Her face was so pale, but two red spots burned on her cheeks, making her look like a porcelain doll. Her lips were almost purple, and the lower lip—she had been chewing on it as she freed her hair—seemed unusually, even obscenely full. Her hair was tousled into loose black waves, and the strap of her pink slip was sliding off her right shoulder, revealing the cups of her white cotton bra, reminding her of Patrice in her negligee on that book cover. Her chest flushed, and color crept up her throat and into her face.
If Lily Hu didn’t do these things, the girl in the mirror surely did.
And she would definitely be late if she didn’t get dressed.
A new energy flooded into her—a recklessness that gave her courage—and she impulsively put on her newest slim gray skirt instead of the black rayon. She put on the white collared blouse and a blue cardigan. She pulled her hair back with two clips, leaving some of the waves free in the back. She reached for the red lipstick that Shirley had helped her pick out at the Powell Street Owl Drugs. And she put on a soft beret, arranging it carefully over her hair. Finally she dropped her lipstick into her handbag along with the fake ID, put on her coat, and turned off the light.
The flat was silent but for the sound of her own breathing. When she went to the pocket doors to press her ear to the crack, the floorboards creaked, making her freeze momentarily in case her parents had heard, but only silence followed.
She gradually became aware of the sounds that filtered in through the window: car engines purring up the street; the occasional shout of laughter that reminded her it was Friday night in Chinatown; the clang of a cable car. When she was convinced that everyone in the flat was asleep, she opened the door and crept down the hall, shoes in hand. She felt her way down the dark stairs, and at the bottom, she unbolted the front door. It stuck. She had to tug more forcefully, and the hinges emitted a squeak, like the mew of a kitten. She twisted around to peer up the stairs, hoping that she hadn’t woken her parents. She saw only darkness.
She counted to sixty, trying to breathe silently and slowly. Finally she stepped out onto the front stoop in her stockinged feet and pulled the door shut, locking it behind her. She was hot with nerves, and the concrete steps were blessedly cold beneath her warm feet as she descended to the street. The bumpy sidewalk dug sharply into her soles, but she was afraid to make the slightest noise beneath the front window, where her parents’ bedroom was located. She didn’t put on her shoes until she was halfway down the block.
She had never been out this late on her own, perhaps never even in the company of her parents. The Chinatown streets were lit by tall neon signs advertising CHOP SUEY and NOODLES, and the pagoda rooflines of many buildings were outlined in white lights. The sidewalks were lively with people coming to and from cocktail bars, most of them Caucasians, with the ladies in fur stoles and the gentlemen in fedoras. Laughter and music spilled from the Shanghai Low, and the smell of deep-fried food wafted through the air. She hadn’t realized so many people would be out at this hour, and as she passed the Chinese man working at the corner kiosk she kept her head down and walked quickly, afraid he might recognize her. When she reached Broadway and crossed over to Columbus, she relaxed a little. North Beach was just as lively—it was Friday night, after all—but there were fewer Chinese to see her.
The escape from Chinatown left her buoyed; she wanted to laugh, but at the last moment she suppressed it out of fear that someone would notice a solitary girl laughing on the sidewalk, and it came out of her in a wheezy giggle. That sobered her up quickly, and suddenly Columbus Avenue seemed very large and possibly dangerous. Men passed her, their faces obscured by hats, while women clicked by in their heels. Her shoes began to pinch, and as she approached the corner where she and Kath had agreed to meet, she worried that Kath wouldn’t be there.
At Columbus and Vallejo, nobody was standing beneath the streetlight. Lily slowed down, hoping that Kath would appear soon. She looked northeast toward Washington Square, searching for a sign of a girl coming through the dark, but she didn’t see Kath. Lily stopped about ten feet from the corner, afraid to be spotlighted. She slid her hands into her jacket pockets and glanced around warily. When they’d discussed their plan, they’d had the sense to know it wouldn’t feel safe to linger alone on a street corner in the middle of the night, but now Lily realized that five minutes was far too long. Every passing man seemed like a threat. She moved toward the wall of the building on the corner, hiding herself in its shadow. She glanced at her watch, wishing that the minutes would pass faster. She eyed a couple walking down Columbus toward her; the woman’s arm was linked through the man’s. As they went through the light from the streetlamp, the woman turned her face up to him, smiling. She looked so relaxed, so certain and natural. Lily shrank back against the side of the building and felt ashamed of what she was about to do.