I'll Be the One

by Lyla Lee

  I’m desperate not to let this day go to waste. Besides, other than the whole Instagram incident, Henry, Portia, and Steve seem like good people. It’s not like I haven’t already hung out with the three of them before.

  So instead of saying no, I ask, “Does it have AC?”

  “Yup.”

  “Does it have a good sound system?”

  “Yup.”

  “Then I’m good. Let’s head there after practice.”

  We drive down to Studio City, thankfully avoiding the busier areas with lots of tourists. Growing up near Hollywood is weird because countless people from all over the world visit here to take pictures of the Hollywood sign and go on the double-decker-bus tours. Meanwhile, to me, Hollywood is just another metro stop, and a huge inconvenience because of the exponentially bad amount of traffic it causes.

  Steve parks the Suburban on the side of the street, and we go inside what looks like a run-down office building. But the inside is really nice, like the recording studio we practice in for You’re My Shining Star. Aside from the dance practice rooms, there’s a lounge area and a fully stocked bar, like we’re in some exclusive club. Signed and framed photos of celebrities like Britney Spears and Demi Lovato hang on the walls.

  “You rent out a studio here?” My voice comes out in a hushed, reverent whisper as I stare at the photos of famous artists who’ve practiced here.

  Henry gives me a bemused look.

  “Yeah. This room specifically.” He taps a framed photo of Vanessa Hudgens and her backup dancers. “I don’t think she still uses this room, though. That picture is pretty old.”

  Mouth wide open, I follow him up the stairs.

  Thanks to Mom’s small business and Dad’s tech job, my parents make a decent amount of money, but I can’t imagine being as rich as Henry’s family. And even if we were, knowing my parents, they’d probably put a good chunk of that money into my college savings account and use the rest to visit family in Korea. Not rent an exclusive A-list studio.

  I’m still thinking about Korea, and how badly I want to win this competition so I can finally go there again, when Henry stops to open a door.

  “Well, this is it. Feel free to stretch and warm up. I’ll go cue up the song.”

  Heart pounding in my chest, I walk into the studio. It’s smaller than the one that we usually practice in for the competition, but it’s twice as beautiful. The one they rent out for You’re My Shining Star is more modern, with bright red walls and industrial ceilings, while this studio has strategically placed floor-to-ceiling mirrors and lighting that gives everything a soft, comforting glow. It’s the kind of space I’ve always dreamed of practicing in.

  Portia and Steve enter carrying a small plastic table and chairs and set them in the back of the room, next to the mini fridge and water dispenser. I ask them if they need help, but Portia just shakes her head and smiles.

  “Okay, the song is ready,” Henry says. He must have noticed me eyeing his team, because he adds, “Oh, they don’t usually do that when it’s just me. But we figured you’d feel safer if you and I weren’t alone in the room.”

  Portia gives a friendly wave from the back of the room, like she’s a soccer mom about to watch her kid play. Steve, as usual, doesn’t say anything, but his gaze does look a bit less menacing than usual. The level of everyone’s thoughtfulness is so extreme that it’s simultaneously really awkward and really endearing.

  Henry and I get into position in the middle of the room. Although we’re doing the same thing we did countless times with everyone else, with just the two of us on the dance floor, it feels ten times more intimate. The studio we use for the competition is usually pretty noisy because everyone’s always talking before the music comes on, but here, it’s completely quiet. Even though Henry is standing just as close as he normally is when we practice, he seems even closer now, and I can hear the quiet, barely perceptible sound of his breathing. He always smells nice, but today, I can’t help but notice how his ocean-breeze-scented cologne has undercurrents of wildflowers.

  “God,” I say. “You take the flower-boy thing a bit too far.”

  “Hm?”

  “You know how in Korean, there’s this phrase ‘kkot minam’? Like, boys that are as pretty as flowers?”

  Henry nods. An amused smile plays on his lips, and he looks down at me through eyelashes that are unfairly darker and longer than mine.

  “Well, you’re one of them,” I continue. “But you also smell like flowers.”

  He bursts out laughing, and I nervously giggle with him. Being so intimate with a hot boy I barely know is pretty awkward, but at least we can both laugh about it.

  As soon as the music starts, though, I forget about all the awkwardness. Like I always do, I throw myself into the elaborate choreography, spinning and twisting along with the beat. Henry dances with me, and we move in sync, our bodies perfectly matched in our reflection in the mirror.

  It’s been so long since we’ve danced like this that I almost cry in relief. After hours of things being so mechanical and awkward between the two of us, it’s ridiculous how everything comes so easily now. We’re even breathing in sync.

  I’m so glad I took Lana’s advice.

  As we’re dancing, Henry smiles. And I smile back as he spins me into his arms.

  Chapter Nineteen

  HENRY IS QUIET FOR NEARLY THE ENTIRE DRIVE TO my house. He’s tense, like he’s nervous about something. Whenever we make eye contact, he smiles, but it’s his fake, professional smile, not his real one.

  Since Henry’s clearly not in a talking mood, I plug my earbuds into my ears and listen to “Crazy in Love” on loop as I study some Quizlet flash cards I made for my psychology test on Monday. I have so much going on between school and the competition, I have to be as efficient with my time as I possibly can.

  We’re about to get off the 5 when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I startle and look up from my notes to see Henry gesturing at his ear, like he wants me to take out my earbuds. I take one out and say, “Yeah?”

  With uncharacteristic shyness, Henry holds out his phone. “Can I, um, have your number?”

  “Huh?”

  He glances away and runs his hand through his hair. “It’ll make coordinating practices a lot easier this week. You said you wanted to practice during the week as well, right? Since we’re so short on time.”

  I’d totally forgotten I said that during practice. Was that what Henry had been nervous about this entire time? “Oh, sure!”

  I type in my number, and he texts me a quick message. My phone buzzes.

  Henry’s mouth slides into a lopsided grin. “Okay, good,” he says. “So you didn’t give me the number for the Rejection Hotline.”

  I snort. “I don’t hate you, you know. At least not yet. Talk to me a week from now and that might change.”

  Henry raises his eyebrows at me in mock surprise. “Guess you’re not one for ‘friendly competition.’”

  “We can be friendly,” I amend. “But I’m still going to win.”

  He laughs, and his smile is so genuine that it makes me grin, too.

  Wow, I think before I can stop myself. I wish he smiled like that more often.

  I look away to add his number to my contacts. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself I’m doing.

  “Is this your personal number?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Henry replies, sounding puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Aren’t celebrities supposed to be really secretive of their personal information or something? The last time you called me, it was from a ‘No Caller ID’ number.”

  “Oh, I was actually using Portia’s phone because I didn’t have mine with me. And she likes to keep things private since she has kids. As for me, well . . .” He grins. “I am secretive. You’re the only person I’ve shared my number with in a long time. The only person besides Portia and Steve that I’ve genuinely interacted with for a long time, really.”

&n
bsp; He winces, as if he’s mentally kicking himself for admitting the last part to me.

  “Wait,” I say. “What do you mean? Do you . . . not have any friends?”

  “Not anymore. The last real ones I had were from school. Before my parents decided to homeschool me.”

  “Oh . . . did something happen?” I’m trying so hard to be sensitive that my voice goes way higher than usual. Hearing rumors that someone is friendless is one thing, but hearing them say it directly with their own mouth is a totally different, way sadder experience.

  Just then, the car rolls to a stop.

  “We’re here,” says Portia.

  Unmistakable relief crosses Henry’s face.

  “See you later, Skye,” he says.

  Another day, another mystery, I think as I slide out of the SUV.

  “Skye!”

  I startle, because I wasn’t expecting anyone to be home. But then I remember. Dad’s back this weekend. It’s not his regular week to be home, but he promised he’d be home to watch the premiere with me.

  Sure enough, when I turn around, I see that Dad’s out in the garden, pruning some of the bushes. Or at least, he was. Now he’s just staring slack-jawed at the SUV as it drives off, his shears frozen in midsnip.

  “Ya,” he whispers, as though Henry and his staff could hear us from miles away. “Whose car was that? Is it some celebrity’s?”

  I give Dad a wary look, since I don’t know how much he knows about pop culture.

  “It’s Henry Cho,” I say. “He’s a model—”

  Dad gasps. “Henry Cho? I follow him on Instagram!”

  “Y-you have Instagram?”

  “Of course! Isn’t Facebook on the decline right now? That’s what I read in Forbes, anyway. All my college friends use Instagram now.”

  I groan. “Time to delete my Instagram.”

  I roll my eyes, but secretly, I’m more amused than horrified. Since he’s an engineer, Dad tries his best to keep up with the latest technology, but he’s also always saying things like, “Wow, this used to all be analog when I was your age!” or some equally embarrassing statement. I didn’t know his hobby extended to social media, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Dad lives alone in NorCal, so he must have a lot of time outside of work.

  “How on earth do you know Henry Cho?” Dad asks. “Is he in the competition too?”

  “Yup, he’s my partner.”

  “What? But why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “It’s still a secret! The first episode premieres tonight, remember?”

  Dad’s enthusiasm for Henry is so eerily similar to my friends’ reactions that I almost walk away from my house right then and there. But it’s Dad. Unlike Mom or my friends, I know he’ll be my number one fan, no matter what. Or at least, I hope he will.

  Dad excitedly throws his hands up in the air when I nod in reply. “Finally, our Skye will grace people’s TVs with her talent! I can’t wait. Watch party!”

  I giggle. Only Dad can say silly things like that without making me automatically roll my eyes.

  It’s only then that I realize I’ve never really had the chance to update Dad about the competition. So I tell him about everything that’s been going on in the last week or two, minus the Instagram debacle. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like he saw Henry’s post in the brief time it was up. And he doesn’t read any gossip sites, either. Thank God.

  When I’m done, Dad makes a really impressed sound. “Wow, look at you. You always work so hard. You’re amazing, Skye. I hope you know that.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He goes back to pruning the bushes, and I’m about to head inside the house when he says, “Oh, so, Henry Cho. Is he nice? He better be treating you well.”

  I cringe. “You make it sound like we’re dating.”

  Dad raises his eyebrows, and his expression becomes really stern. I almost laugh. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him look so dad-like. “Are you?”

  “No! Of course not. We’re just dance partners. There are a bunch of rumors that we’re together, but really, we just got tacos together. That’s it.”

  Dad coughs and turns a little green. “Your mom had The Talk with you, right?”

  “Dad! I told you, we’re not dating!”

  His coloring becomes slightly more normal, but his face is still unnaturally stiff in a way that makes him look constipated. “Okay. Good. If you two do end up dating . . . well . . .” He sighs, and his face finally relaxes like a deflating balloon. “I give up. It’s probably better for you to go to your mom for that sort of thing.”

  “I know!” By then, I’m losing it, laughing really loudly despite my embarrassment. After a few milliseconds of looking absolutely mortified, Dad joins in. We laugh until we’re both gasping for air.

  “I know,” I say again. “Don’t worry, Dad. I know how to be safe.”

  Dad awkwardly scratches his head. “All right, well. Go wash up. I’ll prep dinner in a few minutes.”

  “Nah, I got it. You probably need to finish up around the yard, right? I can reheat some of the stuff in the fridge.”

  It’s pretty amazing that Dad does the yard work for a house he barely lives in every time he visits from the Bay Area. But that’s my dad. Prepping dinner is a small thing, but it’s something I can do for him.

  “You sure?”

  “Yup. I always cook and prep food when Mom’s working anyway. How about I make some jjajangmyun? I think we have some instant noodle packets left.”

  “Ooh, my favorite! Thank you, Skye. I really appreciate it.”

  He grins, and it’s the sort of grin that makes my heart ache with how familiar it is. We have the same dimple on our right cheeks, which makes our smiles nearly identical. I wish I could see his more often. For probably the millionth time, I wish Dad lived with us again.

  “Hey, Dad?” I begin.

  “Hm?”

  I open my mouth to reply when the garage opens, rumbling like thunder as the gate climbs slowly up. I look back to see that Mom’s BMW has pulled into our driveway. Even through her tinted windows, I can tell that she’s scowling. Probably at me.

  “Never mind,” I say. “See you at dinner.”

  Before Mom can get out of the car, I walk the other way to the front door.

  Chapter Twenty

  AFTER DINNER, DAD AND I SIT DOWN IN THE LIVING room to watch the first episode of You’re My Shining Star on SBC, one of our main Korean channels. My skin feels all tingly with excitement, since I know the show is being broadcast simultaneously here, at six p.m. on Saturday night, and at ten a.m. on Sunday in Korea. I wonder if my family back in Korea will see the show, and what they’ll think of my audition.

  Dad and I cuddle up together on the sofa, and he clutches me tightly like he’s the one about to make his TV debut.

  “Oh my gosh, this is really happening,” he says as he turns on the TV. “My daughter, woori Haneul-i . . .”

  He trails off, and I crack up. Unlike Mom, Dad pretty much grew up in the States, so he rarely speaks Korean to me. He must be way more nervous than I thought if he’s calling me “our Haneul” in Korean.

  “Ya,” Dad says, looking embarrassed. “Why aren’t you more nervous? You’re the one who’s going to be on TV in two different countries!”

  I shrug. “I am, but at this point I’ve pretty much accepted that it’s going to happen. And seeing myself on TV can’t possibly be worse than auditioning in the first place, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  At that moment, the TV screen momentarily goes black, before fading back in to a shot of Mr. Park sitting at a large mahogany table. It must have been prerecorded a while ago, because he’s sitting in his office back in Seoul. The walls of the room are covered with framed posters of the countless K-pop groups he’s nurtured from all the way back in the nineties.

  “Welcome,” Mr. Park says, “to You’re My Shining Star. Over the last few years, K-pop has become an international phenomenon, with groups
like BTS and Blackpink performing sold-out concerts all over the world.”

  As he talks, the show plays clips from various K-pop concerts in cities like London, Mexico City, Tokyo, and, of course, LA.

  “After watching the rise and fall of countless K-pop competition survival shows in Korea, my colleagues and I decided it was time for a new type of competition to reflect the widening scope of the Korean music industry. Why should competitions be held in only Korea, when our audiences become more international every day? Thus You’re My Shining Star was born, the first major K-pop competition set exclusively outside of Korea. We’ve had an exciting few weeks in sunny Los Angeles, as you will soon see today. Come witness the astounding talent and heart-stopping drama our participants have in store for us. We welcome you to You’re My Shining Star.”

  The screen fades to black again, with loud trumpets blending into an obnoxiously happy K-pop song by Pixel, PTS Entertainment’s lead girl group. Bright pink bubbles and sky-blue clouds display the credits, interspersed with footage of our auditions and practices. Every time my face pops up, Dad yells, “THERE SHE IS! MY DAUGHTER!”

  His reaction is so cute that I almost forget the fact that Mom isn’t here to watch the show with us. Ads for the premiere were plastered all over K-town, so Mom must know it’s airing tonight.

  By the time the opening credits end, Dad must have noticed Mom’s absence too, because he says, “Hm, I wonder where your mom is.”

  “I’m honestly not surprised she isn’t here,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “She’s been pretty much ignoring me ever since I got into the competition.”

  “Is that so?” Dad says, looking worried. He glances upstairs, where my parents’ room is. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before I can dwell much on Dad’s absence, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I look at the screen. It’s a group FaceTime request from Clarissa and Rebecca. I accept the call.

  “OH MY GOD, SKYE, IT’S REAL. YOU’RE ACTUALLY ON TV!” Clarissa squeals as soon as I pick up. “And they have clips of you dancing with Henry! I can’t wait for that episode!”