I’m finding my stride now, my voice riding the melody like a surfer on the waves. And that’s when I finally find it. The joy. The reason I’m doing all this. Despite my pounding head, I hold on to that spark, my face breaking into a smile as I continue to sing.

Just as I hit the chorus, I hear a brilliant harmony float alongside my own voice. Everyone in the audience gasps. What’s happening? Am I having a hangover hallucination? But it’s not my voice. It’s a deep male tenor, and when I turn my head, I see Jason emerge from backstage, singing along with me.

I’m stunned, but it doesn’t break my flow. In fact, his voice is like another strong wave, carrying me further into the song, lifting me higher. He takes a look at my pajamas and raises his eyebrows at me like he’s remembering an inside joke. We don’t break eye contact as our voices intertwine and blend together. He takes a step toward me from the other side of stage. Even without a microphone, his voice soars, complementing mine perfectly. I take a step forward to match him. The space between us feels charged somehow, our voices crashing together, lighting up the stage like lightning in the night sky. The entire auditorium is holding their breath, watching us.

A surprising thought flashes through my mind. We are meant to sing together.

We walk toward each other until the space between us is no more than a finger. He’s almost as close as when I fell into his back yesterday. Or when he pulled my body into his on the couch.

He leans forward, and I can see the deep golden brown of his irises. They’re locked on to me as he lets the microphone I’m holding pick up his voice. We’re truly singing together now. Perfectly harmonized, perfectly joined.

He wraps his arm around my waist as the music slowly fades away, and together we sing the last line of the chorus. We smile at each other, breathing hard. His arms feel warm and strong around me, and for one moment silence hangs in the air.

Then the crowd erupts into applause and cheers. The other trainees and the junior trainers are cheering and clapping. Only Mina and her minions are silent and sullen.

I don’t know what that was, but it was some kind of magic. I smile, my heart beating in my chest, and Jason smiles back. Unlike his cocky grin from yesterday, this one is warm and makes my breath catch. It’s almost enough to make me forget how horrible I feel.

And then, without warning, my stomach lurches. It rolls and twists, and I barely have a second to think, Oh shit, before I throw up all over Jason’s white shoes.

Jason blinks and stares down at his previously pristine Nikes. The silence is static. Someone lets out a burst of laughter. I don’t need to look to guess who it is.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and my body convulses with another wave of nausea. I have to get out of here.

I race off the stage, stumbling out of the auditorium and tearing down the hallway to the nearest bathroom. I burst into a stall as I feel the acid and bile rise from my stomach. At least this time it’s into a toilet and not onto an international K-pop star’s shoes. Ugh.

I puke until I feel like there’s nothing left in me. I puke out the entire contents of my stomach and my pride.

Groaning, I curl up on the floor and drop my head into my knees, feeling absolutely miserable. I have no idea how clean these tiles are, but I don’t really care right now. I’m pretty sure that was the worst thing to happen onstage in all of DB history. I’m never going to be able to show my face here again. Goodbye, Jason. Goodbye, K-pop stardom.

The bathroom door opens, and I tense up inside my stall, curling into myself. I hear Eunji’s and Lizzie’s voices as they clatter around the sink, the sound of lip gloss tubes popping open.

“So, what’s your bet?” Lizzie asks.

“I can’t believe they didn’t cut her.”

They didn’t cut me. My body nearly crumples in relief.

“Mr. Noh said they didn’t cut anyone today because it was all about that duet with Jason.”

I hear a snap of gum and I can imagine Eunji pursing her lips.

“Did anyone catch it on camera? We should get someone to leak it on social media.”

Shit. Did someone film that disaster? I crane my ear to hear what Eunji says next.

“No, but trust me, the memory of it is vivid enough. It’s all anyone is going to talk about for months.”

Lizzie giggles and sighs. “You’re right. We should make T-shirts or something. ‘I survived the Princess Rachel Vomit Extravaganza of 2020.’ ”

Ugh. I really hope they don’t do that.

“I just wish I could have seen her face when the board picked Mina to do the duet with Jason,” Eunji says.

Of course. They chose Mina.

“She’ll find out soon enough, and her face will be priceless.”

“Let’s try to get a pic of it—we can put it on the T-shirt!”

Lizzie smacks her lips together. “Okay, enough Princess Rachel talk. Mr. Noh was looking right at me when he announced the autumn DB Family Tour.…”

Her voice fades into the background as my head snaps up—too quickly—and I cover my mouth as my body recoils from the sudden movement. I let out a soft groan. A new family tour. The first one in seven years.

DB is debuting a new girl group.

Suddenly all the pieces start to fall into place: Mina didn’t just want this duet. She wanted me out of the way. She must have known about the tour. And she knew whoever got to sing with Jason would have the best chance to debut before the tour started in the fall.

I hear the bathroom doors open. Laughter and shouts from the hallway fill the room before the doors shut. How can I go back out there? Lizzie’s right—this is all anyone is going to be talking about.

The more people are talking about you, the more you’re worth talking about. Jason’s words from last night ring in my head.

I stand up slowly, making my way to the mirror along the back wall. Someone pale and sweaty—and oh my god is that vomit on my shoulder?!—but determined stares back at me. Mina might think she got exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t get everything. I’m still here. And I’m going to make sure I’m worth talking about.

Five

“Look alive, Rachel!”

I duck, covering my face with my tennis racket as a fluorescent yellow ball whizzes over my head. Whew. That was close. I peek over my racket to see our newest tennis coach crossing her arms. Our school doesn’t really believe in gym teachers. Instead, we have a rotation of professional-athlete instructors—Adam Rippon for ice-skating, Katie Ledecky for swimming, Simone Biles for gymnastics. Right now I’m being scowled at by the sixteen-year-old Canadian wunderkind who just beat Serena Williams in the Australian Open and is on the most recent cover of Sports Illustrated and Vogue.

“The idea is to use your racket to hit the ball,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Not use it like some kind of Captain America cosplay shield.”

“Sorry, Coach Sloat.” I straighten up, adjusting my white tennis skirt and matching white visor.

Most days when I’m at school, I’m counting down the minutes to the weekend, to getting back to DB and to training. I even have a countdown app on my phone set to 3:30 p.m. every Friday afternoon. But right now the app is on silent and school is an absolutely necessary distraction to keep me from constantly reliving the moment I threw up all over Jason, on a stage in front of every single trainee, trainer, and exec in DB.