I'll Be the One Read online

  Chapter Six

  THE FIRST DAY OF BOOT CAMP IS IN A WEST LA recording studio, which is about an hour away from my house. Dad’s not coming down from San Jose until next weekend, and Mom left early for work in the morning, so I end up asking Lana for a ride. Luckily, our house is on her way from Irvine to the studio.

  On the outside, Lana’s car looks pretty normal. It’s a Toyota sedan, like the ones all my friends’ moms drive. But when I open the door to the passenger side, a pair of pink Converse sneakers tumbles out, almost hitting my feet.

  “Sorry!” says Lana. “Tiffany and I drove down from NorCal, so my car is still a mess.”

  I hand her the sneakers, and she chucks them into the back seat, along with a few other things. She’s moving too fast for me to see everything clearly, but I could have sworn I saw a rubber duck and at least five to-go boxes. I decide not to comment on the mess and instead just say, “Hey, thanks for driving me,” as I get in the car.

  “No problem!” Lana gives me a bright smile before she pulls into the highway. She’s as dazzling as she was in the auditions, with her reddish-blond hair done in long curls that elegantly spool out to her shoulders. This time, her lips are a magenta red and are incredibly shiny in a way that makes me wonder how she manages to get them to stay that way. At this point, I’m convinced that she’s just magic. If little cherubs sing out in a heavenly choir every morning this girl gets up from bed, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Traffic is pretty light, or as light as it gets in LA. Even though there are cars lined up in every lane of the highway, we’re at least still moving. Typical LA traffic is bad enough to make every brave soul have a nervous breakdown while on the road.

  “It’s Saturday morning.” Lana groans, resting her head on the steering wheel. “Where are all these people going?”

  “Brunch?” I suggest, although I really have no idea.

  We live less than thirty miles away from LA on the map, but I rarely go up north to the city because I can’t drive.

  “So . . . are you guys from NorCal?” I ask after a few minutes, breaking the awkward silence. “But you live in Irvine now, right?”

  “Well, I’m originally from down here but went up north for college,” Lana replies. “And my parents moved up with me because, well, they have no sense of boundaries. Right now, though, Tiffany and I are staying with one of my Irvine friends for the competition. It’s honestly a relief. We live together up north, but our parents live there. They’re always trying their best to separate us. It’s really annoying.”

  I bite my lip, because I know this is probably what would happen if I ever dated a girl, too. I’ve thought about it plenty of times, and sometimes I’m attracted to girls more than I’m attracted to boys. But there’s no way my parents would be okay with it. Korea didn’t have a Pride festival until 2000, and even now, groups show up to Pride just to call people “sinners.” Police have to be present to make sure no one gets hurt.

  Things might be better with the younger generations, but my parents are still way too old-fashioned to be okay with me dating a girl. If anything, they’d probably think it was a phase until I “met the right guy.”

  My heart aches just thinking about what kind of hurt Tiffany and Lana must have suffered from their families. I can tell she’s trying to be cool about it, but there’s a slight quiver in Lana’s lips as she stares resolutely at the road ahead.

  “How long have you guys been dating?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation to something happy. “How did you two meet?”

  It works. Lana beams. “We’ve been dating for two years. Met at an intro to music theory class in our freshman year. She asked if I could help her make a music video of her dancing for her friend . . . but it turned out that that ‘friend’ was me. Then she asked me out at the end of it! The video was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ll show you sometime!”

  I can’t help but laugh, because it’s so clear by how fast and how excitedly Lana talks that she really, really loves Tiffany. I’m very happy for both of them, even though I do feel a slight twinge of jealousy that this is probably the kind of relationship I’ll never be able to experience for myself.

  “Hey, we’re here!” Lana says, and I startle awake. I must have fallen asleep for the rest of the way.

  The studio looks like a pretty normal brick building, with tall brown doors and long columns that make it seem more like a bank or museum. If it weren’t for Lana’s phone telling us we’ve reached our destination, I would think we got lost somewhere along the way.

  “Apparently a lot of famous people worked here,” Lana says, lifting up her Gucci sunglasses to get a better view. “Lady Gaga, Rihanna . . . and even people like Bob Dylan and Ringo Starr.”

  I already knew that from looking up the studio’s website yesterday, but just hearing it out loud makes everything feel so much more real. My skin tingles with excitement as I think about working in the same space that all those famous artists did.

  “A friend of mine works for the competition behind the scenes as a techie, and he told me that apparently the You’re My Shining Star staff had to reserve the place nearly a year in advance for us,” Lana continues as we walk toward the entrance. “I don’t even want to think about how much money went into booking this place.”

  Inside, the studio is much nicer than it looks on the outside, with wood-paneled walls and gleaming rows of gold and platinum records commemorating best-selling albums and soundtracks that were made in this very building.

  The studio staff ushers us back to a large conference room where the other vocalists who made it into the competition are sitting, along with Gary Kim and Park Tae-Suk. Since I didn’t stay long enough to see who else got in, I don’t recognize anyone except the Adele-singing SpongeBob-shirt girl, who’s sitting at the middle of the table wearing yet another SpongeBob T-shirt—this one is pink and has the “F Is for Friends” song lyrics on it.

  “Great,” whispers Lana. “The child prodigy is here. Might as well give up now.”

  Everyone, including the judges, is dressed in normal street clothes, so the camerapeople standing with their backs against the wall are the only indicators that this isn’t just a normal meeting. Although most of the people are Korean, or at least Asian, there’s a handful of Black, Latinx, and white contestants. Since the competition is specifically a Korean music show, people who aren’t fluent in Korean were required to audition with K-pop songs. From what I heard, a lot more non-Korean people got into the dance category since they didn’t have to deal with the language barrier.

  “Welcome, ladies,” Park Tae-Suk greets us in Korean. “We’re waiting on a few more people, and then we will begin.”

  He checks us off on his tablet and then hands each of us a sealed envelope. Both of our envelopes are personalized, with our names written in fancy cursive.

  The conference room is about the size of one of my classrooms at school, barely big enough for the forty people who supposedly made it into this first round. Most of the seats are taken and it’s pretty tight quarters, and I can’t help but notice the way some people stare at me as I try to squeeze my way through to an empty seat.

  I’m fat and I take up space, but that’s okay, I tell myself, repeating one of the mantras I always say to myself in moments like this. I’m allowed to take up space just as much as anyone else.

  “Move!” Lana yells to a guy who’s manspread all over a row. “We’re obviously coming through, and there’s clearly two empty seats next to you, so it’s not rocket science for you to get up and let us through.”

  The guy stumbles out of the way, a baffled look on his face.

  Lana rolls her eyes as we settle into our seats.

  “Men,” she hisses quietly so only I can hear her. “They always expect us to move for them, but they never think to move for us. This is why I only date girls. Like, I honestly don’t get the appeal.”

  “Lana, I love you,” I say. “In a friend way, of course.”
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  She winks at me. “Girl, you know it.”

  Someone else comes in while we’re getting settled, and I count the number of other vocalists in the room. Thirty-nine, including Lana and me. We’re still missing one person.

  I look down at my watch. It’s twelve fifteen p.m., and we were supposed to have started at twelve. Park Tae-Suk must have thought the same thing, because he looks down at his smart watch and exchanges a look with Gary. Gary only shrugs at him, and Park Tae-Suk turns to face us.

  “Well, hello, everyone,” Park Tae-Suk says in English. “My name is Park Tae-Suk, but you can call me Mr. Park. If the last individual doesn’t show up in the next five minutes, we have no choice but to disqualify her. Please note that we are being lax since this is the first day of practice. In future practices, you are expected to come exactly at noon.”

  Everyone says, “Yes, sir,” and shifts uncomfortably in their seats. A few people look relieved, though, like they’re glad that there’s one less person in the competition.

  Just then, there’s a crash from outside the room. People shout, and rapid footsteps approach us from across the hall. Through the glass walls of the conference room, I see Henry Cho turn the corner, storming about like he owns the place.

  What’s he doing here? I could have sworn Clarissa said that Henry got in for the dance part of the competition, not vocals.

  Everyone gapes as Henry opens the door and peers into our room, rapidly glancing this way and that like he’s looking for someone. His hair is disheveled, and his face is full of panic and hurt—the complete opposite of the blasé coolness he gave off the last time I saw him. I’m struck by how different he looks now, and I realize this is my first time seeing him as an actual human being and not as a model in an Instagram post or a celebrity addressing his fans.

  The camera crew in the back of the room immediately jumps into action, repositioning themselves so they’re facing Henry. They’re eating this up.

  Shooting them a glare, Henry closes the door and ducks out.

  More footsteps come from down the hall, and a blond white girl walks into view, yelling at Henry.

  The sound is too muffled by the thick glass walls for me to make out exactly what she’s saying, but I can tell she’s talking really fast. Mascara runs down her face, and her eyes are all puffy, like she’s been crying for the last several hours. Henry, on the other hand, stays silent, his jaw set in what looks like barely suppressed anger.

  “Oh wow, that’s Melinda Jones!” says one of the other girls in the room. “She was in last month’s issue of Teen Vogue! What happened to her?”

  It’s only then that I recognize the girl outside as the sun-kissed blond-haired model I frequently saw on Henry’s Instagram stories. I remember reading some rumors online about how she and Henry broke up a few months ago, and I guess those rumors were true. Henry and Melinda look like they can’t stand each other.

  The camera crew rushes out of the room to capture footage of the fight.

  “Oh God,” I hear Gary say from behind me. “What is up with all this drama? You’d think this was Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”

  Henry and Melinda freeze when they see the camera crew. And then, as if they weren’t fighting just a few seconds before, Henry reaches over and wraps his arm protectively around Melinda. She curls into him, and I’m wondering how she forgave him so fast when Henry turns her around so she’s facing away from the cameras. Melinda still looks pretty mad, but her anger is mixed with fear and unmistakable gratitude.

  Henry makes conversation with the camera crew, casually running a hand through his hair while the other one still holds Melinda. I can’t see his face from where I’m seated, but I can tell from the way the camera crew is laughing that he’s working his charm again.

  He’s protecting her, I realize as I stare at the strange scene unfolding in front of us. Even though I barely know Henry, I can’t help but feel a bit proud of him. A lesser guy would have just let Melinda be or even walked away from the whole thing.

  Finally, Mr. Park walks out of the room and comes back with Melinda.

  “This is Miss Melinda Jones. She’s our final contestant for the singing competition this year.”

  Melinda quickly wipes the mascara from her face and greets us all in accented Korean. “Ahnyeonghaseyo. I’m Melinda. I taught myself Korean, so I’m not very good, but I can speak it well enough to sing it.”

  Switching back to English, she goes on to explain how she first got interested in Korean culture through BTS and other boy bands. While she’s talking, I can’t help but glance back to look at Henry, who’s still in the hallway.

  Henry’s alone now, since the camera crew followed Melinda into the conference room. He looks so drained, and there’s no trace of the smile he gave the camera as he stares down at his feet. Suddenly, he stiffens and looks up. It’s only when our eyes meet that I realize I was watching what was supposed to be a private moment.

  Like a startled deer, Henry stares wide-eyed at me before briskly walking away.

  “So much drama,” Lana whispers into my ear.

  I nod in agreement, wondering what the heck just happened.

  After Melinda finishes talking, we each go around and introduce ourselves. Everyone is mostly from LA and Orange County, although there are some people from other parts of the United States. Most of the Asian contestants are Korean American, like I guessed, although some are Chinese, Vietnamese, or Japanese. My brain admittedly tunes out after the fifteenth-or-so person, but I do catch some snippets. A girl with green hair sings trot, a more old-fashioned and rhythmic type of Korean music. One of the Latina girls lived in Korea for longer than I have and is really into Korean hip-hop bands like Epik High. And of course, there are a ton of people who are BTS Army and hope they can meet the members one day.

  Once we’re all done, Gary claps his hands.

  “Welcome! Welcome,” he says. “For this first round, all of you have been sorted into groups based on age and/or similarity in vocal style to even out the playing field for the members in each group. From there, we will pick the best of you, or, if none of the members are worthy of moving on, we will eliminate the entire group. There will be ten groups of four people. However, this isn’t an exercise in group dynamics. That will be tested later. In this round, everyone in the group will be individually practicing and performing. They will just be onstage at the same time and be compared against each other. Before anyone says it, let me be up-front and say that yes, this is a ploy to eliminate people faster.”

  He laughs, and there’s some nervous laughter around the room.

  “We’re not just being cruel, however,” Mr. Park chimes in. “This method has been proven to be very effective and efficient in pinpointing the best and worst of you. The K-pop industry grows more saturated every day. If you don’t stick out in a group within this setting, you will never stick out in the actual industry.”

  Gary then leads us in a brief session of vocal warm-ups, before telling us to open our envelopes.

  From my envelope, I pull out a small slip of paper that says 3.

  Lana leans over and whispers, “Hey, what did you get?”

  “Three. How about you?”

  “Same! I guess our styles are pretty similar.”

  I grin. This whole group-elimination round sounds scary, but I’m glad I at least know someone in my group.

  “Please proceed to the practice room that corresponds with your number,” instructs Mr. Park. “The rooms are large, so you are encouraged to spread out and use earphones to individually practice your songs. If you don’t have your own earphones, please ask the front desk for a pair. You may choose any song from either the Korean or American pop genre for this first round.”

  This is it, I think. Let the competition begin.

  My heart thumping loudly in my chest, I head to our practice room.

  Chapter Seven

  THE TWO OTHER GIRLS IN OUR GROUP TURN OUT to be Isabel Martinez, the girl who
said she had lived in Korea, and Melinda, Henry’s ex. Since we only have this one official practice to select and practice our song for the elimination round, everyone starts working right away, each of us sitting against one of the four walls of the practice room.

  Like everyone else is doing, I pull up music on my phone. I already know what song I’m going to do—it’s a song I know by heart and always wanted to perform if I got into a K-pop competition. But I could still use a refresher and need to figure out how to reinterpret it in my style.

  I’m well into my fifth sing-along of Lee Hi’s “1, 2, 3, 4” when I notice Melinda hovering over me. This is the first time I’ve seen her up close, so it takes me a second to recover from just how flawless she is.

  If Lana and Tiffany look like they could star in a K-pop music video, Melinda looks like she could be in a music video with Taylor Swift. I think she was in a music video with Taylor Swift, or was at least one of her backup singers. I still remember how her photos with Henry on Instagram looked like spreads from a fashion magazine.

  “Um,” I say. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh my gosh, ahnyeong,” Melinda says. “That is such a good song. And Lee Hi, what an inspiration, right?”

  Trying really hard not to laugh at “oh my gosh, ahnyeong,” I say, “Yeah. She’s pretty amazing.”

  “You especially must find her so inspiring. She was fat-shamed so much, but now look at her! She’s doing so well for herself! Pretty and thin, too!”

  And just like that, Melinda’s put herself on my list of enemies.

  “She wasn’t fat, but yeah, people did fat-shame her, which sucked,” I say, trying to keep my tone civil. “Being fat and pretty aren’t mutually exclusive traits, though. Fat people can be pretty, pretty people can be fat.”

  Melinda stares blankly at me, like I’m speaking a foreign language.

  “Okay,” she says slowly. “By the way, do you want to eat lunch together during our break? I brought some kimchi. It’s so good for you.”

  I can’t believe a white girl is telling me that kimchi is good for me. It’s really weird, since she knows I’m Korean. Why would she think it’s okay for her to explain to me about my own cultural food?