthy of staying in the program or getting kicked out. After six years the constant judgment was almost starting to seem routine, but a few months ago Akari was called into Mr Noh’s office after appraisal day – a sure sign she was being asked to leave. That she hadn’t done enough to stand out. I don’t know what Yujin said, or did, but Akari was back the next day, a little quiet and sad-looking, but still there. She hasn’t brought it up since. I glance at the twins, who shrug their shoulders, at a loss for words.