Page 72 of I'll Be the One

“Yeah,” Clarissa chimes in. “Think about how quickly people cancel celebrities on social media. It’s a real thing!”

My friends’ advice, as always, makes a lot of sense. So, for the time being, I don’t reply to any of the tweets or mentions on Instagram.

All the attention is bizarre and makes me feel so grateful, but I also feel incredibly guilty because no one—not even my school friends—knows that I got eliminated from dance after my performance with Henry. Not yet, anyway. That episode premieres tomorrow night.

I can’t stop thinking about what it’ll look like when I get eliminated—even if it’s just from one category—after standing up against Bora. I’m worried that I might become another “lesson” to fat girls who might be too afraid to stand up for themselves.

I lie in bed and find myself scrolling through Instagram, looking at posts from people who are still in the dance portion of the competition. Henry’s last post was of him lying on the floor of his rented studio, looking flawless as ever, with the caption “brief respite after a long day.” Imani’s was of her stretching at a barre with some of her ballet friends. I finally stop.

It’s embarrassingly late by the time I close Instagram. Luckily, it’s a Friday night, so it sucks less than it would if it were a school night. But still, I have practice tomorrow morning, so I could use the rest.

I’m about to go to sleep when I notice I have unread notifications. The most recent one is from Henry, who sent me a funny dog meme several hours ago.

It’s been so long since he sent the meme that I don’t know how to respond. I type “LOLLLLL,” then delete it and write something less cringey. Before I can hit Send, though, a speech bubble with three dots appears.

HENRY CHO:You still up?

I bolt up into a sitting position and stare at the text, feeling kind of embarrassed that Henry saw me struggle with a response. I take a few quick breaths before replying.

Yeah, couldn’t sleep. They’re broadcasting the episode with our dance performance tomorrow.

HENRY CHO:I know.

There’s a pause, and the three dots fade in and out again like Henry’s trying to figure out what to say. My heart is about to burst from the anticipation when finally, I get another text.

HENRY CHO:Do you want to go up to the Griffith Observatory tonight?

For a long beat, I think I’ve misread the text. The Griffith Observatory is a little north of Hollywood, up on a hill near the Hollywood sign. Back when Dad lived at home, he used to take me hiking up to the observatory every month or so for father-daughter bonding time. On those Sunday mornings, Dad and I used to talk about anything and everything. It was one of my favorite things to do as a kid, but the lasttime I went up there wasyearsago, right before Dad moved to NorCal.

And now, Henry wants to spontaneously go there. At three a.m.

Uh, I’m sure it’s closed by now,I reply.And I live pretty far from LA.

HENRY CHO:I can pick you up. And the park around the observatory is open 24 hours. We just have to hike up there, but it’s not that bad. I’ll bring Snowball.

It’s the last line that wins me over. Or so I tell myself.

I just want to see Snowball, I think over and over again. I try to keep it casual as I reply.

Cool! Text me when you’re here.

Henry sends back a smiley face and a thumbs-up.

I rush back and forth in my room, doing my best not to make any noise. It’s chilly during the nights now—or at least as chilly as it gets in LA—so I change into a warm but cute pink sweatshirt and a comfy pair of sweatpants.

Dad is back home for the weekend, and his snores echo through the hallway as I sneak downstairs and out the back door. Three a.m. is like the only time in LA when there’s little or no traffic, so Henry gets to my house in less than an hour.

I was expecting him to show up in the SUV, but instead, he shows up in a sky-blue vintage convertible. He’s wearing a navy-blue leather jacket, and the outfit combined with the car makes him look like he’s from a fifties movie. Snowball’ssitting in the back seat, and in the dim twilight of the streetlights, the two of them in the convertible look like something out of my dreams.

“Are you for real?” I whisper when he stops in front of our house. Mom’s a pretty light sleeper, so I don’t want to wake her up. “Man, you really pull out all the stops when you’re trying to impress a girl.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” he whispers back with a grin. “It’s been a while.”

Henry leans over to open the passenger door. Snowball tackles me as soon as I’m seated and licks me all over my face. I hug her tight. Her white, fluffy fur is so soft and thick. I nestle my face against her as we pull onto the highway.

“The Suburban is Steve’s and I didn’t want to wake him or Portia this early in the morning. This is my actual car,” Henry explains. “It’s the first thing I bought when I signed my modeling contract. I only drive it late at night or early on weekend mornings when there’s no traffic, though. Getting stuck in LA traffic in a convertible is hell on earth.”

“Understandable.”

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