I'll Be the One

by Lyla Lee

“If Mr. Cho is okay,” says Mr. Park in a loud, authoritative voice, “I would like to recommence shooting. We still have to give evaluations to the group and can’t afford a delay in an already tight schedule.”

  Henry’s manager whispers something, and Henry says again, “I’m okay. Really. I’ll let you know if it still hurts later. Thanks, though.”

  His team leaves the stage, and Mr. Park has the remaining three of us line up onstage.

  “Aside from Mr. Barton, this group has proven to be exceptional,” Mr. Park says once the cameras are rolling. “It was not revealed to you until now, but this group was put together because the members demonstrated the most energetic dance performances out of all the auditions. You could say Mr. Barton, too, had lots of energy, even though he unfortunately didn’t know how to harness it. The other three of you showed not only a tremendous amount of energy, but also a great ability to perfectly control it. Well done. All of you have my vote.”

  “Imani Stevens and Henry Cho,” says Bora, “congratulations, the judges have unanimously voted to advance you to the next round. You may leave the stage.”

  Both Imani and Henry shoot me concerned looks as they leave.

  Oh great, I think as the cameras focus on me. It’s just me now.

  As I wait for the judges to continue, I try to wrap my head around what might have happened. I’m pretty sure I had the choreography down to a tee. What went wrong?

  “Skye,” Gary starts. He shoots Bora a wary glance that I don’t miss. “You’re fantastic. You took that BTS choreography and made it your own. I admit, I’m more of a rapper than I am a dancer, but I do know talent when I see it. And I love, love, love your style.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I turn to Bora, and really, I should have seen it coming. Instead of looking me in the eyes like the other judges, Bora stares down at her mic as she says, “Miss Shin, you already know my opinions about your dancing. You are talented, yes. But I frankly think you ruined this choreography.”

  I wait for her to explain herself, but she doesn’t. And honestly, I’m relieved. Her reasons are probably the same crap she said after my audition.

  “Miss Shin,” says Mr. Park. “Well done. I look forward to seeing you in the next round.”

  I’m still thinking about Bora’s words when I’m dismissed from the stage, but instantly forget about them when I see Henry Cho standing shirtless backstage.

  Henry’s bodyguard is standing in a way that blocks the view of all the cameras as his manager sprays something over his bruising skin. From where I’m standing, I catch a glimpse of Henry’s broad chest and chiseled abs.

  Holy crap. How is that even real?

  At that moment, I fully understand why Henry’s inability to go on shirtless shoots would be a major concern. Heck, a part of my brain is even convinced that it’d be an international crisis.

  “Like what you see?” Henry says with a little quirk on his lips.

  “Yeah—I mean, no,” I stammer as I avert my eyes. “Okay, yes, but sorry! I was totally invading your privacy.”

  Henry laughs, his face completely lighting up for a split second before he winces in pain. “Ow, guess I should avoid laughing for the time being. But yeah, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

  “Of course you don’t,” I grumble. “Freakin’ models.”

  Henry’s manager finishes spraying him, and he grins as he puts his shirt back on.

  “So,” he starts. “I—”

  But before he can finish, Tiffany rushes over with her group in tow. Since I was busy getting ready, I missed Tiffany’s group performing. But I heard whispers in the hallway about how amazing they were. Apparently, they were total goddesses in their rendition of GFRIEND’s “Love Whisper.”

  “Skye!” Tiffany exclaims. “Thank God you made it. I was worried for a second.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think I was ever in any real danger of getting eliminated, though, since I had Gary’s and Mr. Park’s votes. Bora just wanted to give me a hard time. Either that or she just wanted to make things extra dramatic for the show.”

  Tiffany rolls her eyes. “Probably both.”

  “Yup. Everything turned out okay, though. I mean, Henry got hurt, but I think he’s okay . . .”

  I trail off when I realize that Henry’s no longer behind me. He and his team must have left while I was talking to Tiffany.

  That’s it, then? I think. I’ll just see him next week?

  I know it’s silly, but I can’t help but feel a little hurt that he left without saying bye. Even though we didn’t interact that much, we still practiced together for several hours last week. He could have at least waved before he left.

  It’s for the best, I tell myself. At the end of the day, he’s just another person you have to beat.

  Tiffany raises an eyebrow at me but thankfully changes the subject. “So, the girls and I are going to grab some cupcakes at Sprinkles. Wanna come? Lana’s getting the car right now.”

  Cupcakes sound absolutely perfect after the day I’ve had.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll go see if Imani’s still around and ask if she wants to come.”

  “Perfect, meet you at the front!”

  Shaking away all thoughts of Bora and Henry, I head farther backstage.

  Chapter Ten

  GRABBING CUPCAKES WITH THE OTHER GIRLS turns out to be so much fun that I almost forget that we’re supposed to be competing against each other. We all exchange numbers, follow each other on Instagram, and promise to boost each other on social media once the show premieres next month.

  In a way, it’s nice. I didn’t go into this competition looking for new friends, but I’m really enjoying the fun little moments I share with Lana, Tiffany, and Imani. Throughout the week, Lana sends me links to #positivity posts on Instagram and gorgeous shots of the beaches she and Tiffany are frequenting, while Tiffany sends out hilariously relatable memes in our group chat. Imani and I bond over our favorite choreos and music videos, as well as the new restaurants popping up in LA.

  After the utter chaos that was last week, this week is eerily chill. Besides a few assignments and projects for school, I don’t really have anything to do, and I even have time to hang out with my school friends. Clarissa and Rebecca ask me all about the competition, but I’m careful not to tell them any details. Telling Dad about everything is one thing, but I still want my friends to be able to enjoy the show without any spoilers when it airs.

  On Saturday, I carpool up to the recording studio with Lana again. Her car is just as messy as it was last time, and today, the rubber duck flies into my face when Lana makes a particularly sharp turn. I’m more amused than anything, though. I have a feeling that this is something I’m just going to have to get used to when I ride in Lana’s car.

  There must have been a major accident on the road again, because even though it’s a Saturday, the cars are moving at a slow crawl. Luckily, unlike Dad, Lana’s a morning person, so we left really early.

  Lana sits back in defeat after it becomes clear that traffic isn’t going to get better anytime soon.

  “So,” she says. “Any guesses on what the next challenge will be? Apparently, they carved out two weeks of official practice for both vocals and dance before the second elimination round, so it must be pretty big deal.”

  “Not sure,” I say. “But hopefully it won’t be that bad. Maybe it’ll be a group thing? Didn’t they mention something about testing us on group dynamics or whatever in another round?”

  Lana gasps. “That’d definitely make sense. That would explain the extra practice time, too. Wow, an intensive group challenge right after the last round. They really want to get rid of us ASAP!”

  A few days ago, the competition committee sent out a text telling us the number of people still left in the competition. Like they warned us they would, the committee had eliminated half of the people in both vocals and dance, leaving a total of twenty for each group.

  For better or worse, I turn
out to be right, and as soon as we arrive, Mr. Park tells us to choose our groups.

  “Many of our past winners have gone on to join K-pop groups, rather than break out as individual artists,” he explains. “In my company, at least, there is a greater chance of debuting as a group member than as a solo artist. And even solo artists frequently collaborate with other people. Knowing how to sing or dance as part of a team is an essential skill to have in this industry.”

  “Even though most K-pop groups have more than two or three people in them, we’re limiting the number of people you guys can have in a group to give you more flexibility,” Gary chimes in. “We care just as much about your interpretation of the song as we do about your performance, so be creative! Rappers, feel free to improvise! Singers, try out new keys! As artists, the ability to make songs yours is super important, so consider this a golden opportunity.”

  I, of course, pair up with Lana. She was amazing during the last round, and I want to be with someone I know I’ll get along with.

  Each group gets their own practice room, and one of the cameras follows Lana and me into ours. Although I didn’t mind the cameras while I was up onstage, or even in the bigger rooms, its constant presence in such close quarters is unnerving. I have to try really hard not to squirm. Lana, though, is a complete natural, like she grew up being chased around by cameras. She even gives the one in our practice room a friendly wave.

  I don’t even dare look at the camera. Knowing me, I’d probably stare at it like a raccoon about to become roadkill. Instead, I focus my attention on a piece of paper taped to the music stand in our practice room.

  It reads, first in Korean and then English:

  For your second challenge, please pick either an American or a Korean pop song. Make sure that everyone in your group approves of the choice, as you will not be able to make changes. Once you’ve made your selection, please text your song choice and your names to 54311. No two groups will be allowed to sing the same song, so first group to text their choice gets the song.

  Here are some suggested song choices, although you are welcome to choose one that is not listed below.

  Lana and I both look at the suggested songs below the instructions. In a short while, it becomes clear that Lana and I have way different tastes in music. She likes more indie stuff, like Guckkasten and Humming Urban Stereo, while I like more mainstream artists.

  “Okay,” Lana finally says. “We’re short on time, so let’s try picking a song we both know.” She puts a perfectly manicured finger on one of the suggested songs. “How about ‘Crazy in Love’? I don’t listen to many Top Forty artists, but Beyoncé is a queen.”

  I look back down at the list. Although doing a Beyoncé song seems daunting, it really does seem like the best choice for us out of the suggested songs on the list.

  “Okay, sure. Let me text them.”

  I get out my phone and start composing the text.

  “I really hope we get that song,” Lana says as I send the message. “I guess we could do another Beyoncé song if that one’s taken, but that’d just be plain repetitive.”

  A few agonizing seconds later, I get a text saying: You have been assigned: Crazy in Love. Best of luck in the competition!

  Lana and I high-five each other and get to work.

  I was afraid that singing with someone else would be awkward and restrictive, like stepping on their toes. But Lana is so chill and playful that singing with her feels like we’re just messing around in the best sort of way, experimenting with different harmonies and playing off each other until we’re both smiling and laughing.

  After a while, the cameraman leaves to go record another group, but I hardly notice. I’m having that much fun.

  We’re still belting along to “Crazy in Love” when my phone vibrates against my leg. I fish it out of my pocket to see that I have a new message from Mom, which strikes me as odd because she’s been pretty much ignoring me for the past few weeks.

  Maybe it’s because Dad’s home, I think. Mom tends to be a lot less obvious about her disapproval of my life choices whenever Dad is around.

  I read the text.

  MOM: When are you going to come home today? It’s late.

  I only then realize that it’s already around seven p.m. Mom must have just gotten home from work.

  ME: I’m probably going to leave within the hour. I have a ride back so it’s okay.

  MOM: OK.

  And that’s it. I half expect Mom to say something else, to acknowledge the fact that the last time we had a real conversation was when I got back from my first competition rehearsal. But of course, she doesn’t. I guess it’s more wishful thinking on my part than an expectation.

  Well, at least she still cares about me? I think. But even I know that doesn’t even remotely make up for how long she’s been giving me the cold shoulder. Dad probably asked her to check in on me.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Lana asks, looking concerned. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just need to head back soon. That was my mom.” I gesture at my phone, and Lana nods.

  “Okay, yeah, let’s wrap things up for tonight.”

  We drive back down to Orange County in silence. Lana stopped trying to talk to me after her last few attempts at conversation ended with me giving monosyllabic answers like “yeah” and “nah.” I feel really bad about not being better company, but I also can’t bring myself to pretend that everything is all right. Mom has that effect on me.

  Lana pulls up to the curb in front of my house.

  “Hey,” she says. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but whenever you do, I’m here for you, okay? I know things aren’t great between you and your mom, and even though my reasons are different, I know what it’s like to have a strained relationship with a parent.”

  “Thanks,” I reply. “I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Lana says. “Well, actually, yes, sweat it. Let’s totally kill it with this performance. Show the haters what we’ve got.”

  Lana makes a big heart with her arms above her head. The gesture is so cute that, despite my panic, I can’t help but smile and say, “Okay.”

  “See you in two weeks!

  “See you.”

  By the time I reach my doorstep, I feel a bit better. So what if my mom isn’t supportive of me? At least I have friends like Lana who are. And I have Dad, who’s probably waiting on the other side of the door, eager to hear how my day was.

  I put a smile on my face and enter the house.

  Chapter Eleven

  AFTER THE COMPLETE SILENCE THAT WAS OUR house before Dad came home, his presence is a breath of fresh air. We talk almost nonstop during what we have left of the weekend, and Mom even smiles and nods along to our conversations. She’s always on her best behavior whenever Dad’s in town, so much that I doubt Dad even knows what’s been going on between Mom and me.

  Too soon, we have to drop Dad off at LAX and I’m again alone with Mom. And then we’re right back to how things were before. Pretending the other doesn’t exist, for the most part, anyway.

  When I have to go up to LA for the next dance practice, I don’t even bother asking Mom for a ride. Instead, I take an Uber to the train station and then the metro once I’m in the city. It takes me about twice as long to get to the studio, but LA public transportation is so bad that I consider myself lucky that I even make it to my destination at all.

  “Okay,” Bora says as I walk in. “We’re going to get started. When we call your names, please come down to the front of the room. You have been paired off for the second round of eliminations.”

  Everyone tenses up. Some people grumble under their breath about how it’s not fair that people in the vocals category got to choose their groups. I stay perfectly still. Since I’m in the vocals category, too, I don’t think I have a right to say what’s fair or not.

  “You will thank us later,” Mr. Park declares loudly, like he’s some gracious king. “Freedom of choice is
not the blessing you all think it is. By dancing with the person we assigned you, you won’t have to blame yourselves if you end up getting eliminated.”

  No one really complains after that, not because they agree with him, but because there’s no use in protesting. I stretch a bit, reaching to touch my toes and then bending my torso from side to side, as I wait for the judges to call my name.

  “Skye Shin and Bobby Lim.”

  I get up as a guy walks up to the front of the room. From his loose pants and snapback, I can already tell that he’s a break-dancer. I can’t break-dance to save my life, so I’m trying to figure out how we’re going to dance together when I realize he’s full-on glaring at me. You’d think I ran over his dog or something.

  “I have to dance with her?” he practically yells. “Are you trying to get me kicked out? Of course I’ll lose if I dance with the fat girl.”

  Mr. Park freezes. Even Bora has the decency to look scandalized. The entire room goes silent, and I look around to see that everyone is staring at me now. No one speaks up to defend me or to tell Bobby off for being such a jerk. Not even the girls I hung out with after the first elimination round.

  I guess I can see why they don’t. We’re on camera, after all, so they probably don’t want to stir up additional drama. But still, it stings. Why can’t they be friends with me on and off camera?

  Instead of letting it get to me, I take a deep breath. I’ll just have to speak up for myself.

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m not a bad dancer. I wouldn’t have made it into this competition if I were. You think the judges went easy on a fat girl?”

  He scoffs. From behind him, Bora rolls her eyes. I’m always fed up with Bora, but today, I’m even more done with her. It sucks that a fellow woman is hating on me so much like this. As if the industry weren’t already sexist enough.

  Mr. Park fixes a cool gaze at Bobby. “Partners were chosen randomly. If you have a problem with your match, you’re going to have to see if anyone else wants to swap with you.”

  Bobby groans, glancing back at me again like I have some contagious disease. “That’s practically a death sentence. Of course no one is going to want to trade partners with me. I mean, look at her!”