“What now?” I sigh.

She lifts a hand, showing off her perfect French manicure. “Eight girls to do your nails for you? Seriously? We’re not your servants, Rachel.” She rolls her eyes. You would know, I think to myself. Of everyone at DB, Mina’s the most likely to have servants. She’s the eldest daughter of one of Korea’s oldest and most powerful chaebol families, the Choos, also known as the C-MART family. There are thousands of orange-and-white C-MART stores all over the country, selling everything from kimchi and Yakult and freshly made japchae to neon-yellow sweatshirts with knockoff Sanrio characters spouting ridiculous Konglish phrases like “Your mom is my hamster”—meaning Mina is richer than rich and a huge pain in my ass. “You know you’re the reason we have so many of these media training classes, right?” My insides heat up. It’s true. I know it’s true. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear it from Mina. “Can you at least try answering like a K-pop star and not some starstruck little girl at a slumber party? Or is that too much to ask from our poor little Korean American princess?”

I stiffen. It’s no secret I was born and raised in the States (New York City, to be exact), but between my dance trainer screaming at me for being three minutes late to class this morning and my failed interview performance, I’m in no mood to deal with Mina and her attitude today. “I don’t remember the interviewer asking you any personal questions, Mina. Maybe you’re just not as interesting as you think you are.”

“Or maybe I don’t need the practice,” Mina says.

I sigh. I skipped breakfast this morning, and the effort to keep up this verbal sparring with Mina requires at least one meal, if not two. I turn away, scooping my heels into my old white leather tote bag.

“What, you think you’re too good to talk to me now? Didn’t your umma teach you any manners?” Mina says.

“What do you expect from her?” Lizzie says, checking her mascara in her monogrammed compact mirror. She snaps it shut and narrows her eyes at me. “Sweet little Princess Rachel, whose mom won’t let her step foot in the trainee house. Maybe that’s why she thinks we all have nothing better to do with our time than each other’s nails.”

“It must be nice to be Mr. Noh’s favorite,” Eunji says with a loud sigh. “You know, some of us actually have to work hard to get where we are. You don’t see us getting any favors from the head of DB.”

“I hope you don’t think you’re some of us,” Sumin says, whipping around to face Eunji. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you break a sweat over anything.”

“Speaking of sweat, you might want to freshen up a bit, sweetie,” Eunji says, drawing a circle in the air around her own face. “You’re looking a little… shiny.”

“Well, your nose is looking a little plastic,” Sumin bites back.

“The two of you are giving me a headache!” Lizzie whines to Mina. “Sunbae, make them be quiet!”

Mina smiles. “Of course, Lizzie, sweetie. Why don’t we just turn the camera back on? That will shut them right up! Oh wait… that only works on Rachel!”

The room dissolves into giggles as my face flares in anger and embarrassment. I should bite back, but I don’t. I never do. I like to pretend it’s because I’m taking my mom’s advice to heart—you know, be the bigger person, always take the high road, never let them see you sweat, the mantras of strong, American-minded feminists everywhere—but the huge lump that’s returned to my throat knows that’s a lie. I finish lacing my shoes and stand. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, winding my way out of the room.

“Oh, you’re excused,” Mina says innocently. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her motion to the other girls, whispering wildly as sly smiles start to spread across all their faces.

* * *

DB Entertainment’s training campus is exactly like the K-pop stars it churns out: flawless, sparkling, and pretty much impossible to look away from. It’s prime real estate in the heart of Cheongdam-dong, the capital of K-pop. In the summer, trainees gather for yoga and Pilates on the rooftop garden, fighting over the coveted umbrella-covered spots to avoid even the hint of a sun blemish. Inside, giant fountains with spring water flown in directly from Seoraksan grace the teakwood and marble-clad lobbies. The DB execs claim the fountains are there to help us channel our inner peace in order to achieve our highest potential—but we all know what a joke that is. There’s no inner peace to be had here.

Especially not with the yearbook staring you in the face every day.

The yearbook (so named because most of the trainees here never get the chance to have an actual high school yearbook) is what we call the walls surrounding the fountain in the central wing lobby, decorated with framed photos of every single K-pop star who’s debuted out of DB’s training program. Their picture-perfect smiles and glossy hair remind us mere trainee mortals of what we aspire to be every day as we scurry from class to class. And smack in the middle of the wall—the one place we all hope to see ourselves someday—is a gold plaque with the names of every DB solo star or group who’s had a song debut at #1 on the Seoul music charts.

As I walk past, I stop and stare, my eyes blurring as I go over the names I memorized years ago. Pyo Yeri, Kwon YoonWoo, Lee Jiyoung… and the most recent, NEXT BOYZ. I feel a familiar squeeze around my heart, that patented K-pop trainee combination of stress, panic, and dehydration, as I flash back to my disastrous interview performance. Wincing at the memory, I quicken my steps, hurrying toward the independent practice rooms that line the west side of the building.

The hallway is full of random toys and props used by the best of the best stars in worldwide concerts. Half of the paraphernalia has the insignias of Electric Flower and Kang Jina (a gold-plaque legend and the leader of the biggest and best girl group in K-pop for the last few years). They debuted at the top spot and never left it. When I joined DB, I worshipped those girls—Jina especially. I admire them even more now, knowing what they had to go through to get to where they are. But part of me wonders about the girls they left behind. The ones that didn’t make it in the group.

Will I be the one on top or the one left in the shadows?

Bass reverberates into the hallway as I peek inside one room and see a second-year trainee practicing Blue Pearl’s iconic “Don’t Give Up on Love” dance. She flubs the side-to-side arm movements and wilts, dragging herself over to the speaker panel to start the song from the beginning. My whole body aches just watching her. From the sweat dripping off her forehead to her bright-red cheeks, I can tell she’s been in there for hours—a typical day for a young trainee. At the end of the hall, I run my finger over the electronic sign-up screen that dictates practice room availability. It’s still pretty early on a Saturday, so I’m hoping for some afternoon times to work on my dance moves, but… Ugh. Unbelievable. Every single slot is filled.

My hands clench as I feel my body temperature skyrocket. Lizzie wasn’t wrong—I’m not like the other trainees who are here 24/7, singing and dancing in practice rooms until 4:00 a.m., sleeping at the nearby trainee house, and waking up and doing it all over again, every single day. Back when I first got recruited to DB, my mom almost didn’t let me come. It meant uprooting our family from New York City to Seoul, my sister giving up her school and her friends, both of my parents giving up their jobs. But more than that, she couldn’t understand why K-pop meant so much to me, and she definitely didn’t understand the trainee lifestyle—the intense pressure, the years of training, the plastic surgery scandals. Then, about three weeks into begging my mom to change her mind, my halmoni died. I remember how sad I felt, how I cried with my mom and Leah for hours, how when she was alive, Halmoni would sit me down every morning during our visits and braid my hair, whispering old folktales into my ear, telling me in her soothing voice how I would grow up to be beautiful, wise, and very wealthy. My mom wouldn’t let us miss school for the funeral, and when she got back from Korea, I had practically decided to let go of the whole trainee thing, but to my surprise, Umma made me a deal: We would move to Seoul and I would go to school during the week, get an education, keep my prospects for college open, and every weekend (starting Friday night), I would train. (Once, a few years ago, I asked her why she changed her mind after Halmoni died, but all I got was a blank stare followed by a quick smack on the back of my head).