The Secret Lives of Pop Stars

Bottled Water

02

BOTTLED WATER

This is my first time at Shibuya but since I am already sort of proficient in attending auditions, I do not make the amateur mistake of searching for the venue on the day of the audition and reach Shibuya the night before. 

I had booked a room online and arrived at the third rate hotel pretty late. "Your key," the receptionist says with sleepy eyes. Gripping my travel bag in one hand, I take the key. I simply nod before walking into the dingy elevator. Unlike belief, the sorry excuse of an elevator has nice music playing, one of my favourites, and I hum for a few seconds before it opens on my floor with a ding. 

The room is small and dull, with a chronic water soaked wall on one side and a bed cramped on the other. Unsurprisingly, there isn't even a nightstand. I cross the room and peek into the bathroom, checking if the toilet clogs. A cheap room was one thing but an unusable bathroom was another. 

After refreshing, I fall on the bed with a thud. My nerves are on full fire and I bid goodbye to falling asleep anytime soon. The ceiling fan struggles to spin above me, reminding me of the ancient fan in my paternal grandparents' house. Everything in that house was archaic, including my grandparents, but they were nice people. 

I remember the first time I told my parents about my dream of becoming an idol. Mum had screamed. Dad had nodded. 

It was one of those rare, untainted memories that stick with you through the years. Maybe not forever but close to forever. It's foggy, the exact words I had spoken or the colour of my mum's dress, but I remember myself stammering, palms sweating, calling out my parents after dinner. Dad was in his usual spot. Newspaper in hand, a coffee mug steaming beside him while my mum frantically talked about something. Maybe about how the prices of toilet paper kept increasing. Toilet paper of all! she'd mutter all the time. 

The shrill of the kettle coincided with my meek confession and mum forced me to repeat my rushed words more slowly. And once the words were out and entered my parents ears, things went weirdly well. 

"Your grandma would lose her wig if she knew," my mother had said, half scoffing, half laughing. 

I'm pretty sure my grandmother did not know about my existence. My mother made it a point to not contact her. But at times like this, she'd off-handedly make strict mum jokes and I'd wonder if she probably missed her own mother. Maybe she did. A lot. 

My dad's reaction was more realistic. 

"School?" 

"Will definitely pass with more than eighty-five percent." 

"Money?" 

"Part-time." 

"Do you know when to give up?" 

"Ye-es." 

And that was the end of it. 

The first time I auditioned, I was eleven. And I never looked back. But it's been long and in the darkness of the night two weeks back, I had decided. This would be my last audition. If I get rejected again, I'd take it as the universe's sign of making me live a normal life and bid a crystal clear goodbye to becoming an idol.

If Takagi knew, he'd cry. His favourite group was Kokoro, another veteran in the music industry like Clōver and ever since I let him into my dream when we were nine, he had made it his duty to be my moral support. He'd run to my house on summer afternoons with a clipped interview of Kokoro, bragging but mostly, hyping me to read it.  

Kokoro's leader Imai Chiki-san auditioned so many times that she lost track of it. And she finally got recruited at the age of twenty four. For people aiming to conquer the entertainment world, age is an important factor. Though twenty four did not sound that bad for normal people, it was technically on the older side for people like me. Twenty four was an age when people who strove to be idols needed to have at least debuted. 

This was exactly why people regarded Chiki-san a miracle. She was even nicknamed Kiseki (Miracle) Chiki. She debuted at the late age of twenty six but took the industry by the storm because of her singing skills that were considered one of the best in the country, if not the continent. Though Kokoro disbanded a few years later, even to this day, many young people get inspired by Chiki-san and sing her songs in auditions. Even after the glory days, she was still one of the top female soloists in the country.

But I am not Chiki-san. I wasn't ready to gamble my everything for a mere 'what if.' 

"The last audition," I repeat to myself and the words bounce off the walls coldly. 

Last audition. You better make it worth it, Charlie. 

***

The day of the audition dawns like any other day and I arrive at the venue an hour earlier. Better super early than run late and sputter like an i***t while thinking of a plausible excuse. 

Though I.B. Entertainment was past its glory days, I find many young men already waiting in and around the agency building. 

It is a normal seven storey building and doesn't stand out much. An opening to the side leads to an underground parking lot while a lone vending machine stands a few feet away from the entrance. 

I might have been through countless auditions but it did not mean I was immune to audition jitters. Sipping from my bottled water to keep my throat moist and in the best condition, I roam around the building, kicking pebbles to let off some steam. 

I listen to the song I am going to sing in the audition, headphones secured in place. My foot moves in a practiced manner, kicking the pebbles in crescents when a clear voice winces. 

"Ow..!" 

It takes me a second to notice that the pebble I kicked had hit someone. I look up, ready to apologise only to find a tall boy crouching in front of me. And when I take his features in, all I had was one word: Flashy. 

The boy's hair is dyed a faded cherry and he has two piercings in one of his ears, the other bare. He sports ripped jeans with a baggy, Hawaiian print shirt tucked in the front, making him look exceptionally long and lanky. A second passes and the stranger quickly masks his expression of pain into a polite smile. He stands up rather lazily, easily towering my five foot nine inches figure. My eyes catch the rapid once-over the stranger does at me and subconsciously, I mentally analyse my current looks to find if anything appeared sloppy or unfashionable. 

I am realistic. Many amateurs attend auditions unmindful of their appearance but even for my first audition, I did not gamble on my looks. Long gone were the times when idols got recruited by singing the National anthem or something totally bland just because they had the talent. In this age of competition, trying to catch your judges' eyes didn't just stand for exceptional singing, rapping or dancing skills. It also stood for how you presented yourself. 

I straighten and mirror the stranger, doing an once over and giving his looks an eight out of ten. It is a pretty high score for someone who hadn't debuted. Especially when I am the one grading. 

He is good looking. 

"I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention," I apologise and the boy shakes his hand like it is not a big deal. His dyed hair shakes alongside, catching the sun in it.

"Konnichiwa," the boy says with a strange accent and I immediately understand that he is a foreigner. 

I shoot him a formal smile before muttering a hello. The boy grins back and I notice sharp canines peeking out from sharp contours. He takes out a neat piece of red paper from the backpack he wears and I quickly notice that it is the same as mine.

Ah. He came to audition too. 

"Do you know where this place is?" The boy asks before laughing, a small dimple lighting up his right cheek. "I tried to ask around but the people on the road seem to be wary of my appearance." He scratches his neck, making fair skin flush red. It reminds me of a bad case of insect bite. 

The boy's accent is different but I am surprised at how fluent he is at Japanese. He speaks slowly but there is no hesitation or doubts in the way he constructs his sentences. And though, I'm not an expert, I notice his voice. Clear, plenary, unrestrained. It is one of those voices that sounds beautiful even while during something as mundane as talking. 

A formidable competitor.

"Actually I came to audition too," I announce without taking the flyer. "I was just going back. Why don't we go back together?" 

"Ah arigatou..!" the boy thanks in a loud voice. He strides, steps short and precise, easily falling in step beside me and I find myself shaking my head imperceptibly. Seeing that, the stranger's grin widens. 

A bare silence transpires as we walk back when, probably, the cherry head decides he needs to break it. Or it was purely coincidental. 

"This is my first time in Japan," he admits and I nod. His eyes tremble and he looks around, observing the busy pedestrians and the cars whizzing past us. "Beautiful country." 

"Yeah," I reply. The audition venue falls into my sight of vision, a good block away and I raise my hands to point at it when the boy speaks again, interrupting me. 

"I bet you wondered how my Japanese is so good." His voice is bold and confident, and as if to prove a point, his lips stretch and the canines flaunt dominance. My circle of people and conversations had always been simple. My parents, Takagi, Takagi's parents and repeat. Even in school, since they grew up with me, everyone knew better than to try and make small talk with me. Simply put, I'm not a cold person but I'm not an extrovert either. Small talk isn't my cup of cappuccino. 

I take my coffee black.

"Your Japanese is good," I agree quietly, in an unconscious way of pacification. I had a feeling that he is one of those loud, whiny types. I even shoot a stiff thumbs-up at him. Anything to gloss over the Pandora's Box.

The boy tries to make more small talk as we make our way back and I wonder how he could be this vocal to an absolute stranger in a foreign country right before an audition that could either make or break a career. 

"Stop talking already," I say, when it is ten minutes before the start of the auditions. I hand my bottled water to him. "Drink. It's not cold water. It'll help moisten your throat which you dried with all that talking." 

Cherry head looks surprised for a split second before his face melts into a smile. The dimple graces me with its presence once again and I wince mentally. "Thanks. But one last thing." 

"Yeah?" 

"What is your name? I'm Zhu Rufeng." —the dimple deepens— "originally from China but I'm currently here because I couldn't make it in South Korea." 

And it is only when he mentions this that I  suddenly realise we spent the last half an hour together without knowing each other's names. Masking my mild bewilderment, I stretch my hand out. "I'm Charlie. Charlie Kuno." 

"A foreigner?" Zhu Rufeng asks as he shakes my hands, giant palms and long fingers easily engulfing mine. 

"No. Just half Japanese." 

"Nice," the boy says and that marks the last thing we say to each other.

Five minutes before the audition, an employee walks in to hand all the auditionee number tags based on the order of their registration. Mine turns out to be number 10 because I had been one of the earliest ones to arrive. Zhu Rufeng peeks over my shoulder to look at my number tag, then silently shows up his. He is number 43. 

At the allocated time, the audition starts punctually and it is soon time for me to be called. "Number 9, enter," the same employee announces, a paper pad in her hands. "Number 10, get ready." 

I pull my headphones off and pack everything into my bag. I sip water for the final time. Even though it's been years, every audition I attended always made me nervous. I've had my share of good reviews and bad reviews but they had all ended with the generic 'I'll be waiting for you on the next audition with an even greater performance.' But this is my last audition. I had made a promise and I'm not one to break them easily. Even if it is to myself. If I mess this up, this would be the end of a decade of dreams.

All of a sudden, I wanted to cry. 

"Number 10, come to the front," the employee reminds once again. 

I swallow. Totally unlike me, I have this sudden urge to pee. And my gut, filled to the rim with nervousness, is also on the verge of initiating a puking session. 

"Number 10?" 

"I'm coming!" I call back hurriedly, zipping my backpack with a number lock. I had once lost my items in a previous audition and ever since then, locking my bag had become a habit. When the memory flits, I suddenly do not know if I wanted to cry or laugh. All those experiences I learnt and accumulated through years just to be drowned by a gamble I bet everything on today. 

What are you doing, Charlie? 

I check the number lock once again and turn before the employee could call me for the third time. But right when I'm about to walk to the front, Zhu Rufeng calls me. 

"Charlie Kuno." 

Surprisingly, there is no accent this time. 

I look back and Zhu Rufeng shoots me a huge eye crinkling smile. This time, both his cheeks light up with dimples and even though I'm beyond nervous, I can't help but sigh at how beautiful the person in front of me is. Formidable opponent, indeed. 

But the next words Zhu Rufeng utters are something I'd remember for a long, long time.

"I hope we can be trainees together. Do your best!" 

______

Glossary:

Konnichiwa - Hello

Arigatou - Thank you