by Jessica Jung
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To all my Golden Stars
One
Head up, legs crossed. Tummy tucked, shoulders back. Smile like the whole world is your best friend. I repeat the mantra in my head as the camera pans across my face. The corners of my lips turn up in a perfectly sweet “don’t you want to tell me all your secrets” pink-glossed smile.
But you probably shouldn’t. You know how they say three can keep a secret if two of them are dead? Well, that couldn’t be truer for my world, where everyone is always watching and your secrets can actually kill you. Or, at least, they can kill your chance to shine.
* * *
“You girls must be thrilled!” The interviewer is a middle-aged man with oily, slicked-back hair and fair skin. He might have been handsome if his garish hot-pink satin tie and red shirt combo weren’t so distracting. He leans forward eagerly, his eyes gleaming at the nine girls seated before him, a sea of perfectly tousled beach waves and unblemished faces glowing from years of skin-brightening face masks, choreographed down to the angle of our sleekly crossed legs and the descending order of our pastel rainbow-hued stilettos. “Hitting number one at all the music shows, and with your debut music video no less! You’re one chart away from an All-Kill! How do you feel?”
“We couldn’t be more excited.” Mina jumps in eagerly, flashing her perfect teeth in a beaming smile. My face muscles ache as I stretch to match her.
“It’s a dream come true,” Eunji agrees before loudly popping her gum and blowing a huge strawberry-scented bubble.
“We’re so grateful for the opportunity to do this together,” Lizzie chimes in, her eyes practically glowing under layers of silvery eye shadow.
The interviewer’s eyes light up, and he leans in conspiratorially. “So you all get along? I mean, nine incredibly beautiful girls in one group. That can’t always be easy.”
Sumin gives a soft, effortless laugh, pursing her flawlessly lined bright-red lips. “Nothing is ever ‘always easy,’ ” she says. “But we’re family. And family comes first.” She links arms with Lizzie sitting next to her. “We belong together.”
The interviewer flutters a hand over his heart. “Just precious. And what do you love about working together?” His eyes travel slowly over the group, finally landing on me. “Rachel?”
My eyes immediately shift to the huge camera sitting behind the interviewer. I can feel the lens zooming in on me. Head up, legs crossed Tummy tucked, shoulders back. I’ve been preparing for this moment for years. I smile wide, turning the interviewer into my best friend. And my mind goes completely blank.
Say something, Rachel. Say anything. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. My hands have gone clammy, and I can sense the other girls start to shift uncomfortably in their seats as my silence fills the room. The camera feels like a spotlight—hot and prickly on my skin—as my mouth dries up, making it almost impossible to speak.
Finally, the interviewer sighs and takes pity on me. “You’ve all been through so much together—training for six years before making it big! Has the experience been everything you hoped it would be?” He smiles, lobbing me an easy question.
“Yes,” I manage to croak out, a smile still plastered on my face.
He continues. “And tell me a little more about what life was like as a trainee before your big girl-group debut. What was your favorite part of living in the trainee house?”
My mind spins around for an answer as I discreetly wipe the sweat off my hands and onto the leather seat beneath me. An idea pops into my head. “What else?” I say, lifting a hand, awkwardly wiggling my perfectly manicured fingers, all white and lavender stripes, toward the camera. “Eight girls to do your nails for you. It’s like living in a 24/7 nail salon!”
Omg. What is wrong with me? Did I really just say my favorite part of training was having eight girls to give me free manicures?
Luckily, the interviewer’s laughter booms loudly throughout the room, and I feel relief coursing through my body. Okay, I can do this. I giggle along with him, and the other girls quickly join in. He flashes his greasy smile at me. Uh-oh. “Rachel, you’ve received high praise for your talent as the lead vocalist. Do you find your talent inspires the other girls to do better, work harder?”
At this, I blush, putting my hands on my face to cover up the color rising in my cheeks. My head starts buzzing again. I’ve practiced answering these questions a million times, but every time I get in front of that camera, I freeze. The lights, the interviewers, the knowledge that millions of people out there are watching me. It’s like my brain disconnects from my body, and no amount of practice or preparation can make the two come together again. My throat fills with a lump the size of a golf ball, and I notice the interviewer’s smile growing more and more frozen on his face. Crap How long has he been waiting for me to answer? Quickly, I blurt out, “I mean—I am talented.” Out of the side of my eye I notice Lizzie and Sumin glance at each other, eyebrows lifted. Shit. “Wait, but not the most talented. I mean, well, the group—all the girls. We all—”
“I think what Rachel means to say is we all love what we do, and we inspire each other every day,” Mina cuts in smoothly. “Speaking as lead dancer of the group, I know I learned a lot from my father about a strong work ethic—”
She’s cut off by the sharp ringing of the class bell over the speaker system. The cameras click off and the interviewer’s smile wilts off his face. He takes his time, slowly peeling off his suit jacket to reveal huge sweat stains darkening the satin under his arms as the nine of us—some of the top K-pop trainees at DB Entertainment—wait for our mock-interview media assessment. “I’d like to see a little bit more energy for next week—remember, the only difference between a trainee and a DB K-pop star is how much you want it! Eunji…” She looks at him, eyes wide and scared. “How many times do I have to tell you, no bubble gum during mock interviews! One more violation and I’m sending you straight back to newbie classes.” Eunji’s face turns pale, and she bows her head low. “Sumin! Lizzie!” Their heads snap up. “More personality from both of you! No one’s paying two hundred thousand won for a K-pop concert full of stars who use makeup to hide the fact that they have nothing interesting to say.” Lizzie looks like she’s about to cry, and Sumin’s bright-red lips match the blush blooming on her cheeks. Finally, he turns to me and in almost a bored voice says, “Rachel, we’ve been over this before. Your singing and dancing is some of the best we’ve ever seen, but that’s only part of the job. If you can’t even sell yourself to me during a training interview, how do you expect to perform in front of huge crowds every night? Or do real interviews with live audiences? We expect more from you.” He gives us a curt nod before walking out of the training room, shaking a cigarette from his front pocket.
I practically melt off the tiny stool I’ve been sitting on for the past hour, my smile fading away as I massage out the stiletto-induced cramp in my right leg. I’ve heard it all before. Do better, Rachel. Get comfortable in front of the camera, Rachel. K-pop stars must be lovable, eloquent, and perfect at all times, Rachel. I let out a grunt of pain as I twist around to pull on my Converses. Mina glares at me from her seat.
“What now?” I sigh.
She lifts a hand, showing off her perfect French manicure. “Eight girls to do your nails for you? Seriously? We’re not your servan
ts, Rachel.” She rolls her eyes. You would know, I think to myself. Of everyone at DB, Mina’s the most likely to have servants. She’s the eldest daughter of one of Korea’s oldest and most powerful chaebol families, the Choos, also known as the C-MART family. There are thousands of orange-and-white C-MART stores all over the country, selling everything from kimchi and Yakult and freshly made japchae to neon-yellow sweatshirts with knockoff Sanrio characters spouting ridiculous Konglish phrases like “Your mom is my hamster”—meaning Mina is richer than rich and a huge pain in my ass. “You know you’re the reason we have so many of these media training classes, right?” My insides heat up. It’s true. I know it’s true. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear it from Mina. “Can you at least try answering like a K-pop star and not some starstruck little girl at a slumber party? Or is that too much to ask from our poor little Korean American princess?”
I stiffen. It’s no secret I was born and raised in the States (New York City, to be exact), but between my dance trainer screaming at me for being three minutes late to class this morning and my failed interview performance, I’m in no mood to deal with Mina and her attitude today. “I don’t remember the interviewer asking you any personal questions, Mina. Maybe you’re just not as interesting as you think you are.”
“Or maybe I don’t need the practice,” Mina says.
I sigh. I skipped breakfast this morning, and the effort to keep up this verbal sparring with Mina requires at least one meal, if not two. I turn away, scooping my heels into my old white leather tote bag.
“What, you think you’re too good to talk to me now? Didn’t your umma teach you any manners?” Mina says.
“What do you expect from her?” Lizzie says, checking her mascara in her monogrammed compact mirror. She snaps it shut and narrows her eyes at me. “Sweet little Princess Rachel, whose mom won’t let her step foot in the trainee house. Maybe that’s why she thinks we all have nothing better to do with our time than each other’s nails.”
“It must be nice to be Mr. Noh’s favorite,” Eunji says with a loud sigh. “You know, some of us actually have to work hard to get where we are. You don’t see us getting any favors from the head of DB.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re some of us,” Sumin says, whipping around to face Eunji. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you break a sweat over anything.”
“Speaking of sweat, you might want to freshen up a bit, sweetie,” Eunji says, drawing a circle in the air around her own face. “You’re looking a little… shiny.”
“Well, your nose is looking a little plastic,” Sumin bites back.
“The two of you are giving me a headache!” Lizzie whines to Mina. “Sunbae, make them be quiet!”
Mina smiles. “Of course, Lizzie, sweetie. Why don’t we just turn the camera back on? That will shut them right up! Oh wait… that only works on Rachel!”
The room dissolves into giggles as my face flares in anger and embarrassment. I should bite back, but I don’t. I never do. I like to pretend it’s because I’m taking my mom’s advice to heart—you know, be the bigger person, always take the high road, never let them see you sweat, the mantras of strong, American-minded feminists everywhere—but the huge lump that’s returned to my throat knows that’s a lie. I finish lacing my shoes and stand. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, winding my way out of the room.
“Oh, you’re excused,” Mina says innocently. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her motion to the other girls, whispering wildly as sly smiles start to spread across all their faces.
* * *
DB Entertainment’s training campus is exactly like the K-pop stars it churns out: flawless, sparkling, and pretty much impossible to look away from. It’s prime real estate in the heart of Cheongdam-dong, the capital of K-pop. In the summer, trainees gather for yoga and Pilates on the rooftop garden, fighting over the coveted umbrella-covered spots to avoid even the hint of a sun blemish. Inside, giant fountains with spring water flown in directly from Seoraksan grace the teakwood and marble-clad lobbies. The DB execs claim the fountains are there to help us channel our inner peace in order to achieve our highest potential—but we all know what a joke that is. There’s no inner peace to be had here.
Especially not with the yearbook staring you in the face every day.
The yearbook (so named because most of the trainees here never get the chance to have an actual high school yearbook) is what we call the walls surrounding the fountain in the central wing lobby, decorated with framed photos of every single K-pop star who’s debuted out of DB’s training program. Their picture-perfect smiles and glossy hair remind us mere trainee mortals of what we aspire to be every day as we scurry from class to class. And smack in the middle of the wall—the one place we all hope to see ourselves someday—is a gold plaque with the names of every DB solo star or group who’s had a song debut at #1 on the Seoul music charts.
As I walk past, I stop and stare, my eyes blurring as I go over the names I memorized years ago. Pyo Yeri, Kwon YoonWoo, Lee Jiyoung… and the most recent, NEXT BOYZ. I feel a familiar squeeze around my heart, that patented K-pop trainee combination of stress, panic, and dehydration, as I flash back to my disastrous interview performance. Wincing at the memory, I quicken my steps, hurrying toward the independent practice rooms that line the west side of the building.
The hallway is full of random toys and props used by the best of the best stars in worldwide concerts. Half of the paraphernalia has the insignias of Electric Flower and Kang Jina (a gold-plaque legend and the leader of the biggest and best girl group in K-pop for the last few years). They debuted at the top spot and never left it. When I joined DB, I worshipped those girls—Jina especially. I admire them even more now, knowing what they had to go through to get to where they are. But part of me wonders about the girls they left behind. The ones that didn’t make it in the group.
Will I be the one on top or the one left in the shadows?
Bass reverberates into the hallway as I peek inside one room and see a second-year trainee practicing Blue Pearl’s iconic “Don’t Give Up on Love” dance. She flubs the side-to-side arm movements and wilts, dragging herself over to the speaker panel to start the song from the beginning. My whole body aches just watching her. From the sweat dripping off her forehead to her bright-red cheeks, I can tell she’s been in there for hours—a typical day for a young trainee. At the end of the hall, I run my finger over the electronic sign-up screen that dictates practice room availability. It’s still pretty early on a Saturday, so I’m hoping for some afternoon times to work on my dance moves, but… Ugh. Unbelievable. Every single slot is filled.
My hands clench as I feel my body temperature skyrocket. Lizzie wasn’t wrong—I’m not like the other trainees who are here 24/7, singing and dancing in practice rooms until 4:00 a.m., sleeping at the nearby trainee house, and waking up and doing it all over again, every single day. Back when I first got recruited to DB, my mom almost didn’t let me come. It meant uprooting our family from New York City to Seoul, my sister giving up her school and her friends, both of my parents giving up their jobs. But more than that, she couldn’t understand why K-pop meant so much to me, and she definitely didn’t understand the trainee lifestyle—the intense pressure, the years of training, the plastic surgery scandals. Then, about three weeks into begging my mom to change her mind, my halmoni died. I remember how sad I felt, how I cried with my mom and Leah for hours, how when she was alive, Halmoni would sit me down every morning during our visits and braid my hair, whispering old folktales into my ear, telling me in her soothing voice how I would grow up to be beautiful, wise, and very wealthy. My mom wouldn’t let us miss school for the funeral, and when she got back from Korea, I had practically decided to let go of the whole trainee thing, but to my surprise, Umma made me a deal: We would move to Seoul and I would go to school during the week, get an education, keep my prospects for college open, and every weekend (starting Friday night), I would train. (Once, a few years ago, I asked her w
hy she changed her mind after Halmoni died, but all I got was a blank stare followed by a quick smack on the back of my head).
The DB execs didn’t really go for Umma’s arrangement at first, but for some reason, Mr. Noh decided to bend the rules for me. Umma thinks it was because of her “American female empowerment” (as she calls it), but I know I’m just one of the lucky few Mr. Noh favors—one of the lucky few he has decided to pluck from trainee obscurity and pay extra attention to. (Although in the trainee program, extra attention really just means extra pressure.) Still, the situation was pretty unheard of, and it wasn’t long before I was known as “Princess Rachel,” the most pampered trainee at DB; the full-blooded Korean whose American passport (and American attitude and American dislike of Spam…) put more distance between me and the other trainees than the entire Pacific Ocean had. Now, six years later, even though I’ve been here longer than almost all the other trainees, the nickname still lives on.
You’d think they’d judge me based on how hard I train. How I work my body to the bone at DB headquarters on the weekends. How I sleep four hours a night during the week because of the hours of practice I put in after finishing my homework. How I begged my school to give me an independent study in music so I can have fifty minutes alone every day in the music room, practicing scales to keep me sharp. But instead, they judge my clean clothes, my neatly brushed hair, and the fact that I get to sleep in my own bed at night.
And the worst part is? They’re right. Every single one of them puts in twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Most of them live at the trainee house and go home once a month (if that). They eat, sleep, and breathe K-pop. No matter how you look at it, I can’t compete with that. But that’s exactly what I have to do.
Digging the heels of my palms into my forehead, I try to take calm, even breaths. As I got closer and closer to debut age, I begged my mom to let me train full-time, but all I ever got back was a resounding refusal. How can I tell my mom that it’s almost unheard of to debut in a girl group if you’re out of your teen years? How can I explain that I’m three years away from being past my prime? It’s been almost seven years since DB debuted Electric Flower, right before the last big DB Family Tour. They haven’t debuted another girl group since. Rumors that DB is looking to debut a new girl group—and soon—have been swirling for months, and I can’t afford to wait another seven years. I can’t afford to wait seven months. By then it might be too late for me. Debuting is everything I’ve been working toward, and there’s no way I’m going to let myself be passed over. No matter what Umma says.
