“Oh, uh…” I offer her a sheepish smile. “Just trying out a new style.” Today’s beauty and presentation class was all about the importance of eyebrow grooming. Akari’s naturally thick, straight brows fit the teacher’s ideal Korean “boy brow” aesthetic easily, but mine required a bit more maintenance and I might have gotten a little carried away with the tweezers. I rub my left eyebrow, hoping I did a good enough job with the pencil to cover up the slight bald patch.

She frowns and leans back in her seat, crossing her arms. “How can I help you two?” she asks.

There’s an unfamiliar frostiness in her voice that makes me uneasy. I glance at Akari, who gives me an encouraging nod. Right. I can do this. I take a deep breath and dive in.

“I have an idea that might give me a second chance at singing the duet with Jason,” I say. I nod to Akari, who pulls out her phone. She holds it up and presses play on the viral video of the beauty blogger. “Have you seen this?” I ask.

“Of course. The cherry blossom festival was last weekend. This video was everywhere.” Her frown deepens. “What are you suggesting? You’re going to find some way to make up for your dance audition with some ridiculous eye shadow?”

I wince. I know things are different now that I’m so close to debut age, but sometimes I miss the days when Yujin would just let me sit on her couch and cry. “Not exactly,” I say, pressing on. “But you said so yourself. This video was everywhere. And now SKII wants to offer her a sponsorship and she has more opportunities than she could’ve ever imagined. When a video goes viral, people talk. And other people have to listen.”

I fiddle with the cuffs of my bomber jacket. I had pictured myself strolling out of Yujin’s office like Sandra Bullock at the Met Gala, all mastermind plotter with a specialized team of badass women to back her up. I take a deep breath. “We all know Mina’s voice isn’t up to a duet with Jason. I was thinking if I could get a video of me singing to go viral, the execs will notice all the attention we’re getting and have to give me another chance.”

Yujin is silent. Akari and I both lean forward expectantly.

“That is the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

My shoulders slump. So much for my Ocean’s 8 fantasy.

“Your audition wasn’t just a disappointment, Rachel. It was a disaster,” Yujin says, narrowing her eyes. I sink down into my seat, but Yujin isn’t finished. “You’ve been at DB for six years. You know how this works. No one’s forcing you to be here. You have to choose it. You have to want it. How can I trust that you can sing a duet with Jason when I’m still getting reports that you can’t even get through media training class? And how will you make a viral video when you’re still afraid of a camera?”

A lump rises in my throat. She’s right. Of course she’s right. A wave of shame and embarrassment washes over me. How did I think this would be such an easy fix? I bite my lip and nod, looking down at my lap and trying not to cry.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” Yujin says sharply. My head snaps up. “We all had such high expectations for you, Rachel. I had such high expectations. Not only did you humiliate yourself, but you humiliated me as well. Since I’m DB’s head trainer, my reputation is on the line! Your performance reflected poorly on both of us. So tell me, why should any of us give you a second chance?”

Shame presses down on my chest. “I’m so, so sorry, Yujin. I know I let you down. But I also know I can do better. Please give me a second chance because… because…”

Yujin’s cold gaze bearing down on me reminds me of the harsh, empty stare of a camera lens, and I hang my head, feeling my words slipping away. What can I say? There’s nothing that can make up for this.

“Because you remember what it was like hearing Rachel and Jason sing together.” Akari squeezes my hand as she jumps in. She looks Yujin straight in the eye, speaking with confidence. “I know you felt the electricity in the room. We all did. They were meant to sing together. Can you deny that?”

Yujin stares right back at Akari with equal intensity. “And how exactly do you plan on getting past DB’s social media rules?”

“It’s against the rules for us to post,” Akari says, smiling mischievously. “But if the video doesn’t show up on Rachel’s social media, it’s technically not her fault. What can she do if a leaked video that she just happens to be singing in goes viral?”

Okay, I might not be the Sandra Bullock, but Akari is the Cate Blanchett of this scenario, I think, in awe of her ability to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. All she needs now is a sparkly, perfectly fitted pantsuit.

Yujin’s gaze shifts to me, and I quickly wipe the tears threatening to spill out from the corners of my eyes, accidentally smudging my eyebrow pencil. Shit. I’m a mess. Maybe I was a fool for thinking Yujin would jump to my aid like she always does. Even my mentor has her limits, and I’ve clearly projectile vomited right past them.

I cautiously look up and hold her gaze. Her eyes soften and she sighs. “The performance was pretty amazing,” she says.

My heart leaps. “I promise if I get a second chance, I won’t mess it up,” I say quickly. I take a deep breath. “You’re the one who taught me to believe in myself. I know I can do this.”

Yujin rubs the small bamboo plant on her desk. Then she plucks a business card from a small tray and flips it over, writing something on the back in precise, blocky script. She slides it across the desk. It’s some random address in Itaewon.

Akari and I look up at Yujin, and she gives us a mischievous smile of her own.

“Meet me there after training tomorrow night,” she says. “Make sure no one follows you. Got it?”

Akari squeals. “Does this mean you’re helping us?”

“It means this conversation is over.” Yujin nods to the door. I take the business card and slide it into the pocket of my jacket.

“Rachel,” Yujin says as we turn to leave. I look back and she smiles. “Do something about that eyebrow by tomorrow, will you? You want to look your best in a video that the whole world is going to see.”

Hope balloons in my chest. I bow. “Thank you, Yujin-unni. I won’t let you down.”

* * *

I stand in front of my bedroom mirror, twisting my hair into a high ballerina bun to show off the Peter Pan collar of my lavender top. Ugh. I look like a librarian.

Tugging my hair out of its bun, I toss the shirt into the pile of already rejected clothes on the floor. Should I try all black with the leather jacket and ripped skinny jeans? Maybe the leopard-print maxi dress with the billowing sleeves? I hoist some high-waisted jean shorts up over my legs and throw on a matching oversize denim shirt, glancing at myself in the mirror. Definitely not. I want to wear something that says Hey, you can trust me. You didn’t make a mistake choosing me. Not Hi, I’m Rachel, the lost Smurf.

I swing open the closet, rooting around for more outfit options. A bunch of pictures are taped up on the inside of the door, and one catches my eye: I’m with some of my cousins at my first noraebang during a family vacation to Seoul when I was eleven. I had been looking forward to going to the noraebang all summer: the private rooms stocked with microphones and leather couches, the disco ball flashing neon lights against the walls, the tambourines, the endless snacks. Until then I had only ever sung in our tiny New York apartment—I couldn’t wait to feel like I was putting on a real show, like a real K-pop star, just like in all the music videos I had been watching for years.