Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“Modern dance?”

The very first moves of “To a New World” were a mixture of ballet and modern dance. There was a wistful and dreamy quality to it, but it wasn’t at all intense.

“It’s very pretty but…” Goldie #1 trailed off.

There was only so much we could change about the choreography. In other words, the dance moves unfolding on the screen before us increased the difficulty of arranging the song even further. It obviously wasn’t a good fit for an audition show as-is, so this added burden only frustrated my team even more. Thanks to this shocking discovery, we began to memorize the choreography blanketed under a gloomy atmosphere.

“Let’s learn the moves as quickly as possible!”

“Okay!”

Their disappointment only seemed to drive them to try harder instead of giving up, however. Surprisingly, everyone began practicing without complaint, making for a pleasant practice session. They had probably correctly guessed that if they were to loudly complain about the song, footage of them putting the song down might end up airing on the show.

How convenient, I thought as I practiced, refraining from making any comments either. Since I didn’t have a lot of experience with learning choreography I wasn’t all that bothered by the difficulty of the dance—it was an uphill battle for me regardless.

“You grab his arm here and spin it around like this…”

“Hmm…”

“Wow, that was pretty good.”

I was waiting for the opportune moment. Since we had a good atmosphere going, what mattered now was successfully concocting a scene the production team wouldn’t be able to resist airing in the final edit. The way the show portrayed our arrangement of the song was also very important.

My opportunity came two days later when one of the trainers came by to check on us.

***

“You guys must have been really stressed out when you got this song,” the choreographer said, making us laugh awkwardly. Nobody wanted to tell him that all we’d done was practice the moves, putting off actually worrying about the arrangement until a later date. The choreographer didn’t seem all that happy with our response, but he didn’t comment. “Let’s see what you’ve got so far then.”

“Yes!”

The whole team, including me, managed to pull off all the moves for the first verse without making a single mistake. Everyone looked relieved as they tried to catch their breath.

“Well, all right,” the choreographer said with a nod. He sounded very carefully neutral. “So you were able to memorize the moves. Who learned the dance and taught it to the rest of you?”

“Uh, the members who are good at dancing did it together…” Goldie #2 muttered hesitantly.

“Yes. We did it together!” Big Sejin added.

It was true that the four gold contestants had taken charge, but it had been mostly Ahyeon who’d studied the moves and taught the rest of us. As it turned out, he was a dance major. Since he hadn’t been completely responsible, though, and Big Sejin was the main dancer, they were apparently all claiming equal credit.

The choreographer simply nodded. “Yeah, that can’t have been easy. But the thing is…” He cracked his neck. “Nothing stands out at all.”

Goldie #2 gasped as if he’d seen a ghost or something from beside me.

“What are you trying to accomplish here?” the choreographer asked. “All you did was move your bodies correctly. What you just did was what I’d expect to see at a school talent show. I thought you guys were here to make a living?”

My teammates flinched at every criticism that came their way.

“That was hardly worth the time it took to watch.”

This was a natural consequence of our actions since we’d avoided interpreting the song in our own way and just copied the moves. But trust the choreographer to deliver his feedback as bitingly as possible.

“And some of you are just below standard,” he added, glancing obviously at actor Lee Sejin, who was staring at the floor.

To be honest, I hadn’t done that well, either—I’d memorized the moves and performed them mechanically, at best. I should probably be grateful that he was getting the brunt of the scolding.

The criticisms continued, so scathing that I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my teammates started crying. The choreographer kept on, jerking his chin at his next victim.

“You. Seon Ahyeon.”

“Y-yes…”

“I thought you majored in modern dance. Why does it seem like you’re even less expressive than Moondae?”

Ahyeon went pale and I had a strong feeling that this particular part wouldn’t be edited out. You sh*thead, I hope your hair falls out… He’d just called me out as one of the worst dancers on the team and used me to get under Ahyeon’s skin.

“At least he’s a good singer,” the choreographer continued. “You’ve been getting okay reviews because this is an audition program. Do you think people will be understanding and praise you no matter how lackluster your performance is, just because you have a sad backstory?”

There were few fields where storytelling was as powerful as it was in the entertainment world, and yet the choreographer was making it sound as if pure technical skill was the only valid standard. He hadn’t changed a bit from his attitude in previous seasons. In any case, his words seemed to have impacted Ahyeon deeply, who seemed moments away from falling apart.

This is not good… He had a strange status abnormality, to begin with. I couldn’t allow his confidence to plummet any further lest he becomes unable to pull his own weight.

“Anyhow, at the moment you just look like amateurs who practiced a lot, that’s all. Think about what you’re trying to express through this song. Next time, show me something worth watching.”

“Thank you…”

The team members, thoroughly chewed up and spit out, trudged out of the evaluation room. They already looked shattered but the vocal feedback that Mewdy gave next was no different.

“Guys. Guys! What are you trying to do here?” she said, banging a fist against her keyboard with frustration. She obviously really wanted to deliver some good constructive criticism, though, since she chose to give specific pointers instead of just insulting us. “The song’s concept is flower fairies. It’s supposed to sound refreshing and beautiful. All you are doing is singing the correct notes. I get no sense of beauty or whimsy at all. Are you that embarrassed by the song choice?”

Aside from the fact the song was completely unsuitable, frankly, I doubted there was a single one of us who had not felt embarrassed by it at some point. The guys on my team were mostly high schoolers or around that age, after all. But since they couldn’t just come out and say they were ashamed to sing it, my teammates had to come at it from a different angle.

“Since this is an audition, we wanted to arrange the song to have more impact… But the song has such a clear concept, it’s difficult to modify it and stay true to the original.”

“If you think arranging it is too much of a challenge, you should have at least considered being more faithful to the original song.” Mewdy gestured at us with a pitying look. “Guys. The first thing you need to do is decide on a direction.”

And so, at the insistence of the production team, a team discussion was held right then and there. Cameras were shoved in our faces, and the crew surrounded us. But the mood was grim, and I wasn’t sure any of us even knew what to say. Someone had to speak up first, though, so it was the guy who held the title of group leader who spoke first—Big Sejin.

“Um, we’ve been working really hard for the past two days. We were able to learn the moves really quickly, too. If we focus on the song itself from now on, I think we could really turn out an excellent performance.”

His speech meant to console the team came out so naturally, it was as if he had rehearsed it. Well, would you look at him go?

“We can’t give up just yet,” Big Sejin continued. “We should try to capture the original feel of the song! It might be a little embarrassing, but if we pull it off… it might even feel like one of Marshmallow’s hit songs. Could be fun?”

“Oh, like Moondae’s performance?”

“That’s it! If we take a humorous approach to the innocent concept, we might be able to create an interesting impression. How about we speed up the beat a little and make it a bit more exciting?”

He was suggesting that we exaggerate the innocent female angle of the song and adopt the sort of tacky and cute concept that Marshmallow was famous for in their heyday.

This really feels rehearsed. It suddenly hit me. He’d been waiting for this exact moment, just like I had. He said nothing during the trainer feedback on purpose. He’d known that the others would oppose him if he suddenly suggested early on that we just exaggerate the original feel of the song. By doing this, he was killing any chance Ahyeon had at being made the main dancer—he was a dance major well suited to the original choreography, after all.

He was also showing off his charisma by taking charge of the discussion, footage from which would definability now be included in the episode that went to air. This guy was good.

But too bad. Whatever big picture he’d been gunning for, didn’t matter. My idea was better. First, I had to undermine his suggestion.

“It’s a good idea, but it might seem like we’re making fun of the original song,” I said.

It was from an older idol group, after all. There was no knowing who might be offended if we took things too far down the comedic route.

It seemed Big Sejin had expected some resistance since he just responded with a smile. “Well, we just have to work hard and put on a good show so no one thinks we’re not taking it seriously!”

“Moondae, aren’t you being too harsh?” Choi Wongil had suddenly inserted himself loudly into the conversation.

“Huh? Wongil?” Big Sejin looked actually confused—a rare occasion for him.

It was a fun turn of events, wherein I benefited from being attacked. I can practically hear Big Sejin’s grand plan falling apart. Choi Wongil began ripping into Park Moondae, apparently forgetting momentarily that cameras were watching us from every angle.

“Do you have a better idea?” Wongil asked. “You might not be taking any of this seriously, since all the trainers seem to like you, but you should really consider how the rest of us feel. If you just shoot down ideas left and right without any justification—”

Interesting. He sounds almost logical.

“Oh, of course, I’ve got an idea,” I said. “I’ve been thinking and there is a way for us to stay true to the feel of the original while also making it more… impactful.”

“Really?”

The team sounded pretty shocked at my admittedly ambitious statement. Choi Wongil looked distraught as the mood suddenly relaxed, but Big Sejin put a hand to the back of his head resignedly. This guy was really something else.

“Well, sure, that would be great if it were possible…” Big Sejin said. “What’s your idea?”

I smiled. “We can add an element of horror. Instead of just flower fairies, let’s do flower fairies but make it scary.”

A surprised silence fell over the group.

“Huh? Wait a minute, that actually sounds like a really great idea!”

“If we add a horror twist to these moves, they could be really scary!”

Goldie #1 was jumping up and down, showing us some of the simple moves from the dance with his hands. Lee Sejin the actor appeared to prefer my idea to the cheesy-cute concept, and the rest of the team also seemed to agree for the most part.

I’d known that idol trainees at this age would prefer to do something cool rather than silly, which meant they would naturally prefer horror. Big Sejin made a noise of agreement, nodding. He abandoned ship after he saw how the other members reacted.

“I feel a bit embarrassed to change my mind so quickly, but… I like Moondae’s idea.”

“Wow, he actually abandoned his own idea!”

“That’s a real leader for you!”

The team’s mood had suddenly brightened. I could see Mewdy smiling proudly at us as the team chattered to one another excitedly. The cameras were filming her as well, which probably meant this scene had a good chance of appearing in the final edit. I hoped the editors did a good job of cutting the scene together.

But one of our team members refused to be swept up at the moment. Though Choi Wongil was the likely culprit, he was not actually the problem this time. He seemed to have realized how badly his outburst might come across on TV and was doing his best to look as happy as the others. An apology was probably too much to ask of his wounded ego, though. He was avoiding my eyes doggedly.

If I were in his shoes, I would have just apologized and called it a day. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t jump on the opportunity, since I’d have little choice but to forgive him given the current jubilant mood. He obviously lacked social experience, maybe because he was so young.

The actual culprit was Seon Ahyeon.

“Ghosts! Let’s go with ghosts,” someone said. “There are flowers with horror stories associated with them, too, you know.”

“What, are we filming a horror movie? That’s way too hardcore! Oh, wait! You know the movie Black Goose? We could go for a creepy vibe similar to that…”

“Wow, if we based the choreography on that movie, it would be super scary.”

Ahyeon was sitting alone in the corner wearing a depressed expression, seemingly unable to join the others in celebrating. He was probably struggling to recover from the verbal lashing the choreographer had given him.

I dared to hope for a moment that Big Sejin might try to console him to help bolster his image as the group’s leader, but I saw no signs of that happening at the moment. I had the feeling Big Sejin was letting Seon Ahyeon be since he had the potential to threaten his spot as the main dancer if he managed to pull himself together, being a dance major and all.

The rest of the guys were either too simple-minded or introverted, and the only person to come to the rescue was likely to be me, who Big Sejin didn’t have to be wary of since our positions in the group were so different.

This is such a pain in the butt… I felt a little dead inside at the idea that I’d actually have to be the one to console Ahyeon. Regardless, I had to make sure our performance was the best it could possibly be. The least I could do was try and talk to the guy.