I put my viola on the floor—a big no-no according to Mrs. Kuznetsova, the orchestra conductor—and slump in my seat. Will there ever be a time when I’m the one singing and jumping around onstage, not worried what anyone thinks? Probably not until after high school, when I’m somewhere far from my family. In the meantime, I’ll just have to bide my time for a few more years, playing the role of the quiet Korean girl who takes all AP classes and gets good grades and plays a classical instrument and never complains.
After the showcase, Imani and Ethan come over. It’s a Friday night, and we’re doing what we love most: hanging out in my room, stuffing our faces, and watching YouTube vids.
It’s not like we’re total rejects, even though we are in all the Smart Kid classes together. It’s just that more than parties or football games, we prefer hanging around each other, reacting in extra ways to all the weird things we’re obsessed with: RuPaul’s Drag Race clips we rewatch over and over, mukbang videos, beauty vloggers we make fun of but secretly love. (“A little goes a long way,” Ethan likes to say, pretending to dab highlighter on his cheekbones. “And don’t forget your cupid’s bow!”)
After we watch a tiny mukbanger demolish eight packs of Nuclear Fire Noodles in under four minutes, Imani commandeers my computer. I know what she’s about to pull up: SLK’s performance of “Unicorn” from last week’s SNL.
“I love, love, love SLK!” says Ethan as the host, Jennifer Lawrence, introduces them.
“Duh! What excuse for a human being wouldn’t?” says Imani.
I shrug. “I guess they’re all right.”
“Okay, this excuse for a human being.” Imani flashes me a shady look. “Dude, sometimes I think I’m more Korean than you are.”
I mean, Imani is literally slurping kimchi straight out of the jar at this very moment. Not even I can eat kimchi like that—I like it with food, especially curry rice or black bean noodles, but it’s too funky for me to eat it by itself.
“I mean, I’m super glad that an Asian group is so popular and on magazine covers and all,” I say, “but their music seems a little … manufactured?”
“Girl, bye,” says Imani, closing the jar of kimchi and moving back to my bed to hug my giant whale pillow, MulKogi. (MulKogi means water-meat, or fish in Korean). “Like American pop music isn’t manufactured? Anyway, each of those SLK guys can really sing and rap—One.J wrote a ton of their biggest hits himself. And that choreography is banging!”
“Yeah, look at that, Candanista,” says Ethan, totally transfixed. “One Direction used to just stand onstage and, like, maybe jump around—these guys serve it.”
Okay, so I’m not sure why I’m lying to my best friends right now—I probably need to go to a therapist to get to the bottom of it—but I’m actually a huge SLK stan in secret. I’ve watched hours of their Korean Music Show performances and their reality show, SLK Adventures, on YouTube. And ever since SLK made it big in America, I’ve started following other K-pop groups, especially the girl group QueenGirl, who are touring with Ariana Grande right now. Nothing would make Imani, the biggest K-pop stan I know, happier than being able to obsess over it with me. But for some reason, I’m self-conscious about it. Isn’t it so expected for the Korean girl to be super into K-pop?
On-screen, the five boys of SLK move in perfect sync, even when they’re doing literal backflips. Each guy rocks a different shade of brightly colored hair—they clearly spend just as much time on makeup and wardrobe as any girl group. In their own way, they’re all really hot, especially One.J, the member who’s always front and center. Everything about his face seems created in a lab to be as telegenic as humanly possible: his brooding eyes; his candy-colored lips; his chiseled, V-shaped jaw. Somehow, none of his moves seem rehearsed. When all the boys run their hands through their hair, it looks as though One.J is doing it spontaneously, just to feel himself, and the other four boys saw how awesome it looked and decided to copy him.
The SNL crowd totally loses it when the boys break into the Unicorn dance. “Unicorn” is an amazing bop, even though the chorus, the only part of the song that’s in English, doesn’t completely make sense: “Baby, now I believe in unicorn / You’re the girl I been searching for / Searching under all the ra-ainbow / Baby, all I know / You’re my one-in-billion unicorn.”
By the end of the song, the three of us are dancing around, singing at the top of our lungs. Imani whips her hair back and forth, Ethan does a duck walk, and I move my body with no regard for rhythm or dignity.
“Okay, fine,” I pant when the song is over. “This song is super catchy.”
Right after the SNL performance, “Unicorn” starts back up again. We’re ready to shriek out the song all over again, but it’s not the music video—it’s an ad (so many ads, YouTube). The words “ARE YOU ONE IN BILLION?” flash across the screen. Then:
S.A.Y. ENTERTAINMENT
THE COMPANY THAT BROUGHT YOU
THE NO. 1 GLOBAL SENSATION SLK
IS LOOKING FOR ITS FIRST-EVER GIRL GROUP
Cut to a clip of the SLK boys mugging and smoldering directly at the camera, the light glinting off their shimmering cheekbones.
WE’RE SEARCHING FOR THOSE GIRLS
WHO CAN SING, DANCE, AND RAP LIKE SLK.
ARE YOU THAT UNICORN?
Each of the SLK boys says into the camera, seductively, “Are you my unicorn?” I get a warm, queasy feeling in my stomach when it’s One.J’s turn.
GET DISCOVERED AT
THE S.A.Y. GLOBAL AUDITIONS.
ROYAL OAK THEATER
IN PALISADES PARK, NEW JERSEY.
APRIL 19.
I bust out laughing. “Are they auditioning singers or looking for dates for the guys?”
Imani isn’t laughing; she’s staring at me. “You should audition, Candace.”
I don’t dignify this with a response. “And Palisades Park? Is that a glitch? Why would a K-pop label recruit in Jersey?”
Ethan isn’t laughing, either. “Well, Jersey is where the suburban Korean kids live.” He gestures to me as if to say, “Exhibit A.”
“You should audition,” Imani repeats, all serious.
“Ha, ha.” I roll my eyes. “Could you see my parents letting me quit school to be in a K-pop group? Besides, do I look like an idol to you?”
Imani runs her eyes over my busted bare feet, holey jeans, and oversize black hoodie. “No, not at all. But you’ve got something to work with under … all of that. Besides, do you even know how big this is?! S.A.Y.’s the most powerful entertainment company in K-pop right now because of SLK. A girl group version of SLK would be lit!”
“And you can sang,” says Ethan. “Even with ‘Unicorn’ just now, your vocals were low-key slaying.”
“Dude, I’ve always told you,” says Imani, “you have the voice of an angel. You need to share that with the world.”
Imani has said stuff like this to me before. It’s a sweet compliment, for sure, but for some reason, my eyes get a little moist. Probably for the same reason I’m too embarrassed to admit how much I actually love K-pop.
I have no problem openly fangirling over my favorite American artists, like Ariana and Rihanna—but now that SLK has graced the cover of Vanity Fair and QueenGirl has performed with Cardi B at the VMAs, it’s all become a little too real. Maybe kids like me can become stars, too, if they’ve got the talent and can put themselves out there. Deep down, I think I could be talented enough. But brave enough to go for it? Definitely not.