Debut, p.6
Debut, page 6
She strained to glimpse the newcomer without being obvious about it. The figure came closer, passing through pools of illumination as she navigated the unevenly lit hallway. Light, dark, light, dark. The measured clacking cadence of her shoes increased in volume. Grace wondered if this was the missing trainee she had heard about earlier that morning.
Upon reaching the threshold, the girl stepped into the open space. Trimmed by straight, black, shoulder-length hair, her face was angelic. Elegant. Classic. Even in a setting where above-average beauty was the bare minimum expectation, hers stood apart. Grace imagined she would have inspired the poems and legends of ancient scribes had she lived in their day.
“Teacher, it is my pleasure to introduce our classmate, Heather Moon,” Da-Som announced. “We’d be honored if you consider her for the challenge.”
Heather stood silently, eyes cast forward, hands clasped together, arms down. Her baby blue, sleeveless, square-necked sheath dress, with two thin white stripes under the bustline and another accenting the hem above the knees, was exquisitely tailored. She basked in the attention. Standing poised, no more than five feet tall, by Grace’s estimation, her presence was commanding. The expression on her face suggested cool confidence.
Chul assessed Heather solemnly. It was unclear whether he was annoyed by her sudden arrival or intrigued by it. Perhaps both. Without saying a word, he encouraged her to step forward. “How old are you?” he asked as she took a position near the keyboard in the center of the room.
“Eighteen,” she responded.
“Your accent. The States?”
“Los Angeles.”
When he unexpectedly switched to English, the trainees expressed dismay at being deprived of their exchange. All except one. Neither Dongpang Chul nor Heather Moon knew that Grace, the first-day newbie in their midst, was also an Angeleno and understood every word they said.
“Why would an American come to Korea to be an idol?”
“I wouldn’t be the first.”
“I could reject you straight away, you know?”
“Then, you’d be missing the best.”
“How does tardiness make you the best?”
“Being number one necessitates being odd, does it not?”
Chul pondered her answers. His expression revealed no emotion. “Do you take pride in being different?”
“I exist. If that makes me different, so be it.”
He took a sip of water from the glass on his table. “Heather.” He said, pondering her name. “That is a lucky flower. Do you consider yourself lucky?”
“If I were to name myself, I’d choose otherwise.”
“Why is that?”
“Luck runs out when you push it.”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “Are you capable of impressing me?”
“The girls have worked hard. I wish to reward them.”
A sly grin betrayed his amusement over the curious conversation. “Let’s begin,” he said in Korean, much to the assembly’s relief.
Chul reviewed the rules as a measure of courtesy despite his audience knowing them by heart. With formalities over, Heather stepped forward. She reached into the red bowl, extracted a chit, and read its number aloud. “Twelve,” she stated, presenting it for all to see.
Chul consulted a predetermined chart and explained the challenge. “I will play brief excerpts of ten different songs. Afterward, you’ll have one minute to name the ten artists and titles in the order you heard them. Proceed.”
The edited audio clips, separated by brief intervals of silence, lasted a few seconds each. Grace had difficulty identifying more than two of them, let alone ten. As soon as the last clip had played, Chul started the countdown clock at the edge of his table. Its red digits loomed large in the minds of the assembly as they watched the time rapidly slip away. The trainees grew concerned. Ten seconds had passed, and Heather had yet to name a single song. Grace heard the girls sucking in their breath, pondering how their perceived ringer could fail them so spectacularly.
Finally, the answers came forth in a torrent.
“‘Shut Down’ by Blackpink.”
“‘Very Nice’ by Seventeen.”
“‘Butterfly’ LOONA.”
“‘Drawing the Line’ by Royal Pirates.”
The anticipation kept building. As Heather delivered her answers, younger trainees spontaneously applauded. Without hesitation, she continued naming songs.
“‘Don’t Be Shy,’ Primary.”
“‘Don’t Believe’ by Berry Good.”
“‘Move’ by Taemin.”
“‘Awoo’ by Lim Kim.”
“‘Senorita,’ VAV.”
Abruptly, she stopped with 15 seconds left to go. Heather had named nine songs, but the clock kept ticking down. Grace looked at her peers, whose faces were strained with worry. Had Heather lost count? Five. Four. Three. The seconds melted away.
And then, “‘Just Leave’ by Wax.”
The timer buzzed. Attention turned to Chul, who smiled and said, “Correct.”
The applause was generous and enthusiastic. Heather had passed the first hurdle, the third trainee, to have done so that day. Could the class’s last great hope progress further?
Chul presented the green bowl. She extracted a chit with the number three on it.
“Turn away from me,” he instructed. Heather, at first, looked confused but complied without resistance. “I will play for you three musical notes. Without a reference tone, I want you to identify the notes within 15 seconds.”
Several trainees whistled in disbelief. “Perfect pitch. That’s so unfair,” Grace whispered to the girl beside her, who nodded in agreement.
Chul played three notes on his miniature keyboard and restarted the timer. The digits on the clock ticked down.
Once more, Heather waited until seconds remained before attempting an answer. She repeated the three notes by singing them. Her bright and powerful voice filled the room as if amplified. Then she stated, “E-G-C, the first inversion of a C Major triad.”
The timer buzzed, and trainees looked to Chul for a response.
“Once again, correct.” This resulted in more applause. Nobody from 37-G had ever reached this point in the competition. The moment they’d been waiting for arrived: the Blue Bowl Challenge. By then, a handful of agency managers had sensed the building momentum and gathered at the door to watch the remainder of the contest.
The sound of wooden chits rattling around the plastic bowl was prolonged and thunderous. Heather grabbed one. Four was its number.
Chul referred to his chart once more. The look on his face indicated disappointment. “You have poor luck today, I’m afraid.”
The trainees grew impatient and demanded details. Chul milked their enthusiasm for as long as he dared before relenting. “I will play the third movement of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 for you. Listen carefully. Once it’s over, you must answer one question regarding what you heard. Let me know when you’re ready.”
The open-ended description did not satisfy the trainees, but they had little time to protest. Heather cleared her mind. The room respectfully fell silent. When she indicated her readiness, Chul played the audio track.
Three groups of instruments, violins, violas, and cellos, began their cheerful, energetic race through the music. While only a few minutes long, the Allegro movement sounded complex. Quick notes cascaded through each of the instrument groups. Grace imagined the danceable rhythm being the embodiment of popular music in its day. At its conclusion, the trainees mumbled in nervous anticipation of the last question.
Chul waited for the room to resettle before describing the challenge. “Play for me the first cello’s notes from the 12th measure.”
The initial reaction was complete shock, expressed as total silence. A beat later, a general revolt followed. The girls abandoned decorum and openly expressed their opinions of the contest.
“Ridiculous!”
“That’s impossible.”
“Teacher, you must let her pull another.”
“No wonder nobody wins.”
“It’s rigged!”
Chul calmly absorbed the criticism, having anticipated their reaction. Heather, for her part, said nothing as she waited patiently for the furor to subside. With the countdown clock off, she closed her eyes and ruminated on the music. The room grew eerily silent. Grace tried to recall the elaborate composition’s details, but there was too much to remember.
Several long minutes passed before Heather opened her eyes again. She reached for the keyboard. “The three cello parts are identical at this point,” she said, then played six notes.
Something was off-kilter to Grace, yet also vaguely familiar.
Chul grimaced, saying, “That’s incorrect.”
Groans of disappointment rumbled through the room as the class realized how close they’d come to achieving their goal. Before the discord ceased, however, Grace interrupted. “Excuse me, Teacher,” she said in perfect English. The assembly hushed in surprise, especially the two who had assumed their prior exchange was relatively private. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but if you play her response backward, you’ll find the answer to your question.”
Heather smirked and shot a glance from the corner of her eye at the source of the comment, acknowledging Grace for the first time.
Chul plucked at his miniature keyboard without expression, testing Grace’s theory. When the correct passage revealed itself, a smile crept over his face.
“Explain yourself,” he demanded in Korean.
Heather responded with a mischievous grin. “You never specified what order I should play them in.”
This answer caused Chul to laugh profoundly. “Fair enough. Congratulations. You have won the contest.”
The room erupted into howls of ecstasy once the girls realized what had happened. Heather’s classmates showered her with endless gratitude. She became an instant legend. Soon, the other K-Pop agencies would hear the news as well. Heather had single-handedly enhanced 37-G’s reputation. Eventually, the celebration waned as the managers urged their charges to bid farewell to their guest and return to rehearsals.
Afterward, as they waited for the elevator, Heather introduced herself to Grace. “I hoped to drag that along a little further, but you spoiled it.” She delivered her words in English with a coy smile and no trace of malice.
“Those who cannot trust themselves, trust in luck.” Grace mused.
Heather wrinkled her nose. “Let’s talk tonight at the dorms.” Her delivery suggested that the invitation was not open to debate.
Little did Grace know it then, but she’d eventually come to mark her life in two distinct phases: that which came before meeting Heather Moon and that which came after.
The sun had set by the time Grace finished her account of that day, and Mrs. Cavanaugh’s sprinkler shut off. The extraordinary tale had clearly impacted the band members. They listened intently the entire time, never once interrupting.
“That sounds amazing,” said Erin. “But I still don’t get why she’s here with us now. No offense, but Heather’s a little out of our league. I’m just saying.”
“No dream survives contact with life,” responded Grace.
5
LITTLE PINK HOUSES
It’s common knowledge that thousands of aspiring wannabe talents flock to Hollywood yearly to pursue dreams of stardom. For most, the move represents the beginning of an exciting new chapter in life. For 19-year-old Kwan Jeong and her Aunt Ye-jin, whose lives had already been irreversibly altered during the past two years, they found a sense of closure.
As passengers in a family minivan, they gaped at the row of beautiful houses they passed, awestruck by their beauty. Like the fabric of dreams, each displayed vast green lawns, immaculately tended flowerbeds, and prettily painted exteriors. It thrilled them both to discover that the dwellings they had often seen in smuggled movies were real. A far cry from the drab, uniform, and crumbling structures Jeong grew up with.
The realization of what they were doing had sunk in when the customs agent at LAX called her June. Her newly adopted English name seemed as foreign as the strange city she was glimpsing for the first time. It was one more thing she’d have to quickly get used to. Already, many of her expectations about America had been overturned. More were sure to come. Her head was swimming with questions.
The city was enormous. From the air, Los Angeles stretched to the horizon and beyond. She hadn’t known cities could cover so much ground. Those in China were much taller. This one was short and squat like those of her homeland, but it stretched to places unseen. Where it ended, she could only guess. The airport’s arrivals area was unlike anything she had ever witnessed, stuffed with a multiplicity of people of every race, size, shape, color, and manner of dress. If life as a refugee in China expanded her worldview, this experience energized it to an altogether different magnitude. Having grown up in a monoculture, the experience was jarring but invigorating.
While June’s English was poor (she could manage basic conversations), it was more than her aunt could claim. Before meeting the church volunteers in the greeting area, they had to navigate the customs process independently. The airport signs were bewildering. Vast quantities of them pointed in every direction. None were in Korean. Her aunt waited patiently as June studied them, trying to determine where to go next.
“Are you lost?” A stocky black woman in her late 50s greeted them. The encounter marked the first time June had met someone of her race in person, though she’d seen actors in movies and magazines before. The woman smiled and wore a staff uniform. June’s initial instincts, however, bred by years of survival through distrust, led her to assume the worst from anyone offering unsolicited help.
“No,” was June’s curt response.
Noticing the baggage claim tickets in her hand, the woman provided directions to the luggage carousels, but again, June resisted the help. “I’m sorry. We have no money.”
The woman looked surprised and laughed. “I’m not interested in your money. Here, follow me.” The guide escorted them through the labyrinthine terminal, chatting ceaselessly. Much of what she said flew by incomprehensibly, but the guide’s demeanor was engaging. The woman spoke freely about her family and job and asked if it was their first time in America. Why would a stranger be that gregarious unless it was part of a scam attempt, June concluded? She kept on guard and clutched her documents tightly. Yet, once they had reached their destination, the woman simply wished them farewell and walked away without soliciting anything in return. June felt embarrassed for being so distrustful. She had much to learn about this new place.
A half-hour later, standing in the arrival hall with their meager belongings, they spotted their names on a placard. The smiling group of Korean-Americans, a family of four born and raised in the U.S., welcomed them. Their dialect was utterly unfamiliar. Despite speaking Korean, they were nearly as hard to decipher as the black woman was. With patience, June could piece together facts about the church’s refugee resettlement program. Like the airport guide, they, too, seemed at ease sharing intimate details of their personal lives. Was this a common trait among Americans, she wondered?
June and her aunt politely declined a dinner offer despite being famished. “We have no money.”
“Don’t worry,” the family matriarch replied. “Consider it our homecoming gift.”
June had no idea what that meant but ultimately accepted the offer to avoid appearing rude. The restaurant they visited sold hamburgers. This was disappointing news, as the few she’d tasted before were uniformly awful. Despite being packed with customers and all tables occupied, the white-and-red-tiled eatery was immaculately tidy. A host of staff worked furiously shoulder to shoulder behind the bright red counters. Numbers were called at regular intervals while customers retrieved their orders. The delicious smell of beef patties and onions from the grill exacerbated her hunger.
“I recommend the Double-Double,” the father suggested. By this point, June was becoming more agreeable and took his advice. It didn’t take long to realize her previous encounters with the dish were mere mockeries compared to what she ate that day. Her aunt, too, was impressed. Their first meal in their new home proved to be a memorable one.
The surprises didn’t end there. The family explained that they were traveling on a freeway. One, two, three—June had to count each lane; there were so many. Ten on each side, all packed with vehicles. She wondered how that was even possible. The traffic was positively chaotic compared to the nearly empty streets of her youth. The father navigated it all effortlessly, however.
Not everything she saw was pleasant. Sizeable areas under bridges and along roadways were occupied by brightly colored canopies and littered with garbage. June didn’t understand what they were for. She wondered why authorities didn’t clean up the mess since they presented such eyesores. To her dismay, she learned the canopies—tents they were called—were temporary shelters for those without homes. It worried her how a country with such wealth could allow people to live in such conditions.
The van left the freeway and entered a neighborhood significantly different from the ones she had seen earlier. This place was not cheerful. The apartment complexes looked old and utilitarian, more like what she was used to. Lawns, if they existed at all, were poorly tended. Unreadable words were scrawled in paint along many of the walls and fences. Cars parked along the street were in disrepair. The few trees that grew in spots looked scrawny and starved of water.
The van stopped before a building with faded grayish paint. Without prompting, the family members help move the refugees’ meager belongings into one of the apartments.
“Welcome to your new home,” said the mother cheerfully. June surveyed the place. It was austere and worn out from years of constant use but clean and positively enormous compared to what they’d grown accustomed to. The apartment was also largely devoid of furniture. The family presented several gift boxes prepared by church members. Donations included food staples, necessary household supplies, sheets, blankets, dishes, lightbulbs, clothing, and kitchen items.
