I'll Be the One Read online

  When we’re more than halfway down the hallway, Henry says, “Hey, wait up.”

  I begrudgingly turn around to see that Henry’s giving me his flawless Instagram grin. Both members of his team flank him, one on each side, and the petite lady looks like she’s struggling to keep up, so I slow my pace. We’re almost there, anyway.

  “Thanks,” Henry says when everyone’s caught up.

  Up close, he’s a whole head taller than me, which is surprising since I’m five six. I wish I could say he isn’t as hot in person as he is in pictures, but if anything, he’s even more attractive up close. Henry looks like he could be the love interest in some old rom-com movie, like an Asian Hugh Grant or Ryan Gosling. Except younger, of course, and cuter, if that’s even possible. He’s probably the hottest person I’ve ever come face-to-face with.

  Even though I live near LA, the closest thing I’ve had to a celebrity encounter was when I saw Halsey drinking a latte at Urth Caffé. Even then, she was sitting across the café from me, not inches away like Henry is. It still feels surreal that the same Henry Cho my friends obsess over is standing right next to me.

  “Hi, I’m Henry. Nice to meet you.”

  He holds out his hand, and I shake it. “Hi, I’m Skye.”

  I must have shaken a bit too hard, because Henry slightly winces. He’s nice enough to not say anything, though. Instead, he gives me the same calm and collected smile I’ve seen countless times in his Instagram photos. Only, now that I’m seeing it up close, I can see that the smile is definitely fake. His mouth is undoubtedly smiling, but his eyes are distant and guarded, like he has a huge secret. I resist the urge to flip out my phone and check his Instagram to see if his eyes look like this in all his pics.

  What does his real smile look like? I find myself wondering, long after Henry’s let go of my hand.

  I expect him to say something else—he did tell me to wait, after all—but he doesn’t. He seems content just to walk with me. I guess he only wanted the company.

  Henry seems so at ease that I wonder if he knows that a cameraman from the main room has broken off from the rest of the crew to silently trail behind him. But then, I notice how set back his broad shoulders are, like he’s going down a runway. He definitely knows.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised that the show has one camera exclusively following Henry around.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” I ask, gesturing behind us. “Always being followed around by a camera?”

  Henry shrugs. “Kind of. But I’m also used to it. My family is always in the spotlight back at home, and my job is literally to be in front of cameras.”

  I’m taken aback by Henry’s frankness, so much that I almost don’t notice the mason jar in Henry’s hand. It’s full of a mysterious yellow liquid that I really hope isn’t what I think it is.

  “Ew!” I say. “What is that?”

  Henry’s face instantly melts into a lopsided grin. It’s not a full smile, and it’s definitely not as polished or friendly as the smile he saves for the cameras, but it looks a lot more natural. Combined with the way his eyes crinkle up in the corners, for a split second, he looks so adorable that I almost trip and fall on my face.

  Luckily, Henry’s too amused by my reaction to his drink to notice the blush on my face. Or if he does, he’s nice enough to not mention it.

  Stop it! I tell myself. You’re not allowed to get charmed by Henry freakin’ Cho. He’s your rival, for Pete’s sake!

  “It’s kombucha,” he says. “Brewed it myself. Do you want to try some?”

  “No thanks. I don’t know which tastes worse, kombucha or . . . another yellow liquid,” I say, because the last thing I want to do is mention pee on television. “And I don’t intend to find out.”

  From behind us, I hear a muffled giggle, but whether it’s from the bodyguard, the manager, or the cameraman, I can’t tell.

  “Harsh,” Henry laughs as we reach the studio door. He opens it for me and says, “After you.”

  The doorway is pretty narrow, so I brush past him on my way through. As I pass, I get a whiff of his sea-breeze-scented cologne.

  Ugh, I think. He even smells nice.

  “Kinda sucks how we only have a week to prep while the singers get two weeks, huh?” Doug is saying as we walk into the room. He’s stretching with Imani, who looks so done that I can only assume Doug’s been talking her ears off. “I mean, I guess it’s still fair because both groups have only one official practice. But I wish Mr. Park could clone himself so both the voice prectices and the dance practices could be on the same days.”

  Imani immediately gets up when she sees me, a look of immense relief on her face.

  “Oh, thank God,” she says as she holds out a hand in my direction. “Hi, I’m Imani. You must be Skye. So glad there’s another girl in our group.”

  My eyes are immediately drawn to Imani’s pink dreadlocks, which look really cool. They fashionably stand out against her black tank top and leggings.

  “Hey, nice to meet you too.”

  “Isn’t it so awesome that we’re here?” Imani asks. “I’ve been dancing since I was a little kid and I love K-pop, so this is like a dream come true.”

  “Same here!” I smile. “What’s your favorite K-pop choreography?”

  We gush over our favorite dances as we stretch together, and I feel myself relaxing more with each passing second. Melinda may have been a total bust, but I’m so glad I’m bonding with Imani.

  A tall, muscular Asian guy in his late twenties walks into the room. He’s dressed in a blue muscle tank and sweatpants, so I can only assume he’s our instructor. And sure enough, he goes to stand in front of the room after giving the cameraman a slight nod.

  “Hey, guys,” he says in a really low voice. “My name is Chad. Your group has been assigned ‘Idol,’ by BTS.”

  Doug lets out a piercing shriek that earns raised eyebrows from all of us. It’s hard to tell if it’s a shriek of joy or panic. Maybe it’s a mix of both.

  “I love BTS,” he says. “But oh my God, that dance is so hard.”

  We all mumble our agreement. It’s one of my favorite choreographies, but it’s a dance that the BTS members themselves have acknowledged is one of their hardest, since it mixes in elements of traditional Korean dance with lots of high jumps and intense footwork.

  “It is pretty challenging,” admits Chad. “But I can assure you, the other groups have been assigned equally hard choreos. Let’s try not to be the group that gets eliminated, eh?”

  “Easier said than done,” says Imani.

  I have to agree with her. This is not going to be easy in the slightest.

  Well, worst-case scenario, at least I still have a chance at vocals.

  Since the choreography requires a lot of space, Chad has us stand in two neat rows behind him. Doug and Imani end up standing next to each other—I shoot Imani a sympathetic look—while I end up next to Henry.

  After everything is set up, Chad starts us off right away, guiding us through all the moves for the first stanza at half the original speed and then repeating himself a couple of times until we get the hang of it. I breathe deeply, slow and even, as I follow along. At this pace, the dance isn’t that bad, and soon I feel confident enough to let my eyes wander away from Chad to check on everyone else.

  Doug is a stumbling mess, nearly face-planting multiple times. In contrast, Imani makes everything look really easy. Her execution of the choreo isn’t perfect, but I can tell just by the fluid way she moves that she’s probably the most experienced dancer out of all of us. Henry’s somewhere in between, moving in a graceful way as he follows all the steps. Watching him dance makes me wonder why he’s never danced in one of his videos before. Then again, it’s probably for the best that he never has. I can only imagine what kind of chaos would happen if he uploaded a video of himself dancing. He’d probably break Instagram.

  Just then, I trip on my own feet, falling flat onto the ground.

  “Careful!” Chad
says. There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “We haven’t even done anything at the actual speed yet.”

  My cheeks burning, I quickly get up and rejoin the others like nothing happened.

  Focus! I tell myself. Too embarrassed to look anywhere else, I keep my eyes locked on Chad’s reflection.

  By the time Chad goes over the choreography in real time, we’re all struggling. It takes all my effort not to make a complete fool of myself in front of the camera. Doug’s face is filled with unbridled terror, Imani is stone-faced with concentration, and even Henry’s highly controlled expression falls into a grimace every so often.

  The more I practice the dance, the more I’m determined not to get eliminated in this first round. Despite how hard it is, I really am having lots of fun, and it’d suck to be eliminated while dancing a choreo I love. I also don’t want to give Bora the satisfaction of seeing me eliminated from the dance part of the competition right away.

  I can do this, I think, gritting my teeth as I try to keep up. I am not going to get eliminated in the first round.

  Chapter Nine

  I END UP SPENDING MOST OF THE FOLLOWING week at school, either doing homework in the library or practicing for the elimination round on Saturday. Because of You’re My Shining Star, I had to drop out of the dance team and choir for this semester, but my teachers were nice enough to let me use the dance studio and practice rooms when no one else is using them.

  “Just don’t forget us when you’re famous!” my dance teacher said after I told her what was going on. “And say hi to BTS for me!”

  I was too amused to tell her I’m probably not going to see BTS anytime soon.

  The first elimination round for singing goes even better than I thought it would. Lana, Isabel, Melinda, and I totally kill it, so much that the judges only listen to a minute or two of each of our songs before evaluating us.

  “This is a group of angelic voices,” says Mr. Park. “You all have so much potential that I wish I could make a girl group out of you four right here and now.”

  “The world needs to watch out for you ladies,” says Gary. “Wow, just wow.”

  “Congratulations, ladies,” Bora finally says. She makes eye contact with and smiles at everyone in the group . . . except me. “You are all advancing to the next round.”

  Despite the fact that Bora totally pretended I didn’t exist, I’m still glowing from the other judges’ comments when I rush backstage to change for the dance portion of the competition. My singing group was one of the last ones to perform, leaving me with less than thirty minutes to get ready. I’m rushing around like a headless chicken when I run smack-dab into Henry Cho.

  Henry grunts. We both stumble back. I barely suppress a groan of frustration.

  Why is my life literally a K-drama right now?

  “Hey,” I say. “Sorry, are you okay?”

  For a second, I’m worried Henry might say something about how I should watch where I’m going since I take up so much space. It’s something a few of the meaner guys said back in middle school, and I’ve always been careful not to run into anyone in the hallway ever since.

  Really wishing I weren’t blushing, I reluctantly look up at Henry.

  Instead of being mad, Henry’s expression is a mix of amusement and concern. When I meet his gaze, his eyes crinkle a bit at the corners.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” he says. “You’re in a hurry to get ready, right? Go ahead. I think everyone else is done prepping.”

  He steps out of the way with a grand flourish, his lopsided grin telling me that he’s just fooling around.

  Ugh, I think. How does he manage to be both gentlemanly and goofy at the same time?

  I’m still reminding myself that Henry is competition and not potential boyfriend material as I run into the nearest bathroom to change. Since we’re only performing for the judges today for both vocals and dance, I just brought a really cute pink tank top and black workout leggings as my dance outfit.

  I feel energized the moment I put them on my nervousness transforming into raw determination. My mom always says that I shouldn’t wear bright colors. Every time we go shopping together, she always tells me to go for “slimming” colors like black and navy. I got the pink tank top from Torrid while shopping with Rebecca and Clarissa over the summer, and it’s one of my favorite things. It has a split in the back, and the color complements my skin tone perfectly. I look dang cute in it and I know it.

  After retouching my makeup and making sure my hair’s not a wild bird’s nest, I run over to where my group is waiting backstage. Doug and Imani say hi, but Henry doesn’t say anything. All the mischief from earlier is gone from his slightly widened eyes as he slowly gives me a once-over from head to toe.

  “Wow, Skye,” he says. “You look really nice.”

  Henry opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but Doug cuts in with, “I am so nervous. Are any of you nervous or is it just me?”

  “We’re all nervous,” Henry says flatly. “Who wouldn’t be? We’re—”

  “Oh my God, Henry, you’re nervous too? Oh wow, we’re all doomed. I heard that everyone in the group before us got eliminated. Jesus, take the wheel!”

  Henry closes his eyes for a split second before focusing his attention on me. The expression on his face clearly says: Help.

  “Well, I think it’s okay to be nervous,” I try. “We’re about to perform a choreography we only started learning last week, and the judges might eliminate us at any moment.”

  “Yikes,” says Imani. “When you put it that way . . .”

  “We’ll just have to try our best,” I continue with a shrug. I’m not usually optimistic, but I feel the need to say something to reassure everyone. We can’t all be freaking out like Doug. “There’s nothing else we can do at this point anyway.”

  “True,” Imani replies. “Hopefully at least some of us will make it to the next round.”

  “I bet you’ll make it. Sorry if this sounds creepy, but I watched you in the mirror while we were practicing in the studio. You’re definitely the best dancer out of all of us.”

  “Aw, thanks, girl! You aren’t so bad yourself.”

  I’m about to respond when I hear a low keening sound, like a dying animal would make. Startled, Imani and I look up to see that Doug is crying like he’s been given a death sentence.

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” Doug says. “I barely managed to audition. What was I thinking?”

  “Doug, calm down,” says Henry through gritted teeth. His jaw is set in a firm line, and his shoulders are visibly rigid. And that’s when I realize: Henry has stage fright. Maybe just as much as Doug. I wonder if that’s why Doug’s meltdown is bothering him so much.

  I’ve been through enough choir recitals and dance performances that I’m perfectly fine with being onstage. Sure, I’m still nervous, but that has more to do with what’ll come afterward, with the judge’s evaluations, than performing onstage itself.

  Imani, too, seems okay. Tense from anticipation, but still pretty calm. Henry, though . . . he’s better at hiding it than Doug, but I don’t miss the way his eyes are slightly widened, or how his breaths come out in shallow gasps.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Henry out of genuine concern. How did he even audition for this competition when he’s this afraid of being onstage? I wonder. Why did he audition?

  He glances down at me again, his cheeks turning beet red. And I have to admit it. It feels nice to not be the only one blushing, for once.

  “I’m fine,” Henry says. “Don’t worry about it.”

  At that moment, the stage manager ushers us onto the stage. We’re barely situated when the opening notes of “Idol” start blaring from the speakers.

  I immediately fall into a half crouch, sliding my feet back and forth across the floor in time to the music. Even after hours of practice, “Idol” still remains my favorite BTS song, if only because of how loud and bombastically Korean it is. The unapologetic confidence and s
wag in the dance moves electrifies me, so much that by the time we reach the chorus, I feel like I’m flying.

  I’m in the middle of a spinning jump when I hear Henry yell, “Ow! Watch it.”

  There’s a loud crash, and I manage to follow through with my momentum enough to land safely back on the ground.

  The music stops. I glance back to see both Doug and Henry sprawled on the stage. From the looks of it—and from where we were in the choreo—my guess is that Doug must have accidentally spun into Henry during the jump, causing both of them to come crashing down.

  “Oh my God, are you guys okay?” I say. I’m all out of breath—something I didn’t even realize when I was dancing but is so apparent now as I gasp for air.

  Imani’s also panting as she stares wide-eyed at the two boys, and the confusion on her face tells me she has no idea what just happened either.

  “Doug Barton, you are officially eliminated from the competition,” Bora says. “Please go pack your things.”

  Doug, looking dazed, slowly gets up and leaves without another word.

  During all this, Henry remains still, and I find myself caring a bit more than I should about his well-being. Get up, I can’t help but plead in my thoughts. Please be okay.

  “Hey, Henry,” says Gary, sounding concerned. “Are you all right, man?”

  At the sound of his name, Henry slowly sits up, his arms wrapped around his abdomen.

  “Yeah,” he says. “He missed my ribs, thankfully, but he knocked the breath out of me.”

  At that moment, the backstage door bursts open, and Henry’s team comes rushing onstage.

  “Stop the cameras,” the bodyguard says. “Stop them right now or there will be consequences.”

  The manager kneels beside Henry, who looks just as embarrassed as he did before the performance.

  “I’m fine,” he quietly says to her. “It’ll probably bruise, that’s all. I’m not doing any shirtless shoots anytime soon, so we should be okay.”

  I suppress an urge to snort. Of course his ability to be shirtless in front of a camera would be a major concern to Henry right now.