My face burns with embarrassment, and when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I want to tell her about what Mina did, about why I was so drunk in that video—but it would only make her think that she’s right. And she’s not. Not about this.

Umma’s glare is unforgiving and her voice is hard and clipped. “I let this go on for far too long. I won’t have you be a part of this anymore. Not when training makes you act this way.”

She turns her back on me, walking out of the living room. I stare at her in disbelief. Is she seriously going to end things like this?

I storm after her into the kitchen.

“What do you mean you won’t have me be a part of this? Didn’t you hear me? I’m singing with Jason Lee. Right before the DB Family Tour in the fall. This is just how DB debuted Electric Flower almost seven years ago, Umma. It means everything I’ve worked so hard for over the last six years is about to happen. It means they’re going to debut me.” I’m begging now, all the anger slowly ebbing out of my voice. I’m desperate for her to see me, for her to believe in me—and maybe even a little desperate for me to fully believe in what I’m saying too.

“Please, Umma. Please. I’m so close.”

She says nothing as she grabs an onion out of the fridge and starts chopping away at it. The onion fumes mingle with my rising panic, and tears start streaming down my face. I can’t hold back my sobs as Umma turns to face me. Her posture is still rigid, but her eyes are no longer snapping with anger—instead, she almost looks sad. “Rachel,” Umma says, “there are so many things you just don’t understand. That you just can’t understand at seventeen.” She sighs. “But you are my daughter. Which means you need to try. So, sing this song with Jason and see where it goes.”

Just as my shoulders start to relax, she holds up a finger.

“But,” she says, her tone final, “you said it yourself. If you haven’t debuted by the time the family tour starts, I’m pulling you from DB. End of discussion.”

She abandons her half-cut onion on the kitchen counter and walks into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her. I collapse into a chair, Leah’s smoothie and doughnuts wilting on the table. How did I go from feeling on top of the world to crashing headfirst into rock bottom in just a few hours? I choke out another sob. This song with Jason and Mina isn’t just the next step on the way to debuting anymore. It is the only step. If it doesn’t work, everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve been dreaming of… is over.

Nine

Whoever said exercise gives you endorphins had clearly never been a K-pop trainee.

“Maybe you should take a break, Unni. You look miserable—and you’re going to give yourself premature forehead wrinkles.”

Leah sits cross-legged on my bed, snacking on a bag of honey butter chips. I guess there’s one Kim sister who shares Korea’s obsession with turning salty snacks into sweet ones.

I frown at her in the wall mirror and lean forward to inspect my reflection, smoothing my hand across my forehead. “What wrinkles?”

“They come with your ‘I’m so stressed I look like I haven’t pooped in three days’ face.” She tosses a chip into the air and catches it in her mouth. “Basically, the way you’ve looked since your trio training with Mina started. You really should relax.”

She waves her bag of chips under my nose, but I grimace at the smell.

She’s not wrong, though. It’s been a week since my showdown with Mr. Noh, and things are crazier than ever before. There are constant weigh-ins and interview drills and nonstop cardio. I’m waking up at 4:00 a.m. every morning to make it to DB by sunrise, training all day, and falling into bed around midnight—only to get back up and do it all again the next day.

It’s still only on weekends, but I’m not about to try to renegotiate my training schedule with Umma. Things are tense enough between us as it is; we’ve barely spoken since her ultimatum. The days keep ticking away until the start of the DB Family Tour and the new girl-group debut, so I can’t rest. Not even for a second.

Luckily, Leah’s here during the week to whip me into shape. And she’s almost as strict as the DB trainers.

“Do it again, Rachel,” she says as I get back into formation. “From the top.”

Leah hits play on her phone. My muscles scream in pain as I go through the dance routine for what feels like the hundredth time that night, stopping only to watch video playbacks from my rehearsals with Mina. There’s this one move in the second verse that I keep messing up, and the trainers’ constant critiques play in a loop in my head:

You’re never going to debut if you can’t get this move right, Rachel!

You’re dancing is a disgrace to DB, Rachel!

Your dancing looks like an elephant in a zoo, Rachel!

Rachel!

I practice so late that Leah falls asleep on my bed, honey butter crumbs dusting her chin, and my own eyes start to droop. I tuck a blanket over her and reach for the empty bag of chips to toss it. There’s still one honey butter chip inside. I’m so hungry that even this sugary potato chip seems appealing to me right now.

No. I shouldn’t. DB weighs us almost every day. And Mina and I are being fitted for our music-video outfits tomorrow.

I kind of freaked out when Yujin told me there was going to be a music video. The trainers with their constant critiques are like a horde of bees swimming around in my head, and I know the execs are going to be watching me like a hawk that day, seeing how I handle being up close and personal with the cameras for an entire shoot. But then she softened the blow with the news that we’d all be getting custom outfits for the video. And a whole day of trying on clothes? Definitely worth it. Now I just need to ensure the execs can’t make a single complaint about my body.

I sigh, toss the chip bag in my trash bin, and then press play on Leah’s phone one more time.

* * *

“Ai-yah! Look at your stomach. Like a cow. Take that off immediately.”

I’m struggling to breathe in this purple sequined corset. It pinches around my waist so tight that it physically hurts to suck my tummy in enough to keep the whole thing from popping off.

“Too bad,” the stylist, Grace, says, undoing the corset fastenings while her team of underlings helps me step out of my skirt—a lavender leather nightmare with a huge tulle train bursting from the back. “I was really hoping the mermaid concept would work. Next.”

Thank god.

She pulls me into a Twiggy-esque orange checkered dress with dramatic bell sleeves, then steps back and grimaces, twirling her finger in the air for the next outfit.

A white leather jacket with matching high-waisted snakeskin shorts.

A golden yellow romper with ruffled shoulders that nearly fan up to my ears.

A floral jumpsuit with a chunky silver belt and sheer lace sleeves that make my arms itch.

Being a Barbie doll isn’t as much fun as I’d imagined it would be. I’m in each outfit for less than ten seconds before Grace signals for the next one. Mina is going through the same wardrobe fitting to my left, her face pinched as people zip her up on all sides in a pink latex dress. God, she looks like bubble gum. It would almost be funny if they weren’t about to dress me in the exact same thing.