Shine

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 favourite Electric Flower songs, and my body immediately responds. It’s muscle memory. I’ve practised 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 six years old, watching K-pop videos with my mum. 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 favourite 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 pyjamas 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 towards 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 towards 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 Pumas. 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 on to 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 snap 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.

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