Page 9 of I'll Be the One

“All right. See you soon.”

She’s going to try to talk me out of the competition. I can hear it in her voice. Before she can start, though, I hang up and run down the metro steps.

Mom’s studio is only one metro stop away, but on this simmering-hot day, even that short trip is pretty soul crushing. The train is full of sweaty people who look just as miserable as I do. It smells like pee and the seats are sticky, so I stand and wait for the train to come to my stop.

My mom is one of the top aestheticians in LA, which means that she gives facials and does makeup for everyone, from all our family friends to major celebrities. It’s how she single-handedly supported our family—working long, twelve-hour days six days a week—after Dad lost his job a few years back.

So, in a way, I get why she’s so obsessed about my appearance. Her job is to literally make people more beautiful. But it still stings that she never thinks I’m beautiful the way I am now.

By the time I walk over from the metro stop to Mom’s studio, it’s five p.m., but it’s still really hot and humid. I run inside, and I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven when the cool AC air hits my face.

“Uhseo ohsaeyo!” Sally, Mom’s secretary, greets me in cheery Korean. When she sees that it’s me, her expression immediately changes to one of an older sister worrying about her baby sister. I’m an only child, but Sally, who’s worked for Mom for five years and babysat me for the first two of those five, is the closest I have to an unni—an older sister. “Skye, are you okay? You weren’t walking outside, were you? It hit one hundred degrees today!”

“I was,” I groan.

“Were you really auditioning forYou’re My Shining Star? Your school called, and I had to transfer the phone to your mom!”

I nod, too tired to talk anymore. My head’s starting to spin, so I plop myself down on one of the couches in the reception area. It’s super nice, and the fabric is just as soft and smooth as it was when we first got it. I’m still dripping with sweat, and I belatedly realize I’m probably going to leave sweat stains onthe fabric. But Sally doesn’t say anything to stop me, and I’m too exhausted to get up.

“Did you get in?”

I nod again, vaguely surprised that Mom didn’t tell her. It occurs to me that she might be so ashamed of me that she won’t tell anyone. I feel sick, so I close my eyes.

“Here,” says Sally. Something cool touches my hand. I open my eyes to see Sally holding out a glass of cold water for me. “Your mom is with her last customer, but in the meantime, have some water. Youreallydon’t look good.”

A prickle of discomfort rises up inside of me as I think about the many times I’ve seen American movies and Korean variety shows make fun of the “fat, sweaty kid.” In Korean shows especially, there are sometimes even laugh tracks and sweat droplets digitally drawn onto people’s faces so viewers at home can laugh at how out of shape and breathless the fat people are. Even though I’m usually comfortable in my own skin, and even though a skinny person would be just as sweaty in the sweltering heat as I am, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what Sally’s thinking when she says I “reallydon’t look good.”

I finish my water in just a few gulps, drinking so fast that I have to gasp for air when I’m done.

“Wow, that bad, huh?”

I nod, for what I hope is the last time. I love Sally, but sometimes she asks way too many questions. I rest my head back against the couch and close my eyes, pretending to fall asleep.

“Haneul-ah?”

I open my eyes at the sound of Mom’s voice. I’d fallen asleep for real.

“She must have gotten heat exhaustion,” says Sally. She hurriedly hands me more water.

I drink, slowly this time, wanting to make the glass of water last. As long as I’m drinking, I don’t have to talk to Mom.

In some ways, Mom and I are exactly the same, and in others, we can’t be more different. We have the same round, dark-brown eyes, the same button nose, and the same slightly wavy black hair. But she’s petite, while I’m big-boned and sturdy like Dad, and she still wears soft kohl eyeliner and lush pink lipstick like an ABG—an Asian baby girl—while I usually only wear a pastel pink lip gloss and light mascara. The only reason I’m wearing red lipstick and heavier makeup today is because I knew I was going to be up onstage.

The thought of my makeup nearly makes me groan. I’ve sweat so much that I probably look like a sad half-melted clown right now.

Mom grabs the wooden office chair from Sally’s desk and sets it down in front of me. When she’s seated, she says, “So. You skipped school to go to a K-pop audition. Which... okay, I just wish you would have told me in advance. I could have at least called the school to get you excused.”

“You wouldn’t have let me audition,” I say flatly. “Especially not for dance.”

“Well.” Mom huffs but doesn’t correct me. “I just don’t wantyou to make a fool out of yourself on TV, that’s all. Heavens, Haneul. Imagine what Karen-imo would say if she saw you galivanting onstage in—inthat.” She pauses to wave her hand at my clothes for effect. “Or even all your imos and gomos in Korea!”

You mean, the same imos and gomos that you’re too ashamed to let me visit in Korea?The response pops up in my head, although I don’t say anything aloud.

Although here in the States I have lots of imos—maternal aunties—who are actually just Mom’s friends and aren’t really my blood relatives, I have tons of real imos and gomos—paternal aunties—that I haven’t seen in person since I hit puberty. I asked countless times if we could visit Korea, but every year, Mom always made up some random excuse until it became clear what the real reason was. She’s too embarrassed of me and, more specifically, my weight.

Usually, I just close my eyes and let her go on and on. But today, especially after what I endured from Bora earlier, I’m too fed up to stay quiet. I look Mom straight in the eyes and say, “My outfit is perfectly fine. I’m just wearing a sports bra and leggings.”

Although I normally wear flashier things onstage, I wanted the audience to focus on me and my skills as a performer today. So I opted for a chic black sports-bra-and-leggings set from Torrid, one of my favorite plus-size-friendly brands. I look sleek and sexy in my outfit—or at least I did before sweat-pocalypse happened—and I know it. It’s not my fault peoplelike my mom think that fat people wearing tight or revealing clothing is “inappropriate.”

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