“Good job,” Ricky whispers to me.
“You too,” I whisper back.
Miss Kong and Brandon mutter to each other. I realize my whole body is literally shaking. One stream of sweat trickles down my temple.
Brandon the translator finally clears his throat. “Thank you to all of you for coming out today. We appreciate your time and hard work, but we’re looking for very specific qualities today. All of you are dismissed …”
Ouch.
I never expected anything to come of this audition, but still, my heart melts like a Salvador Dalí clock and drips into my stomach.
I start to follow the other two offstage when, all of a sudden, Brandon says, “Except 824. All of you are dismissed except 824. 824, please remain on the stage.”
I let out an involuntary squeal. I swear, the translator was being extra on purpose, pulling one of those reality show fake-outs.
I stay put and wave sadly to Ricky—he really needs to become a singer somehow, whether or not it’s in K-pop—before I focus on my next task. If they want another song, I’ve memorized how to play “Since U Been Gone” by Kelly Clarkson.
“Please put your guitar down,” says the translator.
Shoot. Okay, I can totally sing a cappella.
I lay my guitar on the floor, all naked and vulnerable, which I hate doing to my baby—this ain’t my viola.
“Miss Kong thanks you for that creative rendition of ‘Bad Guy,’ ” says Brandon. “What song would you like to dance to?”
Rut ro.
“Dance?” I say. “Sorry, I think there must be some kind of mistake. I only signed up for the singing audition.”
Silence. “Well, any K-pop idol is going to have to dance.”
By any means necessary, I must avoid dancing in front of these people. “I’m sorry … is this Manager Kong talking, or is it just you?”
“Excuse me?” says Brandon.
I didn’t mean to sound bratty, but I heard myself.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t understand why I need to dance for a singing audition.”
Brandon and Manager Kong confer in Korean. He turns back to me and says, “You don’t have to do anything too crazy. We just wanna see you … groove to the music.”
“Groove?” I say, at a total loss. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the assignment …”
Before I know it, “Havana” by Camila Cabello starts up on the movie theater speaker system. I feel the bass line in my liver.
I freeze.
I literally forget what it’s like to be a human being with a body that’s connected to my brain. A full verse goes by, and I still haven’t moved.
Do something, Candace! I scream at myself in my head.
I see the silhouettes of Brandon and Miss Kong shift in their seats. I see the red light of the camera recording this humiliating moment. Suddenly, it’s like I’m watching myself from outside my body—I see myself doing finger guns.
What am I even shooting at, other than my chances at a K-pop career? Now, to my horror, I’m doing the Cabbage Patch. Then the sprinkler. Then the floss. All the lame dances I saw Tommy doing at Aunt SoonMi’s wedding in Franklin Lakes last year.
With no other ideas, I imagine what a RuPaul’s Drag Race contestant would do when she’s about to lose a Lip Sync for Your Life and she’s desperate to pull a flashy stunt, fast. I can’t do a flying split or a death drop or tear off my wig. But I can do what almost passes for voguing.
I make forceful gestures with my arms like I’m an air traffic controller in a bad mood—my attempt at waacking. Then I crouch down to a squat and try a duck walk, which I’ve seen Ethan do effortlessly a million times, but I quickly realize I don’t have the thigh strength to pull it off. The music cuts abruptly just as I’m falling backward onto my butt.
“Stop!” the translator yelps. “Miss Kong and S.A.Y. Entertainment thank you for your time.”
I clamber to my feet, totally humiliated. I bow in Miss Kong’s general direction and mumble “Thank you” in formal Korean: Gamsamnida. I grab my guitar and book it out of the auditorium, sweeping my hair over my face to hide the fact that it’s probably as red as a pot of boiling kimchi jjigae.
Monday, I feel like I’m dying inside all day. I can’t concentrate in AP Bio or Lit, and it’s not just because my phone is blowing up nonstop with random spam calls from an unknown number, getting me in trouble with my bio teacher, Mr. Delacorte. At lunch, I can barely swallow down two bites of chicken tetrazzini.
Why didn’t I take the audition more seriously?
It’s been hitting me every two seconds that this whole K-pop thing actually could have changed my life. I should have tried harder. Why did I make it into a joke?
I should have known they’d ask me to dance. Of course. I acted like I was too cool for K-pop, when really, I’m not too cool for literally anything. I play the viola, for crying out loud.
After school, Imani, Ethan, and I go to my family’s convenience store—creatively named Park Family Store—to study for our World History test tomorrow. Abba brings us a plate of Umma’s homemade yakgwas. We sell them at the store, and the customers love them. They’re Korean honey cookies, one of my favorite snacks—stretchy like taffy, chewy like soft-baked cookies, and greasy like doughnuts. Imani and Ethan love them, too.
“Yasss, yakgwas are the jjang!” Imani exclaims, reaching for a cookie.
Abba laughs. Imani’s appreciation of all things Korean never fails to bring my parents joy. “Imani,” says Abba, “are you having bubble tea loyalty card?”
“In fact, Mr. Park, I do have my loyalty card,” says Imani, pulling an unused card out of her pocket.
Ever since our store started selling bubble tea—probably the best business move my parents ever made—we’ve been giving out buy-ten-bubble-teas-get-one-free punch cards.
Abba takes Imani’s card, punches ten holes in it all at once and tosses the little bits of paper in the air like confetti. “Free bubble tea for Imani!” he cheers. Imani bounces up and down and squeals in over-the-top glee as the paper rains down on the table. This is her and Abba’s shtick. It’s so adorable it makes me sick.
Umma brings out Imani’s free oolong milk bubble tea, her favorite, and a peach tea for Ethan, who’s lactose intolerant. She leaves a bit of paper at the ends of the straws, so it’s like a cap—an Umma touch. “What are you kids watching?” she asks.
“Just some K-pop videos,” pipes up Ethan before taking a long sip of tea.
SLK is on their on their Rebel World Tour and just had a concert in Singapore, and the Fancam videos have popped up all over YouTube.
“Again? Candace, you like this kind of thing, too?” asks Umma, pursing her lips.
“Some of it’s kind of cool,” I mumble, shrugging.
When she turns around, I scowl at the back of Umma’s head. It occurs to me that if she’d actually encouraged my talent instead of treating it like some shameful secret, if I’d taken voice and dance lessons instead of years of useless viola lessons, I would have had the confidence to nail my audition. I’d probably be getting ready to spend a summer in Seoul.