by Malinda Lo
She sat down at her desk to look over her notes—she had an entire chapter to review before she went to Sunday night dinner with the other girls on her floor—but she couldn’t focus. Instead she thought about Joseph and his quiet self-assurance. He would never throw himself at an actress, Chinese or otherwise. There was a dignity about him that she hadn’t seen in the Chinese American men who had paid attention to her.
Chinese American men were more desperate, of course, because there were so many more of them than Chinese American women due to the immigration restrictions. Grace had already had plenty of overeager suitors, and she knew she was a catch, although she’d never admit it. But a man like Joseph Hu was not limited to the small number of Chinese women in America. There was no shortage of women in China, and he was more of a catch than she was.
She saw again the modern Chinese hospital she had imagined earlier, but this time she also imagined Dr. Joseph Hu presiding over the spotless ward in his white doctor’s coat, stethoscope draped around his neck. And beside him, wearing her starched nurse’s uniform and taking notes on a clipboard, was Grace herself. An unfamiliar emotion swelled inside her at this image, a strangely sharp pang for a place she had never visited, for a people she resembled but did not know. As she stared blankly down at her textbook, she thought that perhaps it was patriotism, but not for America. For China.
PART II
I Enjoy Being a Girl
October–November 1954
10
Lily, have you seen the pamphlet about working at the education department?” Shirley asked.
Lily was flipping through the job brochures in the filing cabinet in the back of Miss Weiland’s classroom, hunting for something to write her career report about. Slipped almost slyly into a stack of brochures about government jobs was a pamphlet that offered “100 Things You Should Know About Communism in the U.S.A.”
“No,” Lily said as Shirley leaned against the filing cabinet. “I have this one about becoming an accountant.” She hid the booklet about Communism behind it and showed it to Shirley. “Do you want it?”
“Who wants to be an accountant?” Shirley grumbled.
“It’s good for math majors,” Lily said, taking the two booklets back to her desk. She glanced at Kath over in the next row, but Kath had her head down taking notes from a different job manual. Lily silently slid the Communism pamphlet beneath her notebook, and opened the accounting one over it.
When Shirley returned to her seat a few minutes later, she dropped her chosen pamphlet on her desk and then swiveled around to face Lily. “Guess what happened?” she whispered.
Lily looked up. “What?”
“Louisa Ramirez is moving to San Jose and has to drop out of dance committee. She was supposed to be in charge of refreshments.” Shirley sounded personally affronted.
“I’m sure you can manage without her. Maybe someone else can take over her duties.”
“Someone’s going to have to, obviously, but the dance is in less than two weeks. We’re going to have a hard time finding someone.”
Will was sitting in front of Shirley, and Lily saw him turn his head slightly, as if he were listening. She still hadn’t talked to him about the dance. “Well, I could do it,” Lily said impulsively.
Shirley was surprised. “You?”
If Lily were on the dance committee, she had a good excuse for not going as Will’s date. “You’re always asking me to join the committee. I can fill in for Louisa.”
Shirley’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you sure? We have a lot of work to do in the next two weeks.”
“Do you want me to help or not?”
“Girls, this isn’t the time for socializing,” Miss Weiland said, coming down the aisle toward them. “Get back to work, please.”
Shirley gave Lily a meaningful look before turning around in her chair. “Sorry, Miss Weiland,” Shirley said.
“Sorry,” Lily echoed. She picked up her pencil and began to take notes on accounting.
* * *
—
Shirley filled Lily in on the dance committee at lunch. They took their trays of ham sandwiches and butterscotch pudding over to a table at the edge of the cafeteria, so that they wouldn’t be interrupted. Lily had been putting Shirley or Flora or Mary between her and Will whenever possible, so this arrangement only further convinced her she’d made the right decision to volunteer for Shirley’s committee. Even the idea of lugging several giant cans of pineapple juice to the high school gym via cable car didn’t seem so bad now.
But as Lily jotted down Shirley’s instructions on her responsibilities regarding punch bowls and napkins, her thoughts kept circling back to the pamphlet about Communism, the Man Ts’ing, and Calvin. Shirley hadn’t mentioned him since the picnic, and Lily hadn’t either. She had felt constrained by her mother’s admonition to tell her if Shirley was still involved with the youth group. And yet their avoidance of the subject only made her want to talk about it more.
At the end of lunch, as she was returning her tray, she gave in to temptation and said to Shirley, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, what?”
Shirley looked curious as Lily drew her into a corner of the cafeteria behind one of the concrete pillars. This one was covered with signs advertising the Spook-A-Rama dance and the Girls’ Athletic Association’s bowling league.
“Did your parents talk to you about the Man Ts’ing?” Lily asked.
Shirley tensed up. “Yes. They told me not to go to any more of their picnics.” She paused, looking around to make sure no one could hear them. “I got the idea I shouldn’t talk about it. It seems like you did too. Why are you bringing this up now?”
Lily didn’t think she should tell Shirley that the FBI agents had been fishing for information about Calvin, but she wanted to warn Shirley about him somehow. “I thought you really liked Calvin?” Lily said, trying to sound doubtful.
Shirley scowled. “So what if I did?”
“You’re not going to—if he’s part of that group, you can’t—”
“My parents lectured me for half an hour about how the government would put us in camps just like the Japanese if they thought we were Communists,” Shirley whispered angrily. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t say you were,” Lily said, bristling. “I was only asking.”
The cafeteria was almost empty now, but Shirley kept her voice low as she added, “It’s all a lie, anyway. Will and Calvin wouldn’t be involved with the Reds. It’s ridiculous.”
“Are you sure?” Lily asked. “How well do you know Calvin?”
Shirley’s eyes narrowed. “As well as you do. And we’ve both known Will forever. I just can’t believe . . . Do you believe they’re . . . Communists?” She whispered the last word.
“No, of course not, but my mother said it’s not only about that. They’re using Communism as an excuse to deport us.” Lily didn’t know if she should tell Shirley that the G-men had taken her father’s naturalization papers. Shirley’s family had their own issues with citizenship; her father had come to America with false papers after the 1906 earthquake.
Shirley’s face went pale, but she said, “The immigration people are always awful to us. But nobody’s going to get deported. We’re Americans.”
The bell rang, signaling the official end of lunch, and they started to move automatically toward the cafeteria’s exit.
“I’m glad you joined the dance committee,” Shirley said unexpectedly. “But you didn’t have to do it to avoid Will.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“You don’t have to lie,” Shirley said. “I wouldn’t have forced you to go to the dance with him.”
This surprised Lily so much she didn’t know what to say.
Shirley paused at the cafeteria door and gave her a sad sort of smile, adding, “See you at dance committe
e later.”
* * *
—
In her room that night, Lily pulled the Communist pamphlet out of her book bag and climbed into bed. It was organized into a hundred questions, starting with, “What is Communism?” The answers depicted a system in which every freedom was stripped from the individual. It warned that “groups devoted to idealistic activities” such as American Youth for Democracy secretly worked to recruit unsuspecting people to join the Reds. Communism would take your home, your bank account; it would outlaw all religion; you wouldn’t even be allowed to have friends of your own choosing.
On and on it went, depicting a ruthless international organization that brooked no dissent and was bent on undermining every American value. It should have been terrifying to read, but the drumbeat of horror after horror somehow muted its effect. Lily skimmed through the questions more rapidly, until number ninety-five caught her attention: “What is Communism’s greatest strength?”
The response was oddly provocative, even stirring: “Its secret appeal to the lust for power. Some people have a natural urge to dominate others in all things.”
And then, in italics on a separate line: “Communism invites them to try.”
She knew the pamphlet was presenting Communism as an immoral lust for power, but perversely, perhaps, she found this last warning inspirational. Four words seemed to rise up off the page in whispers: secret, lust, natural, try.
She lay back against her pillow, letting the booklet fall on her chest so that it rose and fell with the motion of her breath.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would invite Kath to go with her to Thrifty Drugs. She had to show her that novel.
11
Lily spun the rack of tawdry paperbacks again, then began to flip through novel after novel, hunting for the provocative cover of Strange Season. The blonde (that had to be Patrice) in her negligee on the floor; the brunette (Maxine, with dark eyes) above in her sultry black gown. Lily was aware of Kath beside her, watching, and she said, “It’s been here for weeks. I thought it would still be here.”
Kath pulled a book from the next rack over—a detective novel with the silhouette of a corpse on the cover—and asked, “What was the title? I’ll help you look.”
“Strange Season.”
Kath put the detective novel back and started to look through the other books. When Lily had finished with the romance rack she moved on to science fiction, wondering if it had been mistakenly placed there, but at last she had to admit defeat.
“It’s gone,” Lily said, sighing. “I suppose someone bought it.” She couldn’t imagine who might have had the nerve to put their money down on the counter. Someone very bold.
“What was it about?” Kath asked.
When she decided to show the book to Kath, Lily hadn’t considered the possibility that it would be gone. She had hoped the book would do the work of voicing the questions she wanted to ask, but without it, she was back where she had started. She was faced with a choice now: She could explain what the book had been about, or she could lie. Kath was watching her expectantly, and there was something in her expression that made Lily hope that perhaps she already knew the book, but Lily told herself that was wishful thinking. In all the time they had spent together, all those walks down Columbus, they had never brought up the Telegraph Club or Kath’s friend Jean. Not once. Lily wanted to believe that the total absence of those topics signified their importance, but it probably meant nothing.
She felt queasy, and Kath reached out and touched her arm.
“Are you all right?” Kath asked.
Kath’s fingers pressed lightly against Lily’s upper arm. She saw both concern and curiosity in Kath’s eyes. They were grayish blue, like the sky covered by a scudding sheet of rainclouds.
Lily backed away into the corner between the science fiction rack and the rear wall of the store, and Kath followed her. They were quite alone now, and above them the fluorescent light buzzed as if a mosquito were trapped inside the bulb.
“It was about two women.” Lily’s mouth felt so dry she might choke on the words. “That book, Strange Season. It was about two women, and they fell in love with each other.” And then she asked the question that had taken root in her, that was even now unfurling its leaves and demanding to be shown the sun: “Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Kath’s eyes widened briefly, and then she looked down at the floor and over at the science fiction rack and back at Lily, who felt her heart thudding like a drum, her blood rushing through her veins and turning her skin pink as she waited for Kath’s response. An eternity seemed to pass; the heat of the fluorescent light on her head was like an artificial sun; the cash register at the front of the store rang like an alarm bell.
Finally Kath said one soft word: “Yes.”
* * *
—
They left Thrifty Drug Store and walked down Columbus, away from Chinatown and North Beach, toward the Filipino restaurants and groceries of Manilatown. The afternoon sunlight caused the shadows to slant eastward, downhill, as if pointing them forward, and as they walked, Lily told Kath more about what she had read.
“They kissed each other,” she reported, and saying it out loud was thrilling; it made her blush. And yet she couldn’t say the word the book had used to describe those kinds of girls: lesbian. The word felt dangerous, and also powerful, as if uttering it would summon someone or something—a policeman to arrest them for saying that word, or even worse, a real-life lesbian herself. She glanced at Kath sideways and asked, “Have you ever known any girls . . . like that?”
They stopped at the next intersection. Kath looked very grave. Her face was quite pale, except for two burning spots right below her cheekbones, as if she had misapplied rouge with rough fingers. She said quietly, “My friend Jean. She’s . . . like that.”
“The one who took you to the Telegraph Club?”
Kath nodded. “They’re all like that, there. Well, except for the tourists—and even then, maybe.”
The light had turned green, but they hadn’t moved. They were at Pacific, across from the International Settlement, marked by a neon sign topped with colorful flags that arched over the street. Beyond that were signs for the Sahara Sands and Gay ’N Frisky nightclubs, and a giant naked female leg kicked out from the roof of the Barbary Coast club like an obscene invitation. Lily looked away self-consciously as she imagined what went on in there.
Behind them a man whistled. “Hello, girls!”
Lily stiffened.
“You two looking for some fun?” And now he was beside them, a middle-aged man in a banged-up fedora, looking like an out-of-work accountant.
“No, thank you,” Kath said. She stepped closer to Lily, nudging her to keep walking, but the light had turned red again, trapping them against the traffic.
He leered at them. “You’re a little far from home now, aren’tcha? I love a little China doll, I do.”
Lily grabbed Kath’s hand and pulled her westward along Pacific, back toward Chinatown.
“Nothing like a little affection between girls—always makes my day!” he said, laughing.
Lily heard another man nearby laugh too, as if he had been watching the whole exchange, and her face burned with shame. Even if those men were horrible, she and Kath had been talking about that very thing, and it felt as if this were some kind of judgment from on high. She walked faster and faster as if she could outrun the shame, until Kath dragged at her hand and said, “Stop—Lily—slow down.”
There was Grant Avenue, hung with red lanterns, smelling of roast pork and raucous with Chinese vendors hawking their wares, and Lily felt a rush of relief: here was home. She halted on the corner and let go of Kath’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said immediately. “We had to get away.”
They were blocking the sidewalk, and Lily stepped to the side, Kath following her.
They stood together in awkward silence. Lily wanted to continue their conversation, but back in Chinatown, she couldn’t. It felt as if a muzzle had been fastened on her the instant she returned.
“Maybe I should go home,” Kath said.
“Oh, not yet.” Lily was afraid that if Kath left now, they would never return to the subject that had drawn them together. “Let’s—let’s go to Fong Fong’s and have ginger ice cream.”
Kath seemed surprised, but she quickly agreed. “All right.”
Lily broke into a relieved smile. “It’s this way,” she said, and she linked her arm with Kath’s and led the way.
12
As they walked through Chinatown, Lily saw the familiar streets with new eyes, and she wondered what Kath thought of her neighborhood. She noticed her looking up at the painted balconies and pagoda rooflines, the red paper lanterns and the gilded or crimson signs thrusting out over the street like pushy Chinese shoppers. Did Kath like it? Or did she find it overwhelming and strange? Kath’s face gave little away. She seemed more focused on keeping up with Lily than gawking at the sights.
There were obstacles on the sidewalk to navigate around too: buckets of iced fish lined up in pearlescent rows; bushels of green-and-white bok choy and mounds of gnarled ginger roots; tourists gaping at the glistening roast ducks hanging on hooks in the deli windows. And through it all there was a cacophony of smells and sounds: bitter herbs mingling with sweet buns; the quick, harsh Cantonese of shopkeepers making deals; the rank background stench of yesterday’s seafood.
Lily was self-conscious about the smells in particular; she knew that Caucasians wrinkled their noses at the unfamiliar odors. When she spotted Fong Fong’s candy-cane-striped awning a block away—like an all-American beacon between Chinese restaurants and souvenir shops—she hurried Kath toward it as if it were an oasis. She swept ahead and gallantly opened the door for her. Kath seemed a little amused by her behavior, but she entered the soda fountain without comment.
