Read an Excerpt

One
“LIGHT-UP-LIGHT-UP! YOU SEE ME NOW? NAEGA WONHANEUN GEON NE BICH-IEOSSEO!”
   Olivia was jumping up and down on top of a black vinyl love seat in our tiny noraebang booth, screaming her lungs out. The nine members of MSB danced across the TV while the lyrics to “Light Up” scrolled across the screen. I hummed along as I flipped through a phone book–size binder full of song titles.
   “OH-OH-OH, HUH-OH!” shrieked Olivia.
   I pressed #6403 into the remote, then sat back and watched my little sister finish her song. Olivia always did this move where she flapped her elbows and wagged her ponytail back and forth so it made a fuzzy halo over her head. God, she was such a goofball—even when she was a baby, she could crack me up. I remember this one time when she was, like, two or three years old and she tasted a lemon for the first time. It was hilarious how she sucked her lips all the way inside her mouth because it was so sour, but she kept licking it over and over again and puckering her face just to keep me laughing.
   It was Friday, and we had just gotten out of class at our new international school so we were both still wearing our school uniforms. It was the whole prep-school getup—blazer, pleated skirt, and knee-high socks. The only difference was, I wore the high school’s color, navy blue, and Olivia had to wear the middle-school color, which was this bright banana-yellow.  She looked like Big Bird’s niece.
   “BUREUL KYEORA, GIRL!” She bent down to put the mic in front of my face, and I echoed the harmony to her melody.
   It took Olivia forever to convince me to walk into this place. Not because the front of the building has so many flashing laser lights and blinking LED screens that it looks like a giant slot machine that just hit the jackpot. But because the only karaoke spots I’d ever seen back in America required you to sing in front of a bunch of drunk strangers who would boo you offstage if they thought you weren’t doing justice to Journey, or Alanis Morissette, or some other artist that people my parents’ age listen to. But Olivia explained we could get our own private booth where we could sing just the two of us, and I finally caved. I had gone six excruciating months without singing—that’s how long it’s been since I left my voice lessons behind in San Francisco (not to mention most of my earthly possessions and all my friends). A private room in a noraebang wasn’t remotely close to the same thing as a voice lesson, but it was the best I could get, and I was desperate.
   “LII-IIIGHT ME UUUUUP!”
   BA-DA-DA-DAAAAH.
   Olivia hopped up on the love seat as the last note faded out, posing with one hand on her hip and the other pointing the microphone toward the ceiling in her best idol impression. I laughed at her, and that made her ham it up even more. One of the best things about moving to Seoul was that I got to hang out with Olivia way more. We barely ever saw each other back home; she was always doing stuff with her friends, and I was always doing stuff with mine. I’d forgotten how much fun we had together—and how hilarious she could be. Honestly, it made living in a city where I knew exactly zero people so much easier.
   “Miss Fierce, what a stunning set! How do I dare to take the stage after a performance like that?”
   “Har-dee-har,” said Olivia.
   “What was that, your third MSB song in a row?” I teased.
   “Fourth, actually.” Olivia stanned for a lot of different K-pop groups, but MSB was her bias. She was a die-hard BoM—MSB’s fandom—maybe even the die-hardest.
   “You are so obsessed.”
   “I’m not obsessed!” she said. “I just have incredible taste.”
   The TV flickered to the next song, and the quiet opening chords of “Million Reasons” started to play over the speakers.
   “Oh, come onnn, Alice,” complained Olivia, “you always play this song!”
   It was true. I probably played “Million Reasons” at least ten or twelve times a day, and when I wasn’t playing it on my laptop or my phone, I was singing it. Lady Gaga’s was the kind of music that made you wash your hair twice just so you could sing in the shower for two extra minutes. But it isn’t just an amazing song—there’s something else. This weird thing happens every time I sing something I’m really into: it’s like these two polar-opposite feelings fill me up at the same time, this deep melancholy and a total euphoria. The combination completely slays me. It’s a pretty rare song that gives me that feeling, but with “Million Reasons,” it’s guaranteed.
   “If you get four MSB songs, I get at least one Lady Gaga,” I said, “and get down from there before you fall and break an ankle.”
   Olivia threw me the microphone and sank down into the love seat to watch me. I stepped up to the front of the room and dramatically turned my back to the screen. I didn’t need to read the lyrics; I knew every second of the song by heart. I bowed my head over the microphone, my hair falling around my face as the light from the twirling disco ball in the ceiling danced across my legs. Then I began to sing.
   When the chorus hit, I snapped my hair up and over my head, then pounded my fist into my chest, and Olivia busted up laughing. She always brought out my cheesy side; she was, like, the only person who could never make me feel stupid because I know that she knows I’m not.
   It’s right around the three-minute mark in the song when I start to get that sad-happy feeling. I close my eyes and improvise, singing whatever feels good, whatever feels right. My body starts to take over, like the orchestra made up by my lungs and throat and belly know what to do without my brain conducting. It’s pretty much the only time I ever feel truly confident about myself. I think it’s because I’m not thinking about how I look or how I sound; I’m just lost in the music.
   Half a minute later, the song ended and I opened my eyes to Olivia standing on the love seat again, clapping wildly. “Whoo! Encore! ENCORE!”
   I folded my arm across my stomach and took a deep bow. “Thank you, thank you, to all my adoring fans.”
   “You’re getting so good. Like really good.”
   “Nah,” I said sheepishly.
   “I’m serious. You sound just like Lady Gaga.”
   “That might be the highest compliment anyone has ever given me.”
   Olivia looked at me, cocking her head to the side. “You know what I never get?”
   “What?” I asked.
   “How do you know which notes to sing in that middle part when you’re just making stuff up?”
   “I don’t know, really.” I shrugged. It was kind of like asking me how I know that a blueberry is blue. “I just kind of . . . know.”
   “I wish I knew how to do that.”
   “Come on, our two hours are almost up. We should hit it.”