I'll Be the One

by Lyla Lee

  Henry’s car is a black Suburban SUV like the ones I’ve seen celebrities riding around in LA. Henry gets in the back with me, while Portia rides shotgun.

  “Okay,” I say when I’m settled in my seat. “So, what’s the real reason you agreed to come with me for tacos?”

  “Oh, you know. You’re probably my biggest threat in this show, so I need some time to get to know you and figure out your weaknesses.”

  He says it in such a deadpan voice that it’s hard to tell if he’s kidding or not.

  “Seriously?”

  Henry shakes his head with a laugh, his face instantly melting into his dorky grin. “Nah, I’m kidding. I’m a total Hufflepuff. No backstabbing here. Just a lot of emotional crying.”

  I snort. “Can’t relate. I’m Slytherin.”

  I don’t mention that I was just thinking about us being competition and how I need to beat him—in true Slytherin fashion.

  Henry gasps, looking scandalized. “Oh no, should I fear for my well-being? Check for poison in my kombucha?”

  “Kombucha is poison,” I reply in the same deadpan tone Henry used before.

  Henry guffaws, and I can’t help but smile.

  “Just kidding,” I continue. “You’re safe. For now. I still need you for this round!”

  “Oh, of course.” Henry’s smiling too. “Well, that’s a relief. Okay then, let me ask you the same question. What’s the real reason you asked to get tacos?”

  I hesitate and then say, “Well, first of all, I love tacos, so I’m always down to get some. And then . . . well, you just seemed really hungry. And exhausted.”

  As I say those words, I realize how right I am. I was too preoccupied with practice to notice before, but now I see the slight dark circles around his eyes.

  “You noticed?” Henry asks, his voice growing soft. But I pretend not to hear him. Instead, I give Steve the directions to the taco truck and stare out the window as we drive through LA.

  The sky is light blue and cloudless as always, and tall palm trees line both sides of the street. The trees and sun are the only consistent things about LA, since the buildings change depending on which neighborhood we’re driving through. As we approach downtown, the hipster cafes and Spanish-style houses give way to concrete office buildings and glass skyscrapers.

  “So,” Henry says after a while. “Would you believe me if I said that I’ve never had tacos before?”

  I give him a skeptical look. “No, I’d say you’re lying.”

  “What can I say, I only eat kale. And kombucha. Or I guess I eat kale and drink kombucha. You know what I mean.”

  “What? Really?”

  He smiles, and I realize he’s joking again.

  “Nah. But that’s a decent part of my diet. I mostly eat vegetables and, like, lean protein. Not really allowed to have much else, except in special circumstances. Not allowed to have soda, either, so I get all the fizz I want from kombucha.”

  “Not allowed?”

  “Yeah, I have a personal nutritionist who determines my diet for me. Minimizes breakouts and any other disasters that can ruin shoots.”

  I remember then that Henry literally makes a living off his looks. And not just his looks, but how good he appears on camera. The camera adds ten pounds, Bora said at my audition. It sounded so ridiculous when she said it, but I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to have your entire life depend on how you look in pictures or how your skin decides to behave that week.

  “Still,” I say. “There are vegetarian options for tacos. You never thought to try one?”

  “Well, I guess it’s also largely because of how I was brought up. I moved to the States when I was in seventh grade, for school. And my parents were pretty strict about not eating food that required me to use my hands or food that comes from food trucks, because they think it’s dirty.”

  “Ugh, they sound like my mom,” I groan.

  Henry shrugs. “It’s a very old-fashioned Korean mind-set. I think people just started finding out about food trucks in Korea, and only because they’ve seen the ones in LA. But yeah, I guess I was so used to that attitude that I never thought to try tacos myself.”

  After a few minutes, we arrive at the parking lot where the El Flamin’ taco truck is. El Flamin’ is like any other taco truck except for two distinguishing features: 1) it’s painted with orange-red flames like a Hot Wheels car, and 2) its tacos are amazing, with freshly cooked and sliced al pastor meat that they grill on a giant stick right in front of the truck. I’ve only been to El Flamin’ one other time, but it was so good that every other taco place has paled in comparison ever since.

  Steve pulls up to the curb. As I reach for my bag under my seat, I see Henry pulling a sleeveless white hoodie, a white baseball cap, and a pair of blue aviators from the back of the car.

  “So no one will recognize me,” he explains as he puts everything on.

  “Does that really work?” I ask, amazed. He still so clearly looks like Henry Cho to me. His height and cheekbones aren’t exactly average, especially not for an Asian guy.

  He shrugs. “Usually, yeah. Honestly, most people are really bad at spotting celebrities when they’re not expecting it. You’ve probably passed by at least a dozen celebrities without noticing.”

  “Probably,” I grumble, knowing he’s probably right. That would explain why even after sixteen years of living around LA, I’ve only seen one celebrity in the flesh.

  “Have fun, guys,” Portia says with a strained smile as we get out of the car. She’s all tensed up, like Henry and me going out for tacos is a PR nightmare waiting to happen.

  For a moment, I wonder why she doesn’t stop us if she feels so nervous about the whole thing. But after one look at Henry, I kind of understand why. Even though I can’t see much of his face anymore, I can still see how he’s practically bouncing up and down in his seat like a little kid. It makes me wonder how often—if at all—Henry gets to hang out with people. From the way he’s acting now, I doubt it’s a lot.

  I can’t help but think about the Henry Cho I saw last month, so confident and grown-up as he responded to Davey’s questions that first day at auditions. And then there’s the other Henry Cho I saw a few weeks ago, when he was barely suppressing his anger because of whatever had happened with Melinda. It’s hard to believe that those two Henrys and this really happy, almost puppylike dork are the same person.

  “Thanks, Portia. Thanks, Steve. See you guys later,” he says, cheerfully waving at his team before closing the door behind him.

  The SUV drives away, leaving us in the parking lot.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HENRY TURNS AROUND AND TAKES ONE STEP back when he catches sight of the taco truck.

  “Wow . . .” he says. “It’s . . . really red.”

  I beam. “Yup. It’s called El Flamin’ taco truck for a reason.”

  Even though it’s midafternoon, there’s a long line snaking around the parking lot in front of the bright red truck. It’s a hot day and some people are sweating so much that they’re soaking through their shirts. The heat and smoke from the al pastor spit next to the truck don’t help either. But the food smells so amazing that no one seems to care.

  We get in line. As we slowly approach the truck, Henry takes out his phone and starts snapping pictures.

  “I like it,” he says. “Has a quirky charm to it.”

  “Is this going on your Instagram?”

  “Yup.”

  I can’t say that I’m surprised.

  When we finally get close enough to see the menu next to the service window, Henry’s mouth drops open. He looks completely overwhelmed, like he has no idea where to even begin.

  “Honestly, you can’t go wrong with any of the choices,” I tell him. “Although if you want the complete experience, you should get the carne asada fries with whatever tacos you end up picking.”

  “All right. I’m trusting your judgment.”

  When it’s our turn to order, Henry gets the al
pastor pork tacos and carne asada fries while I get chicken tacos. Before I can pay for my own food, Henry holds up his card to the taco truck vendor.

  “My treat,” he says. “A thank-you for showing me this place.”

  Although I normally don’t like owing anyone, I let Henry pay this time. The entry fee for You’re My Shining Star took out a good chunk of my Lunar New Year money, so I’m pretty broke right now. And it’s no secret how rich Henry is, even without his modeling career.

  We manage to find seats at one of the plastic picnic tables set up nearby. While we’re waiting for our food to come out, Henry takes pictures of everything from the rack of al pastor meat skewered on the vertical spit to the line behind us. I guess some people would find it annoying, but I don’t mind. All of my friends pretty much live on Instagram, and, like Henry, they also take pictures of everything whenever we go somewhere new.

  The way Henry takes pictures, though, is different from how my friends take them. Every shot he takes is really methodical, like he’s photographing a crime scene. He even snaps a few shots of me, but I don’t say anything since I doubt Henry will post them on his Instagram. Aside from Melinda (back when they were dating) and a few of his celebrity acquaintances, I’ve never seen Henry post pictures of anyone but himself or his dog.

  “Sorry,” he says when he notices I’m staring at him. “I don’t know which pictures will be worth posting later on.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind. There’s a reason why you have so many followers on Instagram, right?”

  I mean it in a good way, but Henry only gives me a tight grin that’s almost a grimace. “Right.”

  I debate with myself whether I should ask him my next question. It’s something I’ve always wondered about celebrities.

  “Um,” I say.

  Henry cocks his head to the side, reminding me a bit of his dog. “Hm?”

  “Do you ever get tired of . . . you know, all this?” I gesture first at his “disguise” and then at his phone.

  He deflates, and I suddenly feel really bad, even though I’m not sure why.

  “Yeah, honestly, I do,” Henry says after a while. “I mean, a lot of the time, it’s fun. But on some days, it feels like work. It is work for me, even though I’m sure some people don’t see it that way. Even though I primarily do modeling in the traditional sense, I do get a lot of informal requests from brands to do sponsored posts for their products. It’s an extra source of income.”

  “Sorry,” I quickly say. “I didn’t mean it like that. I guess I’m just always curious about what it’s like to, you know, be a ‘celebrity.’ It must be hard, always having to hide from paparazzi and stuff.”

  Henry nods. “Occasionally, yeah. But getting into modeling was actually a relief for me because people finally cared about me because of what I did, and not because of whose kid I was.”

  “Are your parents supportive of your modeling career?”

  “They are now. But they weren’t always. Most of the time, they asked me why I felt the need to do what I want to do.”

  “Ugh, I can definitely relate with that,” I say.

  At that moment, the vendor calls out, “Harry? Your tacos and fries are ready.”

  Henry gets up from his seat.

  “Harry?” I ask.

  “I gave them a fake name in case someone recognizes me. Don’t blame me, blame Harry Potter.”

  I barely suppress a smile. Who would have thought Henry Cho would be such a big Potterhead?

  As Henry comes back with our food, all smiles and happy excitement, I can’t help but think that if people had Patronuses, Henry’s would be a dog. A big, fluffy one.

  “Holy crap,” he says. “You were totally right. Everything looks so good. It smells amazing, too.”

  Henry sets down a tray with all four of our tacos and a plastic to-go container with his fries. Our tacos look just as good as I remember them being, brimming with juicy, still-smoking meat, onions, pineapple chunks, and chilies.

  When he’s settled back in his seat, Henry opens the container of fries and gapes at it. I don’t blame him. The carne asada fries take up the entire to-go container and are topped with avocado and generous layers of cheese and sour cream.

  He takes pictures of our food, but after that, he just sits there, like he isn’t sure what to do next. Trying my best not to laugh, I give him a small nudge. “Go ahead. Try the food!”

  “How am I supposed to grab the tacos off the plate without everything spilling out?” Henry asks, looking overwhelmed.

  “Tacos get messy no matter how hard you try to be neat. It’s fine. It’s not like we’re at a fancy restaurant. We’re literally in the middle of a parking lot!”

  “Fair.”

  Before he picks up his first taco, Henry sheepishly hands me his phone. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  I don’t even have to ask to know what he means. I focus the camera on him and it’s like he’s a totally different person, suddenly every bit the model I know him to be. Even with the hoodie and glasses, his easy, sexy smile shines through, making him look ridiculously attractive. He looks like he belongs in an actual advertisement for tacos. If I sent El Flamin’ taco truck his picture, they’d probably gladly post it on their Instagram.

  “God,” I say as I take the photo.

  He frowns slightly. “What’s wrong?”

  “How are you so photogenic?”

  A startled laugh escapes from Henry’s lips, but he doesn’t say anything as he puts his phone away. He looks pretty embarrassed by how I’ve been scrutinizing him this whole time, so I take out my phone and snap a picture of our food.

  “You know what? I rarely post on Instagram, but I’ll post a pic of our tacos, just for you. Consider it a little memento of our meal together.”

  A little smile plays on Henry’s lips as he watches me post the picture on Instagram.

  “Thanks,” he says, laughing. “I feel honored.”

  In the end, Henry chickens out from eating first, so I grab one of my tacos, being careful to keep all of its contents within the tortilla as I take a bite. Henry watches me for a moment and then follows my lead, gingerly lifting one of his tacos to his mouth. At first, I’m worried that he’ll be too preoccupied with not making a mess to enjoy what he’s eating, but fortunately, he loosens up. By the time he’s done with his first taco, he’s reaching for the fries without a second thought, a bright, satisfied smile on his face.

  “Feel free to have some of my fries, by the way,” he tells me as he happily digs in.

  “Thanks!”

  The food is so good that I actually forget how to talk until my plate is empty. Henry is equally preoccupied, so neither of us say anything until we’re both finished with our tacos.

  Henry leans back in his seat. “That was so good. Thanks for suggesting we go here, Skye.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I reply. “I’m glad you got to eat something.”

  We’re finishing off his fries, taking turns grabbing one long, cheesy stick after another from the container, when Henry asks, “Where are you off to after this?”

  “Well,” I say, “normally, I’d go to my mom’s studio, since she works near here. But things haven’t been so great between us since she found out about the competition, so I might just take the metro to Union Station and ride the train home from there.”

  “Let me give you a ride home. I’ll ask Steve and Portia. Where do you live?”

  “Orange County. But really, you don’t have to. Traffic is probably bad right now.”

  “Traffic’s always bad in LA.”

  “True.”

  Henry texts Portia, and we sit on the parking lot curb to wait. We end up talking about pretty much everything, and by the time the Suburban pulls up, Henry and I are deep into a discussion about our favorite Korean rappers.

  “I really love RM,” Henry says. “He’s the backbone of BTS. It’s really impressive how he can speak English, too, even though he�
�s never lived in the US.”

  “Right?” I agree. “I really like Dean and Zico, too.”

  “Did you have a good time?” Portia asks when we get in the car. The almost mom-like way that she asks the question makes me realize that Portia is probably a lot older than I thought she was. People always joke about Asian people looking younger than they are, but even I have trouble figuring it out sometimes.

  “Yup,” Henry replies. “You should try the tacos here sometime. They’re amazing.”

  “Oh, El Flamin’ tacos? I’ve already been. Who hasn’t?”

  Portia and I share a laugh. Henry rolls his eyes in a good-natured way.

  As we exit out of LA to turn onto the highway, I can’t help but think that Henry is not at all like I thought he would be. I expected him to be stuck-up and obnoxious, but he’s actually sweet and considerate, to the point that now I’m even more curious about what made him so angry during his fight with Melinda.

  The highway headed away from LA isn’t as clogged up as the one heading toward it, so we get to my house sooner than I thought.

  “See you at the next practice,” Henry says as I get out of the SUV.

  “See you.”

  I get a glimpse of his smile—the real one, not the one tailored for the cameras—before he closes the door behind me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP TO THE RATTLE of my dresser. At first, in one confused, half-asleep moment, I think there’s an earthquake. Even though severe earthquakes are pretty rare where I live, they happen frequently enough that the rattling makes me bolt up from my bed. But it’s just my phone. And it’s buzzing with so many notifications that it freezes up when I try to swipe it open.

  Make it stop! Panic flashes around in my head like emergency lights, and even more so when I see that I only have fifteen minutes to get to school. Yesterday, I worked my butt off late into the night, scrambling to finish my homework. I must have been so tired that I forgot to set my alarm before I went to sleep.

  The time flies by way too quickly, and my hair is still dripping wet when I run out the door. Normally, I’d do my makeup and pick out a nice outfit, but not today. I consider myself lucky that I even remember to wear pants.