She remembered the way Tommy had leaned the microphone stand over in one hand, the spotlight making her signet ring sparkle. She remembered the curl of Tommy’s lip as she smiled at the woman in the green dress while she sang “Secret Love.” And she remembered the hint of cologne she had smelled on her; there had been an edge to it that felt distinctly, confusingly masculine. It sent a giddy thrill straight through her—as if Tommy had run a fingertip right up her spine. She lay in her bed for quite some time trying to catch that scent again, as if she might call it into existence out of the sheer force of memory.
22
Saturday afternoon, Lily nodded off over the kitchen sink, her hands gone slack in the warm soapy water.
“You’ve been staying up too late reading again,” her mother said.
Lily started, her hands jerking up and splashing water over the counter and the front of her blouse. One droplet flew into her eye, and she raised her hand up instinctively, causing dirty liquid to trickle down her wrist and into her sleeve. Her mother silently held out a dish towel.
After blotting her face and blouse, she returned to the dishes, fishing the rag out from beneath the stack of rice bowls. Behind her, Eddie was seated at the kitchen table doing his homework. Her mother was putting away the lunch leftovers, and down the hall she heard her father talking to Frankie. No one seemed to be able to tell what she had done or where she had gone Friday night, even though she felt as if it must be written on her forehead. It gave her the disorienting feeling that perhaps she had imagined the whole thing.
（The graffiti on the bathroom door—Nancy + Carol. Who were they?）
Sunday morning at church, she worried that someone would surely know she had stepped outside the bounds of her life as a good Chinese daughter. What if someone from the neighborhood had seen her Friday night?
（The Telegraph Club’s black front door, swinging open to reveal that long narrow bar, the glowing lights overhead like distant moons.）
But she got through the church service and the potluck lunch without a single person mentioning they had glimpsed a girl who looked like her crossing over to North Beach in the middle of the night.
Monday morning, Shirley was the same as ever, maintaining the cool politeness she’d instituted since the dance. Shirley’s obliviousness stung the most. There had been a time when Shirley noticed every new thing about her: a hair ribbon, a rip on her sleeve, shadows under her eyes if she hadn’t slept well. Shirley barely looked at her now.
Only Kath knew. When Lily saw her at school, she felt a quick excitement go through her, and Kath’s pale face colored. （Tommy’s eyes half-closed as she crooned into the microphone she held to her mouth.） Of course, Kath said nothing about it. They sat in the same row in Senior Goals and listened in silence as Miss Weiland announced that there would be a standard air-raid drill later that week. Lily eyed Shirley, who had taken a seat across the room near Will, and it seemed as if Shirley could feel her attention, because she raised her head and met Lily’s gaze.
Shirley’s eyebrows drew together as if she were puzzled, and Lily thought, Maybe she can tell. How could she not? She was surprised by the strength of her yearning to have Shirley detect a difference in her—as if that would make her experience real.
（Tommy in the hallway by the bathroom, cigarette between her fingers as she looked at Lily with that tiny smile in her eyes.）
Shirley broke the gaze, and the moment passed. Lily felt deflated. Miss Weiland was distributing pamphlets about nutrition for their next Senior Goals unit. On the glossy cover was an illustration of an all-American family: a blond mother, a dark-haired father, and a blond girl and boy with freckled cheeks and wide blue eyes. They sat at a kitchen table set for dinner, where a reddish-brown meatloaf rose from a platter decorated with pineapple slices, and a pat of yellow butter melted on a mound of mashed potatoes in a green bowl. Lily had only ever eaten meatloaf in the school cafeteria, and the thought of its salty, slick interior made her queasy. She flipped the pamphlet over so that she didn’t have to see it.
* * *
—
The wind whipped at Lily’s hair as she and Kath walked home. They had made a habit of walking up the Chestnut Street steps together; fewer students took this route, so they could talk without being overheard.
“Did anybody notice you were gone?” Kath asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Did your sister notice?”
“No. Peggy was asleep when I got home. You had fun, didn’t you?”
There was a tentative quality to her question that surprised Lily. “Of course.”