by Lyla Lee
“Welcome, Mr. Cho!” she exclaims in Korean, bowing deep and low so her head is at the level of her waist. “Thank you for coming to audition.”
“God,” says Lana, rolling her eyes. “He gets thanked for just showing up at an audition. Can Henry even sing? Or dance? I really hate how this industry worships guys like him for no reason. Double standards much?”
She has a good point. I can’t remember hearing anything about Henry’s musical talents, or lack thereof. And to make things even weirder, he didn’t even announce that he was going to audition in the first place. You’d think that someone as famous as Henry would make some flashy announcement about this sort of thing. But his last Instagram post, from around three days ago, was a photo of his dog lounging in the sun.
As soon as I think that, I want to slap myself on the forehead. How and why do I even know that? Social media really scares me sometimes.
A sudden crash sounds behind us, and a camera crew from SBC, the official broadcasting channel for You’re My Shining Star, comes running into the lobby, along with Davey Kim, the show’s emcee.
Lana and her friend perk up and smile, getting ready for the incoming crew. But the cameras rush right past us, like we’re ghosts. From the way they barrel toward Henry, it’s a miracle that none of them crash into us.
Davey ambushes Henry with a barrage of questions in Korean. To his credit, Henry answers in a calm, collected manner that makes it hard to believe he’s seventeen, only a year older than me. As he speaks, he runs a hand through his hair, flashing the cameras an easy grin.
I can’t hear him over the excited yells and squeals of the crowd around him, but whatever he says makes everyone laugh and visibly warm up to him. This guy is a class act.
“Skye Shin?”
I whirl back around to the front of the room, where a lady with a Samsung tablet waits for me outside Door Three.
“Please stand by,” she adds, frowning at my puzzled expression.
Right. The audition.
I shudder. It’s downright disturbing how my brain completely emptied itself of all other thoughts the moment Henry walked into the room. How could I let myself be so distracted?
He may be a celebrity, but he’s just a boy, I tell myself. You have to focus.
I shake out my arms and legs, an old habit I kept from when I first started dancing. Everyone else is also busy warming up, so I didn’t think I’d be eye-catching until I notice that Henry Cho is staring at me from across the room with an amused look on his face.
Heat rushes into my cheeks, but I ignore it and quickly turn away as I continue to warm up. I can’t let some cute BTS wannabe distract me from the real reason why I’m here. I practiced countless months for this. I sang and danced every moment I could get in between homework and school.
Taking a deep breath, I follow the lady through the door.
Chapter Two
BACKSTAGE IS A CHAOTIC MESS. WORD OF HENRY’S arrival must have spread, because people rush back to where I came from to get a glimpse of him. Whether it be American Idol or America’s Got Talent, or even Korean competitions like K-Pop Star and Show Me the Money, they always either skip or fast-forward the footage as the contestants walk backstage, and now I know why. The people who aren’t obsessing over Henry Cho are all panicking, shouting in rapid Korean and firing directions at each other so quickly that my head spins. Bright lights flash overhead as the stagehands adjust the lighting onstage. Even from where I’m standing backstage, I can hear the loud chattering of the audience.
“Please wait here until the cameras start rolling again,” the tablet lady says, sounding tired. She points at a blue taped-on X at my feet. “The judges are having a little break. I’ll let you know when you can go onstage.”
She taps at the earpiece in her ear.
I nod as my heart begins pounding in my chest. Other than the final episode, You’re My Shining Star is prerecorded, but today, there is still a studio audience made up of various staff members and the hundreds of other people who showed up to audition. A handful of K-pop stars from PTS Entertainment—Park Tae-Suk’s company—also sit in the audience, just so their fans will tune in to the show to see their reactions.
I’ve performed onstage countless times for my school events, but this is the first time I’ll be performing in front of a camera that doesn’t belong to my dad—who still insists that camcorders are better than phones—and the other parents who record our shows.
I wonder what my parents’ reactions will be if they see me on Korean TV. Although we live in the US, our family subscribes to the special feature on our cable service that lets us watch Korean channels. I know Dad would be so stoked to see me on TV. But Mom? I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t ground me for a week. Knowing her, she’ll probably squeeze her eyes shut and turn off the TV the moment she sees me, her biggest embarrassment—no pun intended—onstage.
“Okay, they’re ready for you,” the tablet lady says, interrupting my thoughts. She hands me a mic and waves me through. “Please walk over to the big X in the middle of the stage and wait for the judges to address you.”
My heartbeat only grows louder with each step I take as I make my way out from backstage. The moment I’m within view, everyone stares. A few boys in the front row nudge their friends so that they, too, are gawking at me with their jaws dropped wide open. Some even laugh, like I’m the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.
Great. Okay. So they’re going to be like this too.
For a split second, I’m afraid that this competition only let me advance through the preliminaries so people could laugh at me, like they did with the tone-deaf guy. It’s disgusting how this is even a possibility, but on Korean TV, making fun of fat people isn’t that uncommon.
One good thing about going to school in the States is that people don’t subscribe to the same body standards as Asian media does. In performances at school, no one cares that I’m plus-size—or at least, they know better than to say anything or visibly react to it—because there are plenty of people who are from all sorts of backgrounds and have different body shapes. In Korean media, though, almost all the girls are super skinny. And if they are anything above a size 2—or, God forbid, a size 16 like I am—they’re either comedians or supporting characters that are there to make the audience laugh and make the main character look pretty. Fat girls can only aspire to be the comic relief.
But I’m not here to make anyone laugh. I’m here to win.
I hold my head up high. So what if they’re laughing at me now? They aren’t going to be in a few minutes.
The judges, at least, are professional enough not to react like the audience does. But even though they’re subtler about it, their reactions aren’t exactly positive. Park Tae-Suk, the producer, raises an eyebrow at me. The other two, Jang Bora and Gary Kim, stare at me in stunned silence.
All three judges look surprisingly normal, and definitely not as larger-than-life as they seemed on TV or on promotional posters. I’m not sure I’d even recognize them if I passed them on the street. Sure, Park Tae-Suk, who’s known for his eccentric outfits, is wearing a teal suit that clashes with his hot-pink tie. And Gary Kim and Jang Bora are dressed in cool, street-fashion-type clothes that make them look like they’re about to drop the next hottest Korean hip-hop album. But aside from their designer clothes and professionally done hair and makeup, they actually look . . . human.
Which is a weird thing to say, I know. Of course they look human. They are human. But I always thought celebrities were on a whole other level from us mere mortals, who could only worship them like the ancient Greeks worshipped the gods. But now, I can see the tired black circles around Jang Bora’s eyes, the wrinkles on Park Tae-Suk’s face, and the sweat dripping down Gary’s face, as if the room is a bit too warm for him.
Celebrities . . . They’re Just Like Us! I always see tabloids with clichéd headlines like that, but I guess I never thought it was really true until now. In a way, it’s oddly comforting. It makes m
e think that one day, I could be one of them.
I give them my best smile and bow deep and low, facing the judges and the audience.
“Hello,” I say into the mic, properly introducing myself in Korean. “My name is Skye Shin. I am sixteen years old and live in Orange County.”
I may be my mom’s greatest disappointment, but at least I’m not a heathen. Korean culture has its own standards of proper behavior about things American people don’t even think about. Rules about bowing and properly introducing yourself would probably feel like trying to juggle while playing Twister if my parents hadn’t drilled them into me since I was a little kid.
“Hello, Miss Shin,” says Bora. Her voice is a bit higher—but not any less pretty—than it sounds on TV. “It says here that you’re going to sing and dance for us today. Is that correct?”
As she says it, her lips twist into a slight smirk. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make me clench my fists. The audience’s reaction as I walked onstage already shattered the ease I felt while I was talking to Lana. And Bora’s smirk wipes away the remaining traces of it. It’s clear from the way she’s looking at me that she expects me to be a complete joke.
Fine, I think. Just one more person to prove wrong. Added to the list.
“Yup,” I say in a cheery voice. If I have to pretend to be oblivious, at least for the time being, then so be it. “I’m dancing first, and then singing. Ready when you are.”
A stagehand takes the mic from me and everyone waits in hushed anticipation, all eyes on me.
Park Tae-Suk nods and raises a hand.
The opening beats of my dance track boom out across the auditorium, explosively loud and aggressive. They shake every nerve of my body and completely overwhelm me. I can’t hear my own heartbeat, and it’s probably for the best. I don’t need anything to distract me from what I’m here to do today. Not even the frantic beats of my own heart.
Fat girls can’t dance. I hear Mom’s words in my head, over and over again like a broken record.
Well, Mom, I’m here to prove you wrong.
I jump forward and begin moving with the beat.
Chapter Three
DANCE ALWAYS HAS A FUNNY EFFECT ON ME. One moment, I’m all jittery and anxious about being onstage, and in the next moment, it’s like someone has turned off all sections of my brain except the parts that control my muscles and ears. I’m the music and I’m the confident, bold movements of my arms and legs. Nothing else.
I’ve never rehearsed this choreography onstage before, but I adapt quickly, taking full advantage of the space by stomping and sashaying across the wooden surface. I pump my arms up and down to the beat of the girl-group power song I chose as my accompaniment. Instead of hearing my heartbeat, I feel it, like my chest is about to explode with energy that flares up inside of me from head to toe.
The crowd is completely silent at first. Shock and confusion flash across people’s faces. But as I enter the chorus, a few and then a whole lot of people start cheering me on, until soon, the noise of the crowd is a deafening roar that only adds to the flames burning within me. I catch a glimpse of the guys who’d snickered at me just a few minutes ago. They aren’t laughing now. They’re still gawking, but they look more like they’re about to have a heart attack.
I’m just about to wrap up my routine when Park Tae-Suk raises his hand.
The music cuts short. I recover quickly, sliding into a resting position so I’m standing on both feet. I’m panting and sweaty, but I directly meet the judges’ gazes as I wait for them to speak.
I don’t have to wait long. Park Tae-Suk sits back in his seat and picks up his mic.
“Miss Shin,” he says in Korean. “When did you first begin dancing?”
His face is completely expressionless, so I don’t have the slightest bit of idea about what he thought of my performance.
“I’ve been dancing since I was three,” I say after a stagehand gives me back my mic.
Park Tae-Suk raises his eyebrows. “Impressive. And are you going to sing for us next?”
I nod.
I grip my mic tightly as I look out into the audience. I have everyone’s attention now. Countless faces look back at me with varying expressions of mockery and awe.
The piercing opening notes of my accompaniment flood the auditorium. In contrast to my dance piece, which was fast and explosive, this music is a slower song that I specifically chose to show off my vocal range. Slow songs are always a gamble, but I made sure to pick an interesting song, a Korean rock anthem from the eighties that starts soft but gets loud and powerful in the chorus.
The moment they hear the opening notes, the older members of the audience sit up in their seats, their faces lighting up with recognition. Again, Park Tae-Suk raises his eyebrows. Bora doesn’t react, but Gary gasps, leaning forward in his chair.
I first heard my audition piece when Dad was drunkenly singing karaoke at one of our many family parties. He couldn’t reach any of the high notes but tried his best all the same, so he ended up sounding like a dying pterodactyl. It wasn’t that Dad is a bad singer—he was actually the best among the people at the party—it was that this song is so freakin’ hard, since it was originally sung by one of the greatest heavy metal legends in Korea.
Unlike Dad, I can reach all the notes. Or at least, I could when I rehearsed this song over the last few months. Although my heart starts to thump loudly in my chest again, I’m determined to sing this song just as well—if not better—as I did in the practice rooms at school.
As I sing, the expectant faces of the crowd fade away, replaced by all those years of going to choir events with Mom. Singing is the one thing Mom has supported me in throughout the years. She actually shows up to all of my choir concerts and even signed up to be the choir booster mom, which is a stark contrast to how, aside from the first few ballet recitals, she never went to a single one of my dance events in the last thirteen years.
I almost wish my mom didn’t come to my choir events, though, because whenever she comes, she always makes these little remarks like, “You know, maybe it’s a good thing that you’re a bit on the large side. Like Adele! The additional girth must really help with the singing,” and, “Honey, God gave you a big body for a reason. Maybe you should consider quitting dance and just stick with choir instead.”
I never have the courage to actually speak up against Mom, because I know from experience that she’ll come back with another hurtful comment. I’ve gotten in the habit of saying “mhm” over and over again until she stops talking, even though every word she says feels like a sharp needle piercing my skin.
Enough. I bring myself back to the present. I take a deep breath and let my voice take flight, so it soars above the thundering guitar and drums of my instrumental accompaniment. Fueled by the frustration and hurt I felt during all those conversations with Mom, I not only reach but blast through the high notes, like I was born to sing this song.
The crowd gasps. From where I’m standing onstage, I can see people staring back at me, transfixed. Some are even crying.
I’m about to close my eyes and fully immerse myself in the music when I catch sight of camera flashes coming from the crowd. But it isn’t me that people are taking pictures of. Instead, they have their phones locked on Henry Cho, who’s staring at me from where he sits in the audience.
They’re taking pictures of him with the flash on. During my audition. Rude.
Despite the people around him, Henry’s attention is 100 percent focused on me. His eyebrows are knit together in a slight frown, and his eyes look so sad, like he’s fully immersed in the emotions of my song. When our gazes meet, I look away, my face flaring up in an undeniable blush.
Park Tae-Suk raises his hand. The music cuts short again, and I refocus my attention to the judges’ faces.
Gary Kim is beaming. Park Tae-Suk and Bora, however, are still stone-faced.
I squeeze my hands into fists. It’s the end of my audition. If they’re
not reacting positively now, it probably means that I didn’t do well.
“Wow!” says Davey, popping onstage to stand in front of me. “That was an amazing performance. Everyone, please give another round of applause for Skye!”
People cheer, but the applause is scattered. Everyone knows that the lack of reaction from the judges is a bad sign.
Bora is the first to speak, daintily lifting the mic to her dark-red lips.
“Miss Shin?” she says. “You’re talented, but would you ever consider losing weight? As someone who was a member of a girl group for five years, I can most definitely tell you the camera adds ten pounds, and I’m afraid you’re a bit too . . . rotund.”
Gasps and whispers come from the audience, but no one outright boos or speaks out against her. I think about what’d happen if this were a Western talent show, try to think if there are any instances where Adele or Susan Boyle were outright fat-shamed on TV.
My blood boils. I’m embarrassed, yeah, but I’m also really, really mad.
I angle the mic right at my mouth so my words come out loud and clear.
“No,” I reply. “I will definitely not. If I’m accepted into this competition under the condition that I lose weight, I’d rather not participate.”
The whispers intensify. For a moment, I start to wonder why I’m here. I question why I worked so hard for this when people aren’t even going to take me seriously.
The tension in the auditorium is palpable by the time Park Tae-Suk chimes in. “Although I respect your . . . confidence, I do have to agree with Ms. Jang, albeit for different reasons. As the head of PTS Entertainment, I’ve helped countless trainees become stars, but I have also been there to witness the ones who don’t make it. Being a K-pop star requires a lot of discipline and hard work. And there just isn’t anyone . . . your size in this industry. And if there was, they didn’t last long. It’s regrettable, but true. Is there any particular reason why you’re so strongly against losing weight?”
