Page 4 of I'll Be the One

Chapter Two

BACKSTAGE IS A CHAOTIC MESS. WORD OF HENRY’Sarrival must have spread, because people rush back to where I came from to get a glimpse of him. Whether it beAmerican IdolorAmerica’s Got Talent, or even Korean competitions likeK-Pop StarandShow Me the Money, they always either skip or fast-forward the footage as the contestants walk backstage, and now I know why. The people whoaren’tobsessing 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 Staris 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 theirfriends 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, theproducer, 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. Theyarehuman. 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 me 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 inKorean. “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 singanddance 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 theauditorium, 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.

---