I'll Be the One

by Lyla Lee

  Since “Crazy in Love” is such a dance-dependent song, at rehearsal on Saturday I teach Lana a few moves that we can both dance during the instrumental breaks. Despite what Lana says about being “just okay” at dancing, she manages to follow along to the choreography with only a few mistakes. Practicing with Lana is going so well that I almost forget how horribly things are going with Henry. Almost.

  During our lunch break, Lana catches me sulking behind the studio. Thankfully, everyone—including the camera crew—is on break now, so I’m taking full advantage of the fact that I don’t have to smile and pretend everything is okay.

  “What’s up?” she asks, her eyebrows knitting together with concern.

  “Ugh, it’s Henry,” I say. “I wish things were going well with him like they are with us, but he’s avoiding me for some reason. Won’t even answer my DMs.”

  She frowns, leaning against the wall beside me. “Why? I thought he was cool with dancing with you. Didn’t he volunteer to be your partner? That’s what Tiffany told me.”

  “He did. And he was fine with it for the first practice. But ever since we went out for tacos and the whole Instagram thing happened . . . well, I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Guys are so strange. I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with them.”

  “I mean, it’s not like I’m dating Henry.”

  Lana does a double take. “Wait, you two aren’t dating?”

  “Nope, those are all just rumors. I literally only invited him out for tacos because he said he hadn’t eaten anything for the day.”

  “Skye . . .” Lana groans. “Henry’s a celebrity. You can’t just go out with him like that without expecting some scandal to break out.”

  When she puts it that way, what we did does sound pretty reckless. Still, I can’t bring myself to really regret that day. What happened afterward sucked, but we had a good time.

  “Honestly,” Lana continues. “I’ve heard some really strange things about him. To be fair, I don’t know him personally, so I don’t know if any of it is true. But I have a few friends who went to Harvard-Westlake with him, back before his parents pulled him out of school. Apparently, he doesn’t have any friends. Like, at all. He used to, a long time ago, but then something happened.”

  “Something? Like, what?”

  “I don’t know. My friends got really uncomfortable when I asked, so I didn’t push. Seems like it was a big deal, though.”

  I think back to how excited Henry was to just be grabbing tacos with me. He definitely acted like he didn’t get out much, so I can see how the rumors Lana heard could be true. A sinking feeling grows in my stomach. I don’t know whether to be wary of him or feel bad for him.

  After a while, Lana says, “Have you tried talking to him about everything? I’ll never date a guy again, ever, but from what I know about my little brother, guys are awfully bad at talking about things. You can’t just expect them to tell you what’s wrong. You have to ask them first.”

  Just flat-out asking Henry about everything did occur to me before, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Maybe it’s because he’s a celebrity, or because of what happened after we hung out, but I feel a bit intimidated by him. I know Lana is right, though. I can’t just let this go on forever. And I don’t want this to hurt my chances in the competition.

  I make a mental note to definitely ask Henry what’s up at our dance practice next week. If I message him, he’ll probably only ghost me again.

  I’m about to thank Lana for the tip when Barack Obama’s voice suddenly booms out: “KAKAOTALK!”

  I give Lana a look, and she grins like a five-year-old.

  “I didn’t know anyone actually used that ringtone,” I say as I watch her open up her phone.

  Everyone and their mom—maybe even their grandparents—uses KakaoTalk to message each other in Korea, and so do a lot of Korean people who live in the States. Since the only Korean friend I have from school is Clarissa, and she doesn’t really use KakaoTalk, I only message my parents on it. The app has pretty hilarious ringtones and stickers that you can’t get anywhere else, so I’m sad I don’t have more opportunities to use it.

  “They got rid of it in the app, but Tiffany and I changed our text notification sounds to it. It’s an inside joke between us,” Lana explains. “He was the most pro-gay president in US history, it was great.”

  I watch Lana excitedly text Tiffany back. Then, before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “What’s it like?”

  Lana startles, like she already forgot I was there. She looks confused for a moment, before realization slowly dawns on her face.

  “It’s amazing,” she says. “When I was in high school, I was still dating guys and was always miserable. I couldn’t understand why I didn’t care about any of them or why I wasn’t attracted to anyone. But then . . . when I started going out with Tiffany, well, this sounds cheesy, but it just felt right. I finally understood what all those love songs were talking about. You’re not straight, right?”

  “I’m bi,” I say. “Or at least, I think I am. I’m still not sure about the whole pan-versus-bi thing . . . and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to date a girl because, well . . .”

  I sigh. Lana waits patiently for me to continue.

  “Asian parents,” I finish. “But no, I’m definitely not straight.”

  She nods sympathetically. “Yeah, I feel you. Both Lana and I got kicked out of our houses when our parents found out. We live together now, but . . . getting there was definitely not easy. And our families still give us a hard time about it. I mean, I wish they could just get over it and freakin’ accept us already. But . . . it’s been years and I think my parents are still waiting for me to get over my ‘girl-dating phase’ and find myself a guy.”

  Something in my heart cracks. It’s one thing to see posts on Twitter and Tumblr about homophobic parents kicking out their kids, but it’s a whole different level of pain to be friends with someone who’s actually experienced it themselves. And as much as I hate feeling this way, I can’t help but be relieved that I’m still safe. That my parents still don’t know. That my parents might never even have to know.

  “I’m so sorry,” is all I can say.

  Lana shrugs. “It is what it is. I can’t change my parents any more than they can change me.” She clears her throat and says, “Okay, enough sad talk. Let’s get back to work. We’re going to for sure make it to the next round, yeah? You better not fail me!”

  “Okay,” I laugh.

  We bump our fists together, smiling.

  After rehearsal, Lana and I are on our way out to the parking lot when Melinda steps right in front of me.

  “So, you’re Henry’s partner.”

  Melinda’s gray eyes give me a disapproving once-over, like she doesn’t think I’m worthy. It’s a stark contrast to how she looked at me the last time we interacted, when she was so desperate to be my friend.

  And you’re Henry’s ex, I almost say back. But since I don’t want to get slapped, I just say, “Yup. That’s how things turned out.”

  A hand reaches out in front of me and gently pushes me back. It’s Lana, and I shoot her a grateful look for coming in between Melinda and me.

  “Excuse you,” Lana says. “What do you think you’re doing? Skye and I are tired after a long day of rehearsal, so you better not be stirring up some jealous-ex drama.”

  Lana is talking so loudly that the camerapeople—who were on their way home just seconds before—turn back around to circle us, switching their cameras back on so they can eagerly record our every move.

  Melinda glances at the cameras and shoots us an annoyed look.

  “Look,” she hisses at me, completely ignoring Lana. “Henry and I are just taking a break. He’s only dancing with you for this competition, that’s it. So don’t you dare try anything when you’re clearly nothing but a charity case.”

  I was going to let everything Melinda said go, but that last bit makes me really mad. I never ask
ed Henry to be my partner, and I never asked to be “rescued.” And yet everyone’s treating me like I just got lucky. I step away from Lana’s protective arm so Melinda and I are face-to-face. I’m sick and tired of people believing that I don’t have a rightful place in this competition.

  “Listen,” I say. “Henry and I aren’t like that. The rumors that I’m his ‘rebound’ are just that. Rumors. But don’t go around calling me a charity case just because I’m dancing with your ex. If you wanted to dance with him, you should have tried out for the dance portion of the competition, too.”

  “I did,” Melinda says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t get in.”

  “Well then, I guess I’m not that much of a charity case.”

  By then, a crowd’s gathered around us. I catch the SpongeBob T-shirt girl—honestly, at this point I’m wondering if she just has a closet full of SpongeBob shirts—and a few other people cheering for me. The cameras zoom in so they have a closer view of our faces.

  Melinda narrows her eyes, but then she turns around and leaves without another word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE NEXT SATURDAY IS OUR LAST DANCE PRACTICE before the second elimination round. Things are bad. Really bad. Nothing is going right. Henry and I keep stepping on each other’s feet. Our limbs get tangled up together, like we’re playing Twister. I almost trip and fall flat on my face.

  I can’t stop myself from looking around at the other couples, and instantly regret it. Imani and her partner, Caleb Kim, are methodically going through each step of the dance, making sure they are perfectly in sync. Tiffany and Paul Johnston aren’t doing as well, but they seem to at least be on the same page.

  Envy creeps up in my head before I can stop it. The way Henry and I easily danced together just two weeks ago seems like a wild dream.

  I’m on the verge of panicking. Not only is today’s practice going horribly, but tonight is also the premiere of the first episode of You’re My Shining Star. Clarissa and Rebecca have been texting me about it the entire week, but I’ve been mostly keeping my distance, only replying with one-word answers to their questions about the show. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but it’s hard to be excited about the show’s premiere when things between Henry and me are so bad right now. My stomach twists into knots just thinking about it.

  I’m still worrying about the premiere when Henry and I butt heads. Hard.

  “Ow!” I yell.

  Everyone—including, of course, the cameras—turns around to look at me. I’m in too much pain to care. My eyes water as I glare at Henry. He didn’t cry out like I did, but his face is tensed up in a pained wince.

  “Sorry,” he mutters. It’s the first thing I’ve heard him say since our phone conversation.

  I think back to what Lana said and decide to follow her advice.

  “That’s it,” I say. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

  I grab Henry’s hand and pull him toward the studio doors. As we pass, people stop dancing to stare at us with their mouths open. Whispers fill the room.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Bora says, stepping in my way.

  The cameras are circled around us now, and I have to take a deep breath before I can say in a calm, matter-of-fact voice, “I need to go talk with my partner. We’ll be right outside, but I’d like some privacy, please.”

  Bora shakes her head. “Absolutely not. Whatever private conversation you need to have with your partner can wait until lunch.”

  Lunch is in the middle of our day. We’ll have wasted an entire half of the day by then.

  “Just five minutes,” I say. “Please.”

  “No,” Bora snaps. She switches to Korean, speaking so quickly that I almost can’t understand her. “You must think you deserve some kind of special treatment since Mr. Park saved you from getting eliminated, but I’m afraid that’s not the case. Even now, you are causing such a disruption, wasting everyone else’s valuable rehearsal time. I don’t know how things work on American TV shows, but that’s not how we do things on this show.”

  From behind her, I spot Imani, who mouths, You need backup? Even though Bora’s talking in Korean, I guess it’s pretty clear that I’m in trouble.

  I shake my head. As much as I hate Bora, I have to admit she’s right this time around. I never intended to cause such a big commotion, but it’s clear from how everyone’s stopped dancing that that’s exactly what I did. I internally groan. This will look great on TV.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

  I look back at Henry, surprised that he’s been quiet this whole time. Unlike the charismatic celebrity he was on the first day, now he’s barely responsive, just staring silently at the floor.

  We go back to our places, and the rest of the morning is predictably horrible. By the time we break for lunch, I want to scream. Before I can say anything, though, Henry gently grabs my hand and pulls me out to the hallway while everyone gets in line for food.

  “Okay,” he says. “Let’s talk.”

  “Ugh!” I say loudly, finally letting all my frustration out. “You really don’t care about the competition, do you? We’re definitely going to be eliminated in the next round if you keep dancing like a zombie.”

  Henry runs his hand through his perfectly swept-back hair. “I do care. I just . . . I don’t know.”

  “Are you mad at me or something?” I try again. “Did I do something wrong?”

  He blinks, as if he’s having trouble processing what I said. For a moment, I think that’s all I’m going to get out of him, but then he says, “You? No, how could I be mad at you? You didn’t do anything.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the most he’s said to me in the last two weeks.

  “Okay then, what is it?”

  He takes a deep breath and looks away, running his hand through his hair again. “It’s me. I messed up.”

  “How so?”

  “I shouldn’t have let Portia tag you on the post, or at least I should’ve okayed it with you before she put it up. I’m so used to posting stuff with other celebrities, people who don’t manage their own accounts and are used to that kind of exposure, that I didn’t even think about how that might affect you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Wait, so are you telling me that you were giving me the cold shoulder this entire time because you felt bad? You left me on ‘Seen’ because of that?”

  Lana was right. Guys are stupid.

  “I didn’t let Portia respond because I thought you were forcing yourself to be nice to me. I don’t know. Sorry, it’s complicated.”

  “How so?”

  “I realized I probably couldn’t be friends with you after all. Shouldn’t be friends with you. Honestly, hanging out with you after practice that day was great. I had so much fun, and it felt like a breath of fresh air, especially after the last couple of hellish weeks I’ve had. But what happened on Instagram was a wake-up call. I realized I couldn’t just freely hang out with you. It was irresponsible of me, like your friend said.”

  “Or, you could just . . . not post pictures on Instagram.”

  It only occurs to me after I say it that I’ve been anticipating us hanging out again. Like it’s something I can take for granted. If Henry thinks that’s weird, he doesn’t mention it. And even though I told Melinda that there was nothing between Henry and me, I can’t deny that I liked spending time with him.

  “But that goes against everything I am as a person,” Henry says. His tone is completely serious, but his lopsided grin tells me he’s kidding. His expression, as annoying as it is, is a welcome sight. He’s finally loosening up.

  When I don’t say anything, he continues. The words flow out of him, like water rushing out from a faucet. “But yeah, I wasn’t sure if I should have even volunteered to be your partner in the first place—not because of anything you did, but because of all the attention and drama that resulted from it. I also . . . well, I thought you were mad at me. Or you wouldn’t want to deal with me again after what
happened. And you’d have every right to not want to spend time with me. Not after what I did.”

  Henry’s voice is now barely louder than a whisper. His vulnerability surprises me, and so does the pained expression on his face.

  “I’ve had people stop being friends with me after similar things happened in the past,” he continues. “Granted, the circumstances were really different. And I wasn’t blameless then, either. But I was scared it was happening again. I’m sorry.”

  I wait for Henry to elaborate on what exactly happened between him and his friends, but he doesn’t. So I say, “Well, what happened on Instagram definitely wasn’t the happiest experience of my life. And I made the mistake of reading some of the comments. I’ve never seen so many pig emojis in my life.”

  Henry winces. “I’m so sorry.”

  I hold my head high, thinking back to what Melinda said about me being a “charity case.” “Make it up to me by putting your all into this competition so we can move on to the next round. I won’t accept any other apology.”

  “Okay, sure. I can definitely do that.”

  By the time we return to the main studio, everyone’s already well into practice. I forgot how short our lunch break is.

  Bora smirks at me from where she’s observing everyone from the front of the studio, like she’s pleased that Henry and I are missing out.

  “Crap,” I say. “We’ll never catch up now.”

  Henry nervously drums his fingers on the door. “I know a place we can practice some more after this rehearsal is over. If you’d be comfortable with going there, that is.”

  “Where?”

  “I . . .”

  Henry sheepishly looks away and mumbles something. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that I laugh before I reply, “What?”

  “I have a private studio that I use whenever I want to dance by myself for a bit. It won’t just be the two of us. Portia and Steve will be there with us, but I totally understand if you don’t feel comfortable practicing there.”