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  In memory of my grandmother Swan Hee Goo, who introduced me to all the great black-and-white romances.

  And for Christopher, who introduced me to the real thing.

  She went, ever singing,

  In murmurs as soft as sleep;

  The Earth seemed to love her,

  And Heaven smiled above her,

  As she lingered towards the deep.

  —by JOHN KEATS PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, “Arethusa”

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  LUCKY

  When you have a face that’s recognizable by an entire continent, you have zero room to make mistakes.

  Especially onstage.

  I gazed into the screaming crowd, lights blinding me and the sound of my voice faint through the headset. The nonstop roar made it impossible for me to hear my own voice.

  Once during a performance, when I threw my body into the outstretched arms of my backup dancer, the tiny microphone had shifted under my curtain of hair, and my voice cracked during the most dramatic moment of my hit single “Heartbeat.”

  It was the crack heard around Asia. Endless video loops of that moment were played on the Internet—some superimposed with cartoon rabbits and added screechy sound effects. My favorite one showed an animated pane of glass shattering at the exact moment of the voice crack. It was so masterfully done, I laughed every time I watched it.

  My management label didn’t find it funny, though. They saw it as a lapse, an imperfection on an otherwise perfect K-pop star.

  That lapse was what I was thinking about as I stood on a stage in Hong Kong. The final stop on my Asian tour.

  There was something about the vibration in the air, though—the currents of excitement filling in the spaces between me and the crowd. It was why I did this. Whatever I had been feeling days or seconds before I stepped onstage—like worrying about messing up again—all of that disappeared when the crowd’s energy slipped under my skin and into my bloodstream.

  Ferocious adoration by way of osmosis.

  My silver stiletto boots were planted firmly in a wide stance, and my feet were killing me as per usual. I had this recurring nightmare of my boots chasing me around a parking lot. They were human-sized and ran after me in never-ending circles. My managers insisted on me wearing the same boots when I performed—my “signature look.” Over-the-knee boots that stretched up the long expanse of my legs.

  I was tall. Five foot ten—a veritable giant in Seoul. But there was no such thing as “too tall.”

  As I went through the familiar steps of the choreography for “Heartbeat,” I managed to ignore the pain shooting up from the balls of my feet, the perpetual wedgie from my booty shorts, and the long strands of my pink wig sticking to the sweaty sides of my face.

  Because I could do this choreography blindfolded, with two broken legs. I’d done this performance hundreds of times. At a certain point, my body moved on its own, as if on autopilot. Sometimes when I finished performing “Heartbeat,” my head hanging at an odd angle because of how the dance ended, I would blink and wonder where I had been for the last three minutes and twenty-four seconds.

  When my body took over like that, I knew I got the job done. I was rewarded for the absolute precision with which I executed my performances.

  And today was no different. I finished the song and looked out into the crowd, the screams of the fans piercing through me as I returned to my body with a whoosh.

  I was finally done with this tour.

  Backstage, I was immediately surrounded by people: my makeup artist, stylist, and head of security. I plopped down into a chair while my wig was adjusted and teased and my face dabbed with oil papers.

  “Don’t get rid of that dewy glow, though,” I cracked to Lonni, my makeup artist.

  Lonni pursed her lips. “You’re seventeen, you don’t need to be dewier. Also? Oil slick is not ‘dewy.’”

  Hmph. I let her continue mopping up my grease-face.

  The back-up dancers stumbled backstage, a group of men and women in nondescript, sexy black outfits. I jumped up from my chair—making Lonni tsk in exasperation—and bent at the waist.

  “Sugohaess-eoyo!” I said as I bowed. “Thank you so much.” I always made sure to thank them in both Korean and English because the dancers came from all over.

  They had suffered with me during every single practice and stop and never got any of the glory. My appreciation was genuine, but it was also expected. K-pop stars always had to be gracious.

  They bowed and thanked me in return, sweaty and exhausted. “You killed it, Lucky,” one of the dancers, Jin, said with a wink. “You were almost able to keep up with me.”

  I flushed. Jin was cute. He was also off-limits, as were most boys in my life. “I’ll land that turn one of these days,” I said with nervous laughter. They all shuffled off, going to their hotel together. I watched them with envy. Would they be hanging out in someone’s room, eating cup ramen together?

  No matter. My feet were going to crumble into dust. I plopped back into the chair.

  A hand patted my back. “Hey. You too. Sugohaess-eo,” my manager’s assistant, Ji-Yeon, said. Ji-Yeon always told me I did a good job after performances, like a proud but stern older sister. She was a tiny rabbit of a young woman, her full-cheeked face obscured by edgy blunt-cut bangs and giant glasses. But she was a powerhouse who got things done.

  She scrolled through her ever-present phone. “We’re going to do a meet and greet for about an hour, so be sure to drink some water.”

  “What? A meet and greet?” I had stopped doing those a couple years ago. They were more for beginner pop groups. Once you reached a certain level, it got unwieldy.

  “Yeah. Since it’s your final show, we thought it would make a good photo op.” She handed me a bottle of Evian.

  “So, I’m going to be here for another hour?” I tried to keep the whininess out of my voice.

  “It’ll be fast. In and out. Do you not want to do it?” Ji-Yeon asked, peering over her glasses.

  Don’t be lazy. I shook my head. “No, it’s fine.”

  “Okay, good. Now, let’s get you out of this outfit and into something more comfortable for the fans,” Ji-Yeon said with a slight twitch of her nose, making her glasses shift up and down on her pale face. “Except the shoes, of course. Gotta keep those on.”

  Of course.

  Minutes later, I was sitting behind a table signing albums, posters, whatever the fans had brought with them. And even though I had wanted to crawl into bed mere minutes before, the excitement of the fans zapped me with a familiar energy. Interaction with them was so rare lately.

  “Can I get a selfie?” I looked at the girl with braces and a pixie cut and was about to say yes when my head bodyguard, Ren Chang, stepped in front of me and shook his head.

  I threw the girl an apologetic look before the next fan approached me with a poster to sign. r />
  In the early days, I had wanted to give a hug and speak to everyone who had waited in line to see me. But the bigger my fan base grew, the more nebulous and faceless they became. I battled the instinct to give canned and wooden responses. “Thank you for coming,” I said with a smile at the older man as I signed his poster with a fat black Sharpie.

  He nodded, not making eye contact with me. But his hand grazed mine when I returned the poster, and he got in close. I could smell the meal he’d had, feel the heat of his body. Without missing a beat, Ren pushed him back with a firm hand. Again, I smiled apologetically at the man, even though my entire being recoiled. Most of my male fans were perfectly fine—but there was an overeager, sweaty subset that approached me with an intensity that frightened me. In those moments, I still had to act gracious. Always grateful for what I had.

  The line was cut off eventually and I stood up and waved and bowed to the crying and cheering fans. They roared when I threw out a peace sign and I was whisked away through the back door.

  The second I stepped outside, the paparazzi and fans descended.

  Camera flashes, voices yelling out my name, a crush of humanity.

  Ren and a few other bodyguards closed in around me like a protective membrane. When people pushed against them, the force made the circle of security undulate as we moved through the narrow alley toward the van.

  “Lucky, I love you!” a girl screamed. My instinct was to look toward the voice, to say, “Thank you!” But doing that would open the floodgates. I learned my lesson a long time ago.

  Instead, I looked down, watching the steps of Ren in front of me. Keeping my eyes on his firm footsteps slowed my racing heart, gave me focus. I liked having something to focus on. Otherwise, I would spiral into sheer panic at the thought of being trampled, enclosed by a million people who all wanted a piece of me.

  My guards slowed down, and I glanced up. The car was near, but people were blocking it. The police had arrived and the energy was feeding on itself—that stage of mania where absolutely no one had control. Where grown men with huge arms fought back teenage girls with dazed expressions, helplessly watching as the girls climbed over them as if they were trees, feral and hungry.

  My heart raced, my palms grew sweaty, and a wave of nausea came over me.

  “Stay close,” Ren said in a low voice, stretching a thick arm across my torso.

  “Like I have a choice?” I asked, my voice raspy from overuse. Feeling annoyed at Ren for no reason.

  “Or you could get trampled,” he replied mildly. Ren was my dad’s age but had the fitness level of an Olympian. And the sense of humor of a Triscuit.

  So I kept close—and within seconds, fresh air burst through the circle, breaking through the wall of bodies to reach me.

  My heart resumed beating back to normal and I lifted my face up to the bright Hong Kong skyline. It flashed at me for a second before I was tucked safely into the van.

  The first thing I did was take my freaking boots off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  JACK

  I watched the president of Hong Kong Construction Bank wax on about quarterlies or something equally boring until my eyes started to water with general eyeball ache. Human eyeballs were not meant to be fixed on one thing for this long. I glanced at the time on my phone. Oh my God. It had been thirty minutes? Thirty minutes! How long could a person talk about bank stuff for?

  “Dad,” I whispered, nudging him with my elbow.

  Keeping his dark eyes fixed on the guy talking on the ballroom stage, my dad didn’t respond. His square jaw was set stubbornly, and his meticulous hairline met the starched white collar of his shirt. Sitting up straight in his hotel banquet hall chair, an uncomfortable one covered with a cream-colored satin fabric.

  I poked him until he finally looked over at me with exasperation, furrowing his brow. “What?” he whispered.

  “At what point will this be … you know, fun?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Kid, did you actually think a bank anniversary dinner would be fun?” he asked with a chuckle.

  Good point. I looked around at the hotel ballroom full of banking people eating scallops in their formal wear. This was probably the most depressing Friday night of my life.

  “Well, I thought the food would be good, at least,” I muttered.

  “Hey, it’s free.” He glanced over, squinting at me under sparse, straight eyebrows. “You have to stay.”

  I sighed and leaned back into my chair, smiling grimly at the other people at our table who had started to stare at us.

  “You know, I had a very different gap year in mind. One that involved more backpacking, less ballrooms,” I said.

  “No kidding.” His mouth twitched, holding back a smile.

  When I announced that I had wanted to take a gap year in lieu of college, my parents had agreed to it—but only if I started interning at my dad’s bank the fall after my high school graduation. It was October now, and the part-time work was already killing me with boredom.

  The man onstage finally wrapped up his speech, and everyone clapped politely. Thank God. People rushed the dessert table, and I was about to get up and grab some cake when my dad stopped me.

  “Jack, I want you to meet a few people,” he said, waving a couple over. I groaned inwardly. He shot me a warning glance. “This internship isn’t about going through the motions. You’re supposed to be networking. Some of these people have great connections to the best colleges in the US.”

  Great. I put on my finest schmoozing smile. It was a good smile.

  A tall Asian woman wearing dark red lipstick reached her hand out to me. “Jack! We’re so glad you were able to make the event tonight. Shows initiative.”

  “Thank you, Caroline,” I said. Her eyebrows rose with pleasant surprise. I was good at remembering names. “But let’s be honest, I’m here for the cake.”

  She threw her head back and laughed, as did her companion—a burly Indian man in an expensive suit. Nikhil, if I recalled correctly. “Make sure you try the tiramisu,” Nikhil said in a polished British accent. “So, how are you enjoying your gap year, Jack? I have fond memories of mine—backpacking through Europe and all that.”

  I shot my dad a very deliberate look. See? Backpacking! It’s a thing!

  But I said, “Oh, it’s been great. I think there’s so much you can learn outside of college, and I have the privilege of doing that.” It was a subtle in-real-life subtweet, and I’m sure my dad picked up on it.

  Nikhil snapped his fingers then. “Oh! I have a question about cameras, Jack!”

  I startled. “You do?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen you in the office with that fancy camera of yours,” he said. “You’re a camera guy, right? I need a recommendation for one.”

  My dad shifted next to me, and tension crept up my back. “Oh, sure. What kind of camera are you looking for?”

  Nikhil went on to describe what he wanted, and I tried to maintain a neutral expression. Yes, I knew a thing or two about cameras. I’d been hooked on photography for years, ever since I got my first fancy camera as a Christmas gift from my parents—a Canon Rebel that I took everywhere. As far as my parents were concerned, it was a hobby. They made that very clear when I went digging around into various art programs. They had reacted with extreme skepticism, pushing me toward business and engineering programs instead.

  It had been what killed my enthusiasm for college. Why I had asked for the gap year. The idea of studying business or something instead of photography sent me into a literal panic.

  The bigger thing I didn’t tell my parents was this: I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go to college. That college was something that felt far away now. So far away that I didn’t know if it would ever be a part of my life. I saw where it got you. In a ballroom eating tiramisu while wearing an overpriced suit.

  I glanced at my dad in that overpriced suit. This wasn’t the life he wanted, either. My dad had studied creative writing in college. Even got an MFA. But l
ife and circumstances had landed him here.

  The conversation veered into financial stuff after I gave Nikhil some camera recommendations, so I made my way over to the dessert table. But everything looked unappetizing. My shirt collar was stifling, the buzz of the ballroom deafening. Existential dread filled me every moment I was here. Feeling time pass, feeling my actual cells grow older. I took a deep breath, my mind already whirring with how I could get out of this. Illness? My dad was a germophobe, so it might work.

  I headed back to the table, sitting down next to my dad and coughing so hard he recoiled. “I don’t feel good,” I croaked out, laying it on thick.

  “It’s because you’re perpetually cold,” my dad scolded. “Do you even have heating in that hovel of yours?” My parents hated my apartment in Sheung Wan. As soon as I graduated, I had moved out with almost zero cash, and my current accommodations showed it. While my neighborhood was hip and fairly expensive, I had chosen one of the old walk-up apartments. They were tiny and usually above storefronts selling things like dried fish and medicinal herbs. But because the area was up-and-coming, it was still more than I could afford on my own, and I needed a roommate. In a one-bedroom. It was stressful, having to make rent and scrape by. My parents refused to help and I would rather die of starvation than ask them, anyhow. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it up, though, and I was trying everything I could to avoid the undergrad experience my parents were hoping for me.

  “We do have heating,” I lied easily. “Anyway, my throat is starting to hurt, too.”

  Dad leveled a penetrating stare at me. “Are you pretending to be sick to get out of this?”

  I sniffled a very realistic sniffle. “Why would I do that? You know I’ve been pumped. My first bank banquet. Thing.”

  While skepticism lined his face, I could sense his phobia overriding his dad BS meter. “All right, this is wrapping up anyway. Go home and get some rest. Do you need Mom to send you some food?”