Hana

The river of bodies carried me to the stage, where a production assistant was reading out names one by one. She paused for a second, brows furrowed as she called out, “Hana Kyung?”

Oh God. It’s going wrong already. I craned my neck, searching for an exit when a confident voice rang out above the confused murmurs that were waiting for the person to stop holding up the check-in.

“Actually, that’s a typo. His real name is Haneul. With an E-U-L.”

Eunji! There was no one else it could be. I swiveled around to see her grinning cheekily at me just a couple steps away.

I was going to kill her when this was over.

“Sure, whatever,” the assistant said. “Just go up to the side of the stage and wait there until somebody calls your name.”

I followed a couple of other guys up to the wing. Several of them were practicing their pop and locks, a couple were buried in their phones, and still others were gathered in small groups, chatting in low voices. One of these guys broke off his conversation when I came close. His face was vaguely familiar, probably a dancer from the New York circuit I’d competed against in the past. My heart nearly stopped.

Have I been found out already?

But he just snorted at me derisively, after giving me a cool once-over. “You might as well drop out now. You can’t compete with me.”

The rest of the guys goaded him on with a couple friendly boos.

“Bet you can’t even dance!” One of them hooted.

“Way better than you!” To prove his point, he went straight from a standing backflip into a perfect windmill. I whistled. The guy might be a Grade A asshole, but there was no denying he had some skills.

Not better than me, though. I didn’t even realize I’d said it out loud until the room erupted with a chorus of wolf whistles. The asshole’s face turned red.

“What’d you say to me, punk?”

“He just said what we were all thinking.” Another dancer, dressed head-to-toe in B-boy gear, said. B-Boy and Asshole squared off, each puffing their chests up. The air was thick with tension.

I slunk as far away from the dick-measuring contest as I could. I’d seen some of this male posturing before at dance tournaments, but it had always been from a distance. I can’t wait until this is over.

The PA from before stuck her head out from the curtains, listing off names lightning fast. B-Boy and Asshole, along with a handful of others, followed her into the blinding light of the waiting stage.

I crept closer, trying to peek through the dusty velvet curtains at what was going down. Some CNTR song boomed over the loudspeakers, and the choreographer flipped through a complicated set of moves so quickly that his feet were a blur. Most of the guys on stage gave each other confused looks, but each step was burned into my brain.

Some people had photographic memory. My dance teacher in elementary school used to say I had “dance-o-graphic” memory. I’d never been so grateful for my seemingly useless talent. I was definitely going to need every ounce of it here.

***

Doyoon

When I finally got off the plane fourteen hours later, eyes drooping from having stayed up through the entire trip, the only thing I could think of was getting somewhere safe. Somewhere calm, with no ogling fans or paparazzi to worry about.

I yawned so loudly, my jaw cracked. Need to find somewhere to sleep.

Incheon International airport was huge, but I did my best to be as inconspicuous as possible. My sunglasses were up and my face down, complete with a face mask. Just like Jiho had taught me.

My phone rang. Speak of the devil.

Jiho’s name lit up the screen. I let it ring until the phone finally went silent. What time was it where he was? My alerts blinked up at me: Jiho—10 missed calls. Shit.

My hand shook as I scrolled through all my notifications. Everyone I’d so much as talked to at a party or shook hands with had tried to call me since last night. People I hadn’t heard from in years were sending me frantic messages—are you okay? What’s going on? Call me!

This was the last thing I wanted right now. First sleep, then I’d deal with all my problems.

Sorry, Jiho-hyung. I’ll call you later, I promised him silently.

By sheer chance I managed to make it to baggage claim without being spotted, but the babble of raised voices from the concourse told me that my luck had run out. I could just make out the chorus of “Summer, Summer” coming from the area ahead of me.

Cursing, I leaned flat against the wall and ran through all my options. Grabbing my luggage was out of the question at this point. Everything inside was replaceable. Maybe if I took the shuttle to the next terminal over, I’d be able to slip out unnoticed. Yes, that might actually work!

“Excuse me, sir.” A tall man in an immaculate suit stood in front of me as if he’d been summoned from thin air. “Doyoon-nim?”

“Yes?” I answered warily, not at all convinced he wasn’t some creepily realistic hallucination.

“Mr. Song is expecting you. Please follow me.” The man was polite, but there was an undercurrent of steel under his genteel manner. I’d been around Mr. Song long enough to know that he didn’t play around. It was a mark of how tired I was that I even tried to argue.

“I’m really sorry, but do you think it might be possible to see him tomorrow? I don’t think I’d make much sense right now, even if we did meet.”

The man’s answering smile was cold. “Would you rather have a chat with your fans, Doyoon-nim?”

I gulped at the shrieks down the hall. “Fair point. Lead the way.”

He guided me past a hidden door I hadn’t seen and down a maze of hallways, each one exactly the same as the last. I lost track of where we were before long. It felt like a long, endless nightmare of beige walls, beige doors, and glowing exit signs, my only company a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of the Men in Black movies. After what felt like hours, an airport employee in a fluorescent neon vest ushered us through another nondescript door and we were finally outside.

The sweet smell of pre-dawn air tickled my nose and I breathed in deep. Somewhere in this city was my mother’s homemade cod stew, my childhood friends, and most important, my soft, down bed.

“Come.” The tall man hurried me to a sleek black SUV that was idling across the street. I stumbled in through the open door and came face-to-face with Mr. Song himself.

It never failed to surprise me how normal the boss looked. If it wasn’t for the perfectly pressed Italian suit or the gleaming Rolex on his wrist, he’d look just like any other ahjushi on the street. His plain face was creased in disappointment and I felt a rush of shame at having troubled this nice man.

“Doyoon,” Mr. Song said, his voice low. Disappointed. “You should have told me you were coming.”

“I apologize, sir. I can assure you, none of this was planned.”

“Planned or not, I must say I’m not happy to see you. Wouldn’t a phone call have sufficed?” Mr. Song spread his square fingers in front of him in a mock-helpless gesture. The smell of his expensive cologne seemed to strengthen in the car. My sluggish mind fought to recall the determination I’d felt last night when I’d bought my plane ticket home, but everything felt hazy and muddled now.

“I—I’m sorry, sir, but I just had to get away. The group—I was forgetting—” What had I been forgetting? I couldn’t shift the fog of exhaustion long enough to form a coherent thought. Mr. Song put out a well-manicured hand.

“If I were you, Doyoon, I’d pick my next words very carefully. I don’t have much time, anyway. I just came to tell you in person how sorry I am.”

“Sorry?” I repeated stupidly.

“Yes. I’m so sorry you had to come all this way just to go back.”

“You’re...you’re telling me to go back to New York?”

Mr. Song shrugged nonchalantly, “I told you, a phone call would have sufficed.”

***

Hana

“...and Haneul Kyung! Hanuel Kyung!” The PA snapped her impatient fingers in my direction.

Oh, right. That’s me.

“Sorry!” I said quickly, bolting up to the stage to join my group.

Momentarily, I was overcome by the megawatt spotlights that shone down on us from all sides. The only thing I could see were the other contestants and the choreographer. Even when I squinted, I couldn’t make out a single detail of the judges’ panel that were no doubt sitting right in front of me, dissecting my every move. Sweat beaded on my skin.

“Everyone ready?”

We all nodded, and after running through the steps once more, lightning-fast, the choreographer pointed heavenward and the music began.

I didn’t know the song. I barely knew the moves. But my heart seemed to drum in time with the heavy bass as the countdown began and warmth flooded from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.

5-6-7-8.

My eyes shut as I counted the beats to begin the sequence. One hand up, left foot back, and we were off.

The driving melody flowed through my body and I slid from the first position to the second to the third without missing a beat. All the worries that had filled my mind just moments before melted away and I was one with the music, just an empty vessel for the song to take shape. My feet stamped in anger when the singer wailed. I spun when the chorus pleaded for clarity, dizzy with anticipation for the next drop to kick in.

Suddenly, a sharp elbow stabbed me in my side and I stumbled. It was easy enough to get back into the rhythm, but just seconds later, he jostled me from the other side, forcing me to jump to the balls of my feet to keep from losing balance.

“Cut!” A sharp voice from the judges’ table called out, and the music stopped abruptly. The heady euphoria that came from dancing drained out of me, and I stood on stage feeling as deflated and foolish as an empty balloon.

“Let’s try this one more time. You there, in the big shirt! Make sure to stay in line this time. No third chances.”

I glared at the dancer to my right. He gave me a tiny smirk before heading back to his starting position. That asshole! He totally did it on purpose!

I fought anger back with a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. It didn’t matter what tricks he tried to pull; I was ten times the dancer he was. You got this. I bounced on the tips of my toes, ready to dive back into the formation.

“Wait!” Another judge called out this time. His commandeering tone was vaguely familiar. “It’s way too bright. I can barely see who’s out there.”

Immediately, the lights dimmed on stage and the silhouettes of the judges became visible, their shadowy forms slowly filling out with more details as my eyes adjusted. When I finally saw who was sitting in front of me, my knees buckled, and it took everything I had not to collapse in surprise.

Who else could it be but Jiho, looking as aloof and as arrogant as the day he’d gotten me fired?

Shit. What if he recognizes me?