“It’s so that I stand out,” Shirley said. “I’m not going to give my speech in a cheongsam. I’ll wear that for the main portion of the pageant but I don’t want to be like the other girls during the speech part. I want to show that I’m American, too.”
Lily was only half listening; she had landed on a column at the front of the magazine titled “A Look at Tomorrow: The Challenge of the Planets.” To her surprise, it was written by Arthur C. Clarke and was about the problems of outer-space travel.
“Give me that,” Flora said, reaching for the magazine.
“Wait, I’m reading—”
Flora gave Lily a reproachful look—Lily thought Flora hadn’t yet accepted that Shirley had welcomed her back into their group of friends—and pulled the magazine out of Lily’s hands, flipping to a story on evening gowns. “This would be beautiful on you,” Flora said, pointing to the photograph of a white tulle ball gown.
Shirley frowned at the small print. “Why does it cost so much?”
“We can alter something to look like that,” Flora assured her.
“Where’s Mary?” Shirley wondered, glancing toward the front of the shop. “We can’t go without her. She knows about tailoring.”
“I’ll go see if she’s coming,” Lily volunteered. She left the back room and went out into the main shop area, passing shelves displaying vases and statues, blue-and-white porcelain and boxes of silk fans. There were a few customers in the store, but it was still relatively early on Sunday and so it was mostly empty. She opened the front door and peered out into the rainy morning, hoping to see Mary coming down the sidewalk, but she didn’t see her.
Reluctantly she went back inside, but rather than rejoining Shirley and Flora, she wandered through the aisles of the store, delaying the moment when she’d be forced to have constructive opinions, again, on dresses. Flora’s father’s shop held an assortment of art pieces and tourist tchotchkes; there was always something funny or interesting to discover. When she had been younger, at Christmas time he would allow her to pick out a small toy from a display in the back, and now she found herself winding her way to that same corner. The rotating rack was still there, and Lily spun it slowly, examining the toys. There were matchbox-size cars painted garishly red and yellow, and baby dolls with eyes that rolled open when they were picked up. There were small boxes of jacks and dice that rattled when she handled them, and a row of green toy soldiers. And on the bottom shelf of the last side of the rack was a row of miniature jet airplanes, with plastic cockpit bubbles through which the helmeted heads of tiny pilots were visible. Lily picked one up, delighted; the plane was painted silver and white, with the United States flag on the tail, and black wheels that really spun were attached to the bottom.
The toy planes made her think of Kath. It had been three days—well, three mornings—since they had parted on the dark corner of Columbus and Broadway. They had hugged each other quickly, and Lily realized then and there that they’d never be able to kiss goodbye in public. （A tightening in her chest as she reluctantly turned away.）
They hadn’t seen or telephoned each other since then, but that wasn’t unusual. Lily still didn’t know Kath’s address or phone number. They only saw each other at school—or on the nights they went to the Telegraph Club. In retrospect, it seemed so obvious that their friendship had always carried the added weight of something that neither of them was equipped to address openly. It was easier and safer to pretend that their friendship was merely a casual one. But the time for pretending was over, and Lily was painfully aware of the responsibility that came with admitting how they felt about each other. It was risky to share this secret.
Lily turned the airplane over in her hands. On the bottom of the plane a sticker read MADE IN JAPAN. She ran the edge of her fingernail beneath it, and it lifted off so easily, as if it had barely been there to begin with. But a sticky residue remained, a trace of the plane’s hidden origin.
She heard Shirley and Flora break into laughter at the back of the shop. She put the airplane back on the shelf and went to rejoin her friends, walking past an American woman in a camel-colored coat who was examining a display of marked-down jade figurines.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, “can you help me with these?”
“I don’t work here,” Lily said.
The woman was middle-aged and wore horn-rimmed glasses through which she gazed short-temperedly at Lily. “Can you find someone who does?”