“Anyunghaseyo,” I say, straining to lift my head in a bow.
“Hello, Candace,” she replies in Korean. “It’s good to finally talk to you.”
I don’t know how to respond. I’m good at understanding Korean because that’s how Umma and Abba have always talked to me, but when it comes to forming sentences on my own, I’m a mess—I’ve always responded to my parents in English.
So I just say “Neh,” which is a formal yes, and an all-purpose silence-filler.
“I was very impressed with your audition,” says Manager Kong. “You have a very unique, pure voice.”
“Gamsamnida,” I say.
“Your dancing …”
I giggle apologetically. “Oh, that … I’m sorry,” I manage to say in shaky Korean.
Manager Kong grins a little. “You showed no skill level, but I appreciated how you tried. You showed off your charms.”
I lift my head off the floor in another bow.
“Of course, if you ever hope to debut, you’ll have to train very hard. At S.A.Y., we don’t find kids who already have all the star qualities. We find kids with potential and make them practice, practice, practice. Very soon, we’re debuting our first-ever girl group. I would like to offer you a spot in our trainee program. We already have many talented female trainees, but our CEO thought we needed another Korean American. Out of more than three thousand people who auditioned in New Jersey, you were the only one who fit our criteria. So what do you say?”
Manager Kong speaks incredibly fast and to the point. I don’t understand all the words she’s saying, but I fill in the meaning in my head of what I’m pretty sure she’s saying. She checks her watch as she waits for my answer, not realizing that she’s turned my entire world upside down.
I clear my throat and say, “Umm … I’m still in school.”
The cold, hard reality falls on my head like a cartoon anvil: Umma and Abba would never in a trillion years let me skip or delay any schooling whatsoever for any reason, let alone to go off on a wild trip to Korea to become a K-pop idol. The reason our family never has any money for anything extra, other than Tommy’s sports stuff, my dumb viola lessons, SAT tutoring, and computers for homework, is that Umma and Abba are saving every dollar to send me and Tommy off to the best college we can get into.
“What grade are you in, tenth?” asks Manager Kong impatiently.
“Yes.”
“Don’t American students get summers off? Must be nice. Our CEO wants to choose the final lineups for the new boy and girl groups at the end of summer. Of course, I think four months of training before debut is way too short, but idols have pulled it off before. If you fail to debut, and you probably will fail—nothing against you personally—you can go back to America and start school again. If you do debut, we can discuss schooling. There are some exceptional international schools in Seoul. So?”
“Umm.” I clear my throat. “Can I speak to my parents and then get back to you?”
“Fine.” She sighs, seeming annoyed that I didn’t agree on the spot to fly to the other side of the world and sign my life away to a Korean music company. “We can offer you and a parent plane tickets to Seoul, and housing—a trainee dorm for you, a company apartment for your parent. Being a trainee will cost you nothing. You can have your parents call me directly if you want.”
I lick my parched lips. “Is there a particular time I should call?”
“Call whenever. No one at S.A.Y. ever sleeps.”
I try to read her face to see if she’s joking, but she’s already hung up.
My head spinning, I get back to my feet. All week, I’ve been thinking life would be perfect if only I passed my audition. Now that I have, I realize I have an even more impossible mission: convincing Umma to let me go.
When I tell Imani and Ethan the news the next day after school, they react exactly as I expect them to. Both scream at the top of their lungs. Ethan does a random headstand. Imani shakes me frantically while shrieking, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”
We’re in our usual hangout spot on the grassy knoll outside the cafeteria. It’s a beautiful, hot day, and seasonal allergies abound. A bunch of Robotics Club kids are making their robots fight each other a few feet away.
“Don’t get too excited,” I say. “As I said at the auditions, my parents will never let me go.”
“Girl, bye,” says Imani. “You always do this, Candace.”
“Do what?”
“Let your inner saboteur get the best of you,” says Ethan.
“My what?”
“Your inner saboteur,” says Ethan. He gets back to his feet, his face flushed, and shifts into his theater monologuing voice. “The Great RuPaul defines the inner saboteur as the voice inside your head that stirs up your fears, holding you back from trying the things you truly want to do.”
“Listen to Mother RuPaul,” says Imani. “And Ethan, I guess. Your inner saboteur is alive and well.”
“You keep it healthy on a diet of excuses and low self-esteem,” cracks Ethan.
My friends are totally savage.
“Oh, please.” I scoff, but I feel pinpricks behind my eyes. “That’s not me at all.”
“Really?” says Imani, arching an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you take the S.A.Y. audition seriously?”
“And why are you still playing that godforsaken viola?” adds Ethan.
“You guys don’t get it,” I say. “You don’t know the mother I have.”
“Actually, I do, and she’s a literal saint,” says Imani.
“She has a copy of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother with all the pages dog-eared!” I say, waving my arms wildly.
Imani raises her hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna fight you on this,” she says. “I already dragged you to that audition. But I am no one’s trusty Black sidekick.” Ethan lets out an emphatic “Mm-hmm.” “However,” says Imani, grinning, “if you do decide you want to go for this—really go for it—I’ll help you convince your parents. Persuading people is my superpower.”
“And think—if you’re a trainee at SLK’s company,” says Ethan, “you’ll definitely get to meet One.J!”
I wait until after church that Sunday to talk to my parents, despite all the frantic KakaoTalk messages I’m getting from Manager Kong.
After church, once they’ve changed out of their Sunday best into regular clothes, tends to be when Umma and Abba are in the best moods. Since they don’t have a social life during the week, church is like my parents’ version of recess. After hours of praying, eating, and laughing with all their friends, they’re tired out and happy.
I gather Umma and Abba in the living room, announcing that I have something important to tell them.
Right away, Umma is suspicious. She asks, “You’re not going to tell us something strange, are you?”
I can’t honestly tell her that I won’t. “Just sit down next to Abba, please.”
I stand in front of our TV, which I have my computer hooked up to, and take a deep breath before delivering my carefully rehearsed introduction.