I ask Binna why the wall is see-through in the first place—why even tempt us by letting us see but not talk to each other? Binna shrugs and says it’s probably because the company thinks girl trainees will eat less if boys are watching.
My mind reels over how messed up that is. But I have no doubt that Binna’s exactly right.
I spot Helena and Aram at a table with what must be all the most gorgeous girls from the other teams. “Are those the Plastics?” I ask.
My whole table laughs. Thank goodness they’ve all seen Mean Girls.
“We call them the Visual Table,” says JinJoo, giggling behind her hand.
I blink at her, confused. But then I remember how Imani explained that every K-pop girl group has a Visual member, the one the company decides is the most beautiful.
Looking around the cafeteria, I realize that the girls at my table look the least like typical idols; if this is K-pop high school, we’re the geeks. That’s probably why I feel so at home.
A female junior manager drops my weekly schedule off at my table. I gasp out loud.
CANDACE (TEAM TWO) TUESDAY SCHEDULE
4:00 a.m.–5:00 a.m.: WORKOUT / SHOWER
5:00 a.m.–5:30 a.m.: HEALTHY BREAKFAST
5:30 a.m.–11:30 a.m.: KOREAN LANGUAGE CLASS
11:30 a.m.–12:30 p.m.: HEALTHY LUNCH / FRESH AIR TIME
12:30 p.m.–7:30 p.m.: TEAM TWO GROUP PRACTICE
7:30 p.m.–8:30 p.m.: HEALTHY DINNER / FRESH AIR TIME
8:30 p.m.–12:00 a.m.: TEAM TWO GROUP PRACTICE / SELF PRACTICE
My schedule changes up a little day to day—I sometimes have something called a “Behavior and Manners Class,” and on Saturdays I have a five-hour “Dance Class with Miss Yoon”—but the six hours of Korean Language class and the nine hours of practice and the inhumane amount of sleep are every day except for Sunday.
How am I going to survive one week of this, let alone three months? Normally, I’m super grumpy if I get anything less than eight hours of sleep, and I’m really worried that Manager Kong somehow forgot what a terrible dancer I am. And when I think of the literal cost of me failing, and how much my parents sacrificed to bring me here, and how excited my friends are …
BowHee gives my shoulder a sympathetic pat. “The first few weeks are the hardest! You’ll get used to it eventually.”
“Yeah,” says JinJoo cheerily, “I had so many meltdowns my first month, but now look at me.” I can barely understand her because her mouth is full of her own pigtail. Her half sweet potato stays untouched.
For my first Korean Language class, all of us foreign, non-native Korean speakers file into a bright white classroom with no windows on the corporate floor. Boys and girls are escorted in separately by junior managers. The classroom is literally split down the middle by a Gender Line: two strips of tape—one pink and one blue—girls on one side, boys on the other.
I’m assigned a seat at the very front of the class. Right across the boy-girl divide from me is a boy who has to sit sideways because his legs are too long to fit under his desk—it’s the super-cute boy from the cafeteria. He flashes me a friendly smile; I look away quickly, remembering Manager Kong’s lecture about how getting friendly with a boy will ruin my future and bring down the entire company and lead the world to a fiery apocalypse.
Teacher Lee enters the room, greeting the students in a voice that’s way too energetic for five thirty a.m. Everyone jumps to their feet to bow. “Good morning, Teacher Lee.” Teacher Lee, who barely looks older than some of the trainees, motions for us to sit back down.
Right away, Teacher Lee gives me kindergarten-teacher vibes. She has an innocent, dimpled face and wears an outfit that looks like it was taken off a life-size doll: a plaid dress with a Peter Pan collar and Mary Jane shoes with knee-high socks. When she sees me, she says, “Oh yes, we have a new student today, don’t we? Park Candace, is it?”
I nod and stare at my desk. I haven’t felt first-day jitters like this since … ever.
“Welcome, Candace-shi. Why don’t you stand up and tell us the year you were born, where you’re from, your main K-pop skill, and … your favorite food!”
I stand up and look around the room for the first time. There are two single-file lines of desks. Four boy trainees and six girls, including me … and Helena. In the back, Helena shoots me an evil look for no reason I can think of.
My heart races; everyone’s going to laugh at my crappy Korean. For the first time ever, I curse my parents for not forcing me to go to Korean school on Saturdays.
I begin with a bow. “Hello, everyone. My name is Candace. I’m from New Jersey and I am fifteen years old. And … I’m not sure what my main K-pop skills are yet. I’ve been a trainee for less than twenty-four hours.” This gets a little laugh. “But I like to sing and play the guitar. And what was the last one? Oh, yes. My favorite food is … jokbal.”
There’s another titter around the room. Long Legs applauds my answer. “An American girl who loves pig’s feet,” he cracks. “I’m in love!”
Everyone laughs. Blushing, I sit back down, and Teacher Lee says, “Wah! Candace, your Korean isn’t as bad as I was told. You just need some more confidence.”
I look up at her and smile. I have no idea why Manager Kong warned me about how strict Teacher Lee is.
The rest of the class stands up to introduce themselves to me, too. On the girls’ side, there’s ShiHong, a tomboy with a pixie cut from Shanghai; Luciana, a stunning Brazilian Korean with the thickest, shiniest, most wig-worthy hair I’ve ever seen; a girl from the Philippines, named Zina; and a girl from Osaka. Then there’s Cho Helena from Newport Beach, of course. Helena’s main pop skills, according to her, are “dancing, singing, rapping, Visual, and charisma.” Her favorite food is mangoes.
When it’s the boys’ turn, I listen while keeping my eyes fixed on my desk until it’s Long Legs, whose name turns out to be YoungBae. He’s the same age as me. He’s from Atlanta and has only been training for two months.
The class starts up. It’s not a regular language class like you’d take in school; everything’s framed in terms of our future careers as K-pop idols. Teacher Lee asks, “Helena, if I’m a journalist who wants to know where you went to school, what do you say?” (Helena says in perfect, prim Korean that she went to elementary and junior high in a sunny private school next to the ocean.) Teacher Lee asks YoungBae, “If I were a fan who asks where your first job was, how would you answer?” (“Well, dearest fan, first I would thank you for being a fan—I love nothing more than my fans. Then I would tell you I worked at a movie theater. The best part of the job was getting to watch Fast and Furious 8 sixteen times in one summer.”)
I actually didn’t know the word for movie theater until YoungBae put it into context in his American accent, which is just as strong as mine. I write down not only the new vocab words, but also, for some reason, I write “YoungBae Fast & Furious” and underline it.
“Candace, I’m a variety show host who asks where your parents work,” says Teacher Lee. “What do you say?”
I freeze up. I rack my brain for the word for convenience store—I’ve obviously heard Umma and Abba say it millions of times, but it doesn’t come to me. “They own a place that sells items,” I say like a three-year-old. “Their place that sells items also sells bubble tea.”