“What we should really be focusing on is training harder, not gossiping,” Mina says primly, stretching as she stands up and glances in Mr. Noh’s direction. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Could she get any more obvious?
Zeroing in on me, she saunters over, smiling brightly at the plate in my hands. “Rachel. So sorry you couldn’t participate in the bowing ceremony. It’s probably better left to those of us who know what we’re doing, don’t you think? But I do hope you’re enjoying the food.”
That’s it. I’ve had enough of Mina for today. “Yes,” I say brightly back, plucking a piece of bacon off my plate and crunching down on it. “I’m lucky to be so naturally thin that I don’t have to watch what I eat.” I let my eyes linger on her plateful of peeled celery and dotori-muk while a group of younger trainees swivel toward us, eyes agog and giggling.
Mina’s eyes narrow in shock and anger—she’s not used to me biting back. I’m sure she’ll make me pay. Raising her voice several decibels, she says, “If you and Akari are free tonight, why don’t you join us for vocals practice at the trainee house? We do it every Saturday night, and I wouldn’t want you to fall behind.”
The trainee house. Yeah, right. Umma would never let me go and Mina knows it.
Before I can respond, Mr. Noh strides over. Mina’s loud voice has obviously paid off. At least she’s getting something out of all those extra singing lessons; the girl knows how to project.
“What’s this I hear about a late-night practice?” His eyes move across the group, landing on me. “Rachel, was this your idea?” he asks, smiling. “Our most hardworking trainee!” His eyes focus in on me as all around us trainees have gone silent, everyone sitting up as straight as they possibly can, alert and ready to be called on and impress at a moment’s notice.
Beside me, Mina looks furious that Mr. Noh has singled me out yet again. I force a smile onto my face and open my mouth to respond, but Mina cuts me off at the last moment. “I’ll be there, sir!” she practically shouts, a few pieces of celery flying off her plate.
Mr. Noh’s eyes widen in shock, but he quickly recovers. “Wonderful attitude. And good for you, Miss… uh…”
“Choo. Choo Mina. My father is Choo Minhee.…” Mina’s face falls. “You two are old friends.…”
“Right, right, of course, Minhee’s daughter!” Mr. Noh chuckles, a look of relief in his eyes. “Thank you for reminding me.”
A smile bursts across Mina’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Noh,” Mina says, simpering. “Will the two of you be getting together anytime soon? Father’s always saying how much he enjoys your company at the annual Choo Corporation’s Christmas party.…”
“Yes, yes, I’ll have to give him a ring.” He chuckles before turning his attention back to me. “And what wonderful taste in friends you have, Rachel! You and Mina are fine examples for the other senior trainees. You should all be making this late-night session a top priority.” Mr. Noh’s eyes lock with mine, and I can see myself in the reflection of his glasses. “Especially those of you who wish to debut soon.”
My insides are on fire, but I don’t waver. I can feel Mina’s smug expression burning a hole in the side of my head, but I take another sip of Milkis and smile.
“Count me in,” I say. Mr. Noh nods in approval, and I raise my can to him as if making a toast. To family and to being utterly screwed. “I can’t wait.”
Two
Sweat pours down my forehead as I take another swing at the sagging punching bag in front of me. Thud. Mina’s smug smile. Thwack. Umma’s strict rules. Bam. Me, walking away from all those girls in media training instead of standing up for myself. Ugh. I beat them all to a pulp, everything that annoys me, everyone who stands in my way—even me.
Appa, who’s holding the punching bag steady, grunts as I throw blow after blow. “You must look up to me a lot,” he says.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, my breath ragged from exertion.
“You’re obviously trying to follow in my steps.” He chuckles. Appa is a former pro boxer. “Why else would my sixteen-year-old daughter be torturing this punching bag?”
“Seventeen, Appa. In Korea, I’m seventeen.” In Korea they consider you to be age one when you’re born, which means you’re a year older than you are in the US. A year closer to passing my prime. A year closer to being too old to debut. I punch the bag again.
“Sorry, Daughter,” Appa says with a sigh.
I deliver one last punch and take a few steps back, breathing hard. My ponytail is sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. If this were DB, I would be embarrassed—trainers hate it when the trainees sweat, even after hours of practice, saying it makes us look unprofessional and sloppy. Plus, most of the girls practice in makeup, and runny mascara is never a good look. But at the boxing gym I revel in the sweat. It makes me feel like I’ve just kicked someone’s ass, even if it is imaginary.
Appa gives me a thoughtful look. “Is everything okay?”
He nods to the other side of the gym, where Akari and my friends from school, the Cho twins, are sparring, decked out in helmets and gloves. They come with me now and then when I visit Appa at our family’s boxing gym; Appa tells us stories about his glory days and we get our cardio fix.
“Fine,” I say. As cool as Appa is, I know that whatever I tell him about training life will eventually make its way back to Umma. Not that Appa can’t keep a secret. In fact, I know he’s keeping a pretty big one of his own from Umma. “How are those classes going, by the way?”
He glances around as if Umma might be hiding behind a punching bag. But aside from me and my friends, the gym is empty. As usual. “They’re fine.” He clears his throat. “You still haven’t told your mother or Leah, have you?”
I shake my head. The only reason I know that Appa’s been taking secret law-school night classes in the first place is because I spotted a law textbook in his office during one of my gym visits. When I asked him about it, he got flustered and tried to pass it off as light reading. Eventually he broke down and told me the truth, but he made me promise not to tell Umma or Leah. “No. But it’s been, what, two years? Don’t you think it’s time to mention it to them? I mean, you’re about to graduate!”
“I don’t want to get their hopes up,” he says now, the same as he did the day I found out. “We all know the gym isn’t doing well. It’s not like before…” He pauses, and I think about what life was like back in New York. Appa was semi-famous from his pro-boxing days, and the gym he ran in our neighborhood in the West Village was always brimming with people. Umma was close to getting tenure as an English Literature professor at NYU. Everyone was busy, but somehow the four of us were always together. After school, Leah and I would sit in the back row of Umma’s classes, coloring and doing our homework. On the weekends, we used to run around handing out cups of water and towels to all the boxers at Appa’s gym, and Umma would be helping out in the office, arranging class schedules and taking deliveries. Afterward, we would always get ice cream and take Leah to see the guy who made gigantic bubbles in Washington Square Park.