“A sweeping and romantic page-turner, the heart of this rich and ambitious historical novel is a love story that thrums with passion and self-discovery.”

—Laura Ruby, two-time National Book Award Finalist and Printz Award–winning author of Bone Gap

“An absolute masterpiece.”

—Randy Ribay, author of Patron Saints of Nothing, a National Book Award finalist

“Malinda Lo turns her masterful talent toward an under-covered period of San Francisco history. Last Night at the Telegraph Club is by turns gut-wrenching, utterly compelling, and deeply tender. I loved Lily fiercely, and you will too.”

—Rebecca Kim Wells, author of Shatter the Sky

“A lovely, affirming, layered, and deft coming-of-queer-age novel.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kate Elliott

“Lo has really outdone herself here. I don’t think I can overstate how refreshing it is to read queer historical fiction that is so complex, nuanced, and tender. It’s my opinion that this book will quickly become a new touchstone of the genre of queer literature. What an accomplishment.”

—Sarah Gailey, award-winning author of Magic for Liars and Upright Women Wanted

“The writing is so atmospheric and detailed that I am convinced I have lived in San Francisco in the 1950s. It’s a passionate, smoldering romance that perfectly captures the feelings of falling in love for the first time.”

—Christina Soontornvat, New York Times bestselling author and Newbery Honoree

“Malinda Lo was, for so many of us who write and read books about queer girlhood, the first introduction to seeing ourselves on the page. Her latest book continues that legacy with this startlingly beautiful historical coming-of-age.”

—Leah Johnson for Reese’s Book Club

“A must-read.”

—Us Weekly

“The Price of Salt meets Saving Face in this gripping historical thriller from the celebrated author of Ash…. Last Night at the Telegraph Club is proof of Lo’s skill at creating darkly romantic tales of love in the face of danger.”

—O, The Oprah Magazine

“Lush, ambitious and layered, Malinda Lo’s sweeping historical novel is the queer romance we’ve been waiting for.”

—Ms. Magazine

“A vivid must-read.”

—Bay Area Reporter

“Lo taps into the evocative San Francisco of yesteryear while deftly navigating McCarthyism, ethnicity, sexuality, and the ‘Lavender Scare’ in this striking novel that holds some unnerving contemporary parallels.”

—Toledo Blade

“A journey of self-discovery that’s as necessary as it is dangerous.”

—PopSugar.com

“An enthralling historical lesbian romance.”

—WBUR

“Malinda Lo is an absolute icon.”

—BuzzFeed

“A joy to read.”

—The Advocate

“A gripping novel where historical fiction meets romance, Last Night at the Telegraph Club is a whirlwind read set in San Francisco’s Chinatown during the Red Scare. Immersive and creative, Lo gets wrapped up in her fictitious world of adventure and adrenaline and follows Lily Hu as she seeks out the woman she loves.”

—Gay Times

★ “Finally, the intersectional, lesbian, historical teen novel so many readers have been waiting for.”

—Kirkus, starred review

★ “A must-read love story … alternately heart-wrenching and satisfying.”

—Booklist, starred review

★ “Last Night at the Telegraph Club is a work of historical fiction that’s as meticulously researched as it is full of raw, authentic emotion…. Shout it from the highest hills: This is a beautiful, brave story, and Lily is a heroine that readers will love.”

—BookPage, starred review

★ “This immersive, powerful coming-of-age novel tackles perceptions, expectations, and identity while sweeping readers into smoky lesbian nightclubs and ’50s culture.”

—BCCB, starred review

★ “Smoothly referencing cultural touchstones and places with historic Chinese American significance, Lo conjures 1950s San Francisco adeptly while transcending historicity through a sincere exploration of identity and love.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review

★ “Historically accurate and well-researched.”

—SLC, starred review

★ “A riveting, emotionally stirring tale…. Last Night at the Telegraph Club— focused on unapologetically embracing one’s true self—is a spectacular addition to the young adult historical fiction genre.”

—Shelf Awareness, starred review

★ “This standout work of historical fiction combines meticulous research with tender romance to create a riveting bildungsroman.”

—Horn Book, starred review

LAST NIGHT
AT THE
TELEGRAPH
CLUB

by Malinda Lo

Nieuw Amsterdam

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

First published in the Netherlands by Nieuw Amsterdam, an imprint of Park Uitgevers, 2023

Copyright © 2021 by Malinda Lo

Cover art © 2021 by Feifei Ruan

Jacket design Kristin Boyle

Design by Anna Booth

Cover editing by bij Barbara

Author photo © Sharona Jacobs

Illustration p. 398 Photo courtesy of Malinda Lo

Photo p. 401 Photo courtesy of San Francisco History Center, San Francisco Public Library

Illustration p. 405 Photo courtesy of San Francisco Examiner archives

NUR 300

ISBN 978 90 468 3120 5

www.nieuwamsterdam.nl

To all the butches and femmes,
past, present, and future

LAST NIGHT
AT THE
TELEGRAPH
CLUB

PROLOGUE

The Miss Chinatown contestants were clustered together behind a canvas screen near the stage. They hadn’t been there when Lily Hu walked past the same area fifteen minutes earlier on her way to the bathrooms, and there was something startling about their sudden appearance.

Lily was thirteen, and she couldn’t remember if she’d seen a group of Chinese girls like this before: in bathing suits and high heels, their hair and makeup perfectly done. They looked so American.

She slowed down. The pageant was about to start, and she’d miss the introductions if she lingered here. She should go back to her family’s picnic blanket on the lawn in front of the stage, but she dawdled, trying not to appear as if she was staring.

There were a dozen girls, and their bathing suits were white or black, sea green or forest green, one piece or two. Their arms and legs were bare beneath the hot noonday sun, their gleaming black hair curled and pinned in place. Bright red lipstick on their mouths; scarlet polish on their fingernails; smooth, tanned skin. Each girl a variation on a theme.

Their high-heeled shoes were sinking into the grassy ground. Every so often one of them lifted her foot to make sure her heel wasn’t stuck in the damp earth, like the slender-legged foals in Bambi learning to walk. The girl in the black two-piece bathing suit wore particularly tall black heels, and as she shifted in place, the right heel stuck in the ground. Her foot rose out of the shoe, revealing an ugly red mark where the back of the shoe had rubbed against her Achilles tendon. The girl frowned, tugging again at the shoe with her toes, but this time her entire foot slipped out. The round pinkness of her bare heel; the intimate arch of her foot; toes flexing in midair. Lily had to avert her eyes, as if she were watching a woman take off her dress in public.

A microphone hummed on, and a man declared in English, “Welcome to the third annual Chinese American Citizens Alliance Independence Day Picnic and Miss Chinatown Contest!”

Applause and cheers rose from the audience gathered on the lawn. An older woman carrying a clipboard began to herd the girls into a line behind the screen, preparing them to climb the stairs onto the stage. Lily turned away and hurried down the path to the lawn.

She spotted her family toward the middle of the crowd, gathered together on the scratchy old army blanket stenciled with her father’s name—CAPT. JOSEPH HU—in white paint. They were surrounded by other families, all lazing beneath the clear blue sky, all facing the stage set up in front of the main lodge.

Lily saw her mother stand, pulling four-year-old Frankie to his feet. Her father, still sitting on the blanket, handed Mama her bag, and then she and Frankie began to make their way to the path along the edge of the lawn. Uncle Francis and Aunt Judy, seated next to Lily’s father, watched the stage with mixed expressions. Uncle Francis was absorbed; Aunt Judy looked skeptical. There was no sign of Lily’s other brother, Eddie, and she guessed that he was still off playing with his friends.

Lily met her mother on the path.

“I’m taking Frankie to the bathroom,” Mama said. “There’s still some fried chicken left.”

Someone set off firecrackers as Lily headed across the lawn. The summer sun was sinking hot and dry into her black hair. It was real summertime weather here in Los Altos—Popsicle weather, unlike cool and foggy San Francisco. All day Lily had been shedding the layers she put on that morning in their Chinatown flat, and by now she was wearing only a short-sleeved blouse and cotton skirt, and wishing she had worn sandals instead of shoes and socks.

When she reached her family, she knelt down to claim the last piece of fried chicken from the basket. Her friend Shirley Lum was seated nearby with her family, and she gestured at Lily to join them. “Can I go sit with Shirley?” Lily asked her father, who nodded as the emcee started to introduce all the pageant contestants. Their names rang out over the lawn as Lily straightened up, drumstick in hand.

“Miss Elizabeth Ding!”

“Miss May Chinn Eng!”

Lily joined Shirley on their blanket—an old white tablecloth—and curled her legs to one side, tucking her skirt over her knees like a lady.

Shirley leaned toward her and said, “I like the third one best—the one in the yellow two-piece.”

“Miss Violet Toy!”

“Miss Naomi Woo!”

Lily took a bite of the chicken. The skin was still crispy, the meat juicy and salty. She cupped her hand beneath it to catch the crumbs that fell. Onstage, the girls were walking across one by one. They sashayed in their heels, causing their hips to sway back and forth. A few whistles rose from the audience, followed by laughter.

“I think the girl in the black bathing suit is a little too flashy,” Shirley said.

“What do you mean?” Lily asked.

“Look at her! She’s acting like she’s a Hollywood star or something. The way she’s standing.”

“But they’re all standing like that.”

“No, she’s doing it more, as if she thinks she’s perfect.”

The girl in black didn’t look any different from the others to Lily, but she remembered the sight of her naked foot in the air, and she was strangely embarrassed for her. The contestants were all smiling, hands cocked on their hips, shoulders proudly held back. The emcee explained that they had to circle the stage again for the judges to assess their face and figure, and the audience clapped some more.

The judges were seated at a table on the ground in front of the stage. Lily couldn’t see them, but she had heard all about them. Two were Chinatown leaders, one was a prominent local Caucasian businessman, and one was a woman—the Narcissus Queen from Honolulu, Hawaii. Lily had seen her taking photographs with fans earlier; she was wearing a pretty floral-print dress and a big pink flower in her hair.

“Look—my favorite’s going around now,” Shirley said.

The girl in the yellow two-piece was taller than the others, and her figure was curvier. She had wavy black hair pulled back with combs, revealing sparkling drop earrings. As she crossed the front of the stage, whistles rose from the audience. When she reached the far side she paused, bending one knee and glancing back over her shoulder coquettishly. The audience erupted in applause, and Shirley joined in enthusiastically.

Lily, still holding her half-eaten drumstick, looked away from the stage uncomfortably. She didn’t understand the shrinking feeling inside her, as if she shouldn’t be caught looking at those girls. She saw a group of older Chinatown men nearby, sitting casually and smoking as they studied the contestants. One grinned at another, and there was something off-putting about the expression on his face. He made an odd gesture with his left hand, as if he were squeezing something, and the other man chuckled. Lily dropped her gaze to her fried chicken, and the bone of the drumstick reminded her of the girl in black’s Achilles tendon, rubbed red from the hard edge of her shoe.

“Let’s go up on the stage,” Shirley said conspiratorially, taking Lily’s hand to pull her across the lawn.

“We shouldn’t—”

“Don’t you want to see what it’s like?”

It felt dangerous, rebellious—but only moderately so. The afternoon sunlight was golden and heavy now; the show was over; and the spectators were packing up and preparing to go home.

“All right,” Lily agreed, and Shirley squealed in response.

They almost ran the last few yards, and then they were at the bottom of the steps and Shirley came to an abrupt stop. Lily bumped into her.

“Just imagine,” Shirley said dreamily, “what it must be like to be Miss Chinatown.”

There had been controversy when the judges declared the winner today. Lily had heard a faint chorus of boos amid the applause, and she saw the winning girl’s face go pink with both pride and dismay. A man had shouted at the stage in English: “She looks like a pinup, not like a Chinese girl!”

Lily had eyed him surreptitiously; he was sitting near the man who had made the lewd gesture, who then leaned toward him and slapped him on the shoulder. They had begun an animated conversation that Lily couldn’t quite understand—they were speaking Toishanese—though she made out the words for beauty and woman.

“Lily, aren’t you coming?”

Shirley had bounded up the steps, and Lily realized she had fallen behind. She put a hand on the railing—it wobbled—and quickly went up the stairs. The microphone and its stand had been removed, leaving the stage entirely bare. Shirley walked toward the center, sashaying like the contestants as she pretended to be a beauty queen.

Lily hesitated, watching her friend turn to face the broad, emptying lawn. Someone whistled, and Shirley flushed with pleasure as she bobbed a curtsy.

“Next time it’ll be you!” a disembodied voice called out.

Shirley giggled and glanced over her shoulder at Lily. “Come on! Come and see the view.”

Lily joined Shirley at the front of the stage just as a raft of firecrackers popped in the distance. The afternoon sun was behind them, casting their shadows across the ground, and as Shirley raised her hand to wave, queenlike, Lily watched her shadow stretch dark and thin over the grass. The ground was dotted with empty glass bottles and crumpled paper sacks, and the grass was flattened into the irregular impressions of blankets and bodies.

“Lily!”

The voice came from the left, slightly behind the stage. She stepped back to get a better look and saw Aunt Judy coming up the path from the parking lot, waving at her.

“It’s time to go!” her aunt called.

Lily waved in response and tugged at Shirley’s arm. “We should go.”

“Just a minute,” Shirley insisted.

Lily retreated to the stairs, then turned back to see Shirley still standing at the edge, gazing out over the lawn. The back of her head was crowned in sunlight, casting her face in shadow. The profile of her nose and mouth was still sweet and girlish. But there was a modest swell to her breast, and she had cinched in the waist of her dress to emphasize the slight curve of her hips. Lily wondered if this was what a Chinese girl should look like.

PART I

I Can Dream, Can’t I?

August–September 1954

1

That woman is so glamorous,” Shirley said, nudging Lily to look. Two Caucasian women were seated across the restaurant at the table in the alcove. “I wonder if she’s going to a show.”

It was Friday night in the middle of the dinner rush, and the Eastern Pearl was almost full, but Lily knew immediately who Shirley was talking about. The red paper lanterns hanging overhead shed a warm glow over the woman’s blond hair; it was pulled up in a twist and pinned with something glittering that matched the droplets in her ears. She wore a royal-blue satin sleeveless dress with a scoop neckline, which showed off her creamy skin, and a matching blue bolero jacket hung over the back of her seat. Her companion was dressed much less glamorously. In fact, she wore trousers—gray flannel ones, with a soft-collared white blouse tucked in at the waist. Her hair was cut short in the current style, but on her it looked a bit less gamine than mannish, which drew Lily’s attention. There was something about her posture that felt subtly masculine. Lily couldn’t put her finger on it, but it intrigued her.

Lily realized she was staring and turned her attention back to the messy pile of napkins in front of her. Beside her, Shirley was moving rapidly through her own stack, transforming them into crisp swans. Lily had spent countless hours in the restaurant with Shirley since they were little, and over the years she’d helped out with various small tasks as needed. Now they were about to start their senior year in high school, but she still couldn’t fold a napkin into a decent swan. She picked apart the one she had been working on and started over.

On weekend nights, the Eastern Pearl mainly attracted tourists rather than local Chinese. Shirley said it was because one of the tour companies that brought people to Chinatown recommended it, which led to good business for the restaurant. Lily wondered if the women in the alcove were tourists, and she snuck another glance at them.

The blonde was removing a silver cigarette case from her handbag, and her companion pulled a matchbook from her trouser pocket, leaning toward her as she struck a match. The blonde cupped her hand around the flame, drawing her friend’s hand close to her face as she inhaled. Afterward, she sat back and offered the case to her friend, who removed a cigarette and lit it quickly, pulling the cigarette away from her mouth with her thumb and index finger. Smoke curled up into the red-lit ceiling.

“You’re making a mess of those,” Shirley said, glancing at Lily’s poorly folded swans. “Ma won’t like them.”

“Sorry,” Lily said. “I’m no good at this.”

Shirley shook her head, but she wasn’t annoyed. This was the way it always was. “I’ll redo yours,” Shirley said as she pulled Lily’s napkins toward her.

Lily sat there for a moment, watching Shirley shake out her messy swan, and then she reached for the Chronicle. She always enjoyed the theater and film reviews and society columns, with their photographs of women in furs and diamonds, and she wondered idly if the blonde had ever been in the paper.

“Maybe she’s an heiress,” Lily said to Shirley. “The blonde over there.”

Shirley glanced across the restaurant again, briefly. “An heiress to a gold mine?”

“Yes. And her father recently died and left her with a fortune—”

“But she’s discovered that she has a half brother—”

“—who’s fighting her for the inheritance—”

“—so she hired a private investigator to seduce him!”

Lily shot Shirley a confused glance. “What?”

“Well, who do you think that other woman is? She looks like a female private investigator. Only a female PI would look like that. She was probably undercover.”

Lily was amused. “Undercover where?”

“Oh, who knows.”

They had played this game since they were children—inventing stories for strangers they saw in the restaurant—but Shirley tended to lose interest in their inventions before Lily did.

“Did you see the new ad my parents placed?” Shirley asked, setting the latest napkin swan next to the others, all lined up like a funny little army.

“No.”

“It’s in there—I saw it earlier. Keep going. It’s on the same page as the nightclub reviews.”

Lily obediently flipped the pages of the Chronicle to the “After Night Falls” column, which took up half of the page. The other half was filled with ads for restaurants and nightclubs. She skimmed them, hunting for the Eastern Pearl ad. MEET ME AT JULIAN’S XOCHIMILCO: SERVING THE BEST MEXICAN DINNER. ALL-CHINESE FLOOR SHOWS—SUPERB FULL-COURSE CHINESE OR AMERICAN DINNER—FORBIDDEN CITY. An illustration of four faces—father, mother, son, and daughter with a bow in her hair—advertised GOOD FOOD! GOOD LIVING INCLUDES DINING AT GRANT’S.

“There it is,” Shirley said, pointing to an ad near the bottom of the page. A simple black rectangle with the type in bold white read: EXPERIENCE THE FINEST ORIENTAL CUISINE AT THE EASTERN PEARL—THE BEST OF CHINATOWN.

But Lily’s eye was drawn to a square box directly above the Eastern Pearl ad. It read: TOMMY ANDREWS MALE IMPERSONATOR—WORLD PREMIERE! THE TELEGRAPH CLUB. 462 BROADWAY. It was a relatively large ad that included a photo of a person who looked like a handsome man with his hair slicked back, dressed in a tuxedo. Something went still inside Lily, as if her heart had taken a breath before it continued beating.

“It’s not very big, but Pa thinks it will get noticed,” Shirley said. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I—I’m sure it’ll get noticed,” Lily said.

“People read that page, don’t they? They always want to know what stars are in town.”

“You’re right. I’m sure people will see it.”

Shirley nodded, satisfied, and Lily forced herself to look up from the photo of Tommy Andrews. Across the restaurant the two women were paying their bill. The woman in the blue dress took a wallet out of her handbag, while the woman with the short hair unexpectedly pulled a billfold out of her trouser pocket. Their dollars tumbled limply onto the table.

Behind the counter, the swinging door to the kitchen opened. Shirley’s mother poked her head out and called, “Shirley, come help me for a minute.”

“Yes, Ma,” Shirley answered. She gave Lily an exasperated glance. “Don’t touch the napkins. I’ll finish them when I get back.”

The bell attached to the restaurant’s front door jingled, and Lily saw the two women leaving. The short-haired woman held the door open for her friend, and then they were gone, and Lily was staring down at the ad for the Telegraph Club again.

Four-sixty-two Broadway must be only a few blocks from the Eastern Pearl. There were several nightclubs on Broadway, just east of Columbus. Lily’s parents always told her to avoid those blocks; they were for adults, they said, and for tourists. Not for good Chinese girls. Not for girls at all. Lily understood that she was supposed to think the clubs were tawdry, but every time she crossed Broadway (always during the day, of course) she’d look down the wide street toward the Bay Bridge in the distance, her gaze lingering on those closed doorways, wondering what they hid from view.

Her palms were a little damp. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one was behind the counter. She quickly tore out the page with the Telegraph Club ad, folded it into a neat, small square, and tucked it deep into the pocket of her skirt. She closed the newspaper and slid it back into the pile of Chronicles beneath the counter. As she straightened the stack, she realized her fingertips were smudged with newsprint. She ran to the bathroom and turned on the sink, scrubbing at her fingers with the harsh pink soap until no trace of ink remained.

2

The Eastern Pearl was only a ten-minute walk from the Hu family flat, but that night the journey home seemed to take Lily forever. As soon as she left the restaurant, she had to spend several minutes talking to old Mr. Wong, who was locking up his imports store next door. Then, as she rounded the corner onto Grant Avenue, Charlie Yip at the concession stand called out to her, saying he had her favorite wa mooi¹ on discount. She bought a small bag to share with her brothers, and as she slid the candy into her skirt pocket, she took care not to crush the folded newspaper.

Outside the Shanghai Palace, a clump of Caucasian tourists blocked the sidewalk. They were dressed up for their night out in Chinatown, and Lily could tell they’d had a few cocktails. None of them noticed her as she slipped around them into the street, dodging a cigarette butt flung by a woman in a fur stole. Lily shot an irritated glance at the woman’s back as a car honked at her, causing Lily to jump out of the way. Now pinned between the tourists and a parked Buick, she was forced to wait for the traffic light to turn red before she could finally cross the street, darting impatiently between idling cars.

When she reached the opposite sidewalk, she glanced back up Grant toward Broadway and North Beach, wondering where the Telegraph Club was exactly. She imagined a tall neon sign over an awning-covered door. She remembered the two women she’d seen at the Eastern Pearl, and she pictured them going to the Telegraph Club. She imagined them taking a seat at a small, round table near the stage, where Tommy Andrews would emerge, dressed to the nines, to sing.

She wanted to take out the newspaper ad right then and there to see Tommy’s face again, but she resisted. Clay Street was right ahead; she was only a couple of blocks from home. She walked faster.

Lily unlocked the front door and hurried up the long wooden stairs to the third-floor landing. The flat was quiet and dark to the left, where the kitchen was, but down the hall to the right the living room door spilled light into the hallway. She hung her jacket on the coatrack, took off her shoes, put on her slippers, and padded toward the living room, passing the closed door to her parents’ bedroom.

Her father was seated on the sofa, reading the newspaper and smoking his pipe. Her younger brothers, Eddie and Frankie, were sprawled on the rug reading comic books. When she entered, her father looked up and smiled. The lenses of his round glasses reflected the lamplight.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked. “How was Shirley?”

“She’s fine. I ate with her. Where’s Mama?”

“She went to bed early. If you’re still hungry there are leftovers in the kitchen.”

Eddie looked over his shoulder at her. “Also some cake. There was a bake sale at Cameron House.”

This reminded Lily of the wa mooi, and she pulled them out of her pocket. “Do you want some of these? I got them from Charlie Yip.”

Frankie jumped up to take them from her, while Papa said, “Not too many—it’s almost time for bed.”

Lily could predict how the rest of the night would go. Her father would stay up until he finished reading the paper—perhaps another half hour. Her brothers would argue that they should be able to stay up later, but they would be forced into bed by ten o’clock. She could sit in the living room with them, impatiently reading a novel, but she already knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. Instead she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. While she waited she stood at the window over the sink, gazing at the city lights, each a glowing ember marking someone else’s life: bedroom and living room windows, headlights crawling up the steep streets. She wondered where those two women from the restaurant lived and what their homes looked like. She slid her hand into her pocket and touched the folded newspaper.

She made a cup of jasmine tea and took it to her bedroom, which wasn’t really a bedroom but an alcove off the living room behind pocket doors. She left them open for now. Her father had used the space as an office until Frankie had turned four, when Lily had argued her way out of sharing a room with her brothers. Now she had her own tiny hideaway, into which she had crammed her narrow bed, an old bureau with drawers that never closed properly, and several tall stacks of books that created a precarious nightstand for her bedside lamp. The small window in the wall above the foot of her bed was covered with a short curtain made of blue velvet, dotted with tiny sequins. Lily had sewn it herself in home economics class in junior high school. The stitches had begun unraveling almost as soon as she hung it up, but she still liked it. It reminded her of the science fiction novels she liked to read, with their covers depicting outer space.

While she waited for her father and brothers to go to bed, she went to brush her teeth and then puttered around her little room. She folded some laundry she had left on her bed; she shuffled through her notes from last year’s math class to see what could be discarded. All the while she was acutely aware of the piece of newspaper in her skirt pocket: the soft whispering sound it made when she knelt down to put away her clothes; the way its edges nudged against her hip when she sat on her bed.

It felt like hours before her father and brothers left the living room. When they were finally gone, Lily closed the pocket doors to her alcove and changed into her nightgown. She pulled out the newspaper ad and set it on top of the books that made her nightstand. She had folded it into a small square, but now it began to open of its own accord, parting like the wings of a butterfly.

Startled, she watched it until it stopped moving. Outside, the cable car rumbled as it came up nearby Powell Street, and the bell seemed to clang in time with the beating of her heart. She began to unstack one of the piles of books beside her bed, and pulled out Arthur C. Clarke’s The Exploration of Space, which had been a gift from Aunt Judy. She laid the book on her bed, then pushed her pillow against the wall and sat back against it, reaching at last for the ad.

She unfolded it carefully. There was Tommy Andrews gazing into the distance like a movie star, a halo of light around Tommy’s gleaming hair. TOMMY ANDREWS MALE IMPERSONATOR. Some time ago, she had seen an advertisement for a show at a different nightclub that read: JERRY BOUCHARD, WORLD’S FOREMOST MALE IMPERSONATOR! It had been accompanied by an illustration of a woman (her curves were apparent) in a top hat and tails, with the curls of her hair poufing out beneath her hat. The illustration had seemed wrong—comical, somehow. Not like this photo. Tommy was handsome, debonair. The photo wouldn’t be out of place on Shirley’s bedroom wall, alongside her pictures of Tab Hunter and Marlon Brando.

Once, Lily had torn an illustration of a moon colony out of Popular Science magazine (which her father sometimes purchased for Eddie) and taped it on the wall above her bureau. When Shirley had seen it, she had teased her for having a boy’s tastes, and after Shirley went home, Lily had taken it down. If she were exceptionally daring, she would cut away the words TOMMY ANDREWS MALE IMPERSONATOR from this ad and pin up the picture in the space left by the moon colony. She doubted that anyone—even Shirley—would realize that the photo was not of a man.

But she knew that she did not dare. She set the ad down on her bed and opened The Exploration of Space. Hidden between the pages were two other folded clippings. She had torn the first one out of an old Life magazine that had been left in a box outside the Chinese Hospital. It depicted a young Katharine Hepburn lounging in a chair, legs casually draped over one of the arms. She wore wide-legged trousers and a blazer and held a cigarette in one hand while gazing off to her left. There was a knowing confidence in her expression, a hint of masculine attitude in her shoulders.

Lily distinctly remembered coming across the photo while she was flipping through the magazine on the sidewalk. It had been September, and the sun had been bright on her head. She had stopped at the photo and stared at it until her hair began to burn from the heat, and then—before she could second-guess herself—she ripped it out of the magazine. Someone had been walking past at the time and Lily saw them look at her in surprise, but by then it was too late, and she pretended as if she hadn’t noticed their glance at all. She had quickly folded the page in two, slid it into her book bag, and dropped the magazine back in the box.

The other clipping was an article about two former Women Airforce Service Pilots who had opened their own airfield after the war. It included a small photo of them sitting close to each other, looking up at the sky. They were dressed in matching sunglasses, collared shirts, and trousers, and the woman on the right, who had tousled, short hair, protectively held the hand of the woman on the left. The short-haired woman worked as a mechanic; her companion was a flight instructor. They weren’t as dashing as Katharine Hepburn, but there was something compelling about their casual closeness.

The article had come from an issue of the magazine Flying that Lily found at the public library last spring while researching a report on the WASPs. She vividly remembered sneaking the magazine into the emptiest, farthest corner of the library and tearing the article out beneath the table as quietly as possible. She knew she shouldn’t, but she had needed to have the picture in a way she didn’t consciously understand. She’d surreptitiously left a nickel on the library’s circulation desk as if that might make up for her defacement of library property.

Now she laid the women pilots on the bed next to Katharine Hepburn and Tommy Andrews and looked at them all in succession. She couldn’t put into words why she had gathered these photos together, but she could feel it in her bones: a hot and restless urge to look—and, by looking, to know.

1. Salty dried plums; a snack.

3

The elevator girl at Macy’s was a young Chinese woman wearing a sky-blue cheongsam¹ embroidered with yellow flowers. “Good morning,” she said to Lily and her mother. “What floor, please?”

“Good morning,” Lily’s mother said. “The junior miss department, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The elevator girl pressed the button for the third floor. She looked barely older than Lily herself, but Lily didn’t recognize her, which suggested she hadn’t grown up in San Francisco.

“Are you Mrs. Low’s granddaughter?” Lily’s mother asked. “Mrs. Wing Kut Low, on Jackson Street?”

As the wood-paneled elevator passed the second floor, the girl answered, “No. I’m from Sacramento.”

An uncomfortable-looking stool was bolted to the floor in front of the control panel. Lily imagined the girl sinking onto the stool to rest her feet, slipping them out of her black pumps between elevator rides. The idea of being trapped in this moving box all day—doors opening and closing, but never able to leave—seemed like a suffocating way to earn a paycheck.

“Sacramento!” Lily’s mother exclaimed, as if that were the far side of the moon. The gears creaked slightly as the elevator slowed down, approaching the third floor. “Are you alone here in San Francisco?”

“I have an uncle in Chinatown.”

“I see.”

The tone of her mother’s voice told Lily that she did not think much of this arrangement. When the elevator stopped at the third floor, the doors slid open with an accompanying ding. Lily’s mother paused in the doorway. “If you are ever in need of feminine aid,” she said to the girl, “I work at the Chinese Hospital. I’m a nurse in the obstetrics department. Mrs. Grace Hu.”

The elevator girl seemed uncomfortable. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous.”

Lily cast a glance of furtive sympathy at the girl before she stepped out of the elevator.

“I worry about girls like that,” her mother said in a low voice as the door closed behind them. “She’s too young to be on her own. I can’t imagine her uncle takes good care of her.”

Lily glanced around to make sure nobody else had overheard. Directly ahead, the junior miss department sprawled beneath fluorescent lights. The floor was dotted with other shoppers, making their way from one glass display case to another. There was a mother-daughter pair near a case of hats, and the teenage girl giggled as her mother pinned a blue pillbox on her curled blond hair. They glanced at Lily and her mother as they passed, and then their gazes slid away dismissively. There were no other Chinese on the floor this morning, and Lily became self-conscious of the way she and her mother stood out. Her mother was wearing an out-of-date, square-shouldered brown suit and a matching brown hat, something that Lily had only ever seen her wear to church. And Lily’s cheap skirt and blouse, acquired on sale, were far from the height of fashion.

She slowed down to let her mother go ahead of her, as if that might make others think they weren’t together. When that thought made her flinch with guilt, she allowed herself to be distracted by the jewelry—silver button earrings and gleaming pearl chokers and rhinestone bracelets—and then by a framed advertisement on top of an apparel counter. It showed a trio of girls in mix-and-match suit separates. The middle girl wore a tuxedo-style jerkin over a white mandarin-collar blouse with a slim, dark skirt. She stood with one hand on her hip, one shoulder angled down, looking directly at the camera with a flirtatiously raised eyebrow. One gloved hand dangled next to the hand of the girl next to her, so close their pinkie fingers were almost touching. All three girls wore knowing smiles, as if they shared a secret.

“Would you like to try something on?”

Lily looked up from the ad to see a salesgirl approaching. “I was just looking,” Lily said awkwardly.

The salesgirl had a friendly, open face, and her light brown hair was cut in a Peter Pan style. Her name tag identified her as MISS STEVENS. “These separates are very versatile,” she said, moving the framed advertisement aside to show Lily the clothes in the case. “You can wear the blouse with these lovely A-line skirts as well.”

“Oh, I—I don’t know,” Lily stammered, but she took a step closer to the case. The tuxedo jerkin was in a navy blue fabric with notched black lapels.

Miss Stevens took out the jerkin and laid it on the glass. “And it’s hand washable. Very smart.”

Lily reached out and touched it, her fingers running lightly over the crisply pressed texture.

“I can bring an appropriate size to the fitting room if you’d like,” Miss Stevens said.

“Lily! There you are.”

Lily jerked her hand away and looked up. Her mother was walking toward her, boxy black handbag slung over her arm, a blond salesgirl following with an armful of shirtwaists and skirts.

“I’ve found some things for you to try on,” her mother said. She glanced down at the tuxedo jerkin and raised her eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“A wonderful collection of mix-and-match separates, ma’am,” Miss Stevens said. Her gaze flickered briefly to the blond salesgirl and then back to Lily’s mother, who went to the case and examined the jerkin and the ad.

“Where would you wear this, Lily?” Her mother’s tone was short and critical.

Lily was embarrassed. “I don’t know. I was just looking.”

“It’s perfect for parties,” Miss Stevens said. “If Miss Marshall is preparing a fitting room for you, she could bring this ensemble too.”

The blond salesgirl—Miss Marshall—stepped forward with her armful of clothes, her face blandly expectant, but Lily’s mother shook her head.

“Thank you, but I don’t believe this is right for my daughter. Come to the fitting room, Lily. I have some school clothes for you to try on.”

Lily gave Miss Stevens an apologetic look before hurrying after her mother and Miss Marshall. Miss Stevens returned her glance with a thin smile as she folded the jerkin to put it away.

In the dressing room, the salesgirl hung a row of dresses, shirtwaists, skirts, and matching jackets on the wall-mounted rail. Lily’s mother took a seat on the bench inside the room. “Try on the brown dress first,” her mother said. “That one, with the black buttons.”

There was a succession of brown and gray dresses and skirts, with pale pink or baby blue cotton shirtwaists featuring demure round collars or cuffed three-quarter-length sleeves. They were the teenage version of her mother’s church suit, inoffensive but boring. Lily thought longingly of the tuxedo jerkin, but as she made her way through the clothes her mother had chosen, the idea of it became increasingly outlandish. Maybe her mother was right. Where would she wear such a thing? It would cause a sensation at the fall dance, but she wasn’t the kind of girl who caused sensations.

“The jacket is too big for you,” her mother said, studying the latest suit Lily had tried on.

It was taupe-colored and boxy, and Lily thought it was old-fashioned. “I don’t like it,” she said.

“You’re going to be a senior,” her mother said. “You need to have the right look.” She opened the dressing room door, but the corridor outside was empty. “Where’s that salesgirl?” She glanced back at Lily. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

After her mother left, Lily gazed at her reflection in the mirror. You need to have the right look. Lily knew what her mother meant. She needed to look respectable and serious. The girl in the mirror looked like a schoolgirl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. Her mouth was pinched shut and her forehead was creased, her body swallowed by the jacket’s padded shoulders. If her mother could see her now, she would tell her to stop being ungrateful. They hardly ever shopped upstairs at Macy’s unless there was a major sale, but here she was in the junior miss department with all the latest fashions, not the bargain basement with its odds and ends from last season.

Lily remembered a different visit to Macy’s when she was a child—nine or ten—with Eddie clinging to Mama’s hand as she pushed the buggy with baby Frankie in it through the heavy doors onto the first floor. It had been a struggle to get all of them into the elevator and up to the fourth floor where Santa’s workshop was located. Lily remembered silver snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, tinsel strung over the display cases, and boxes and boxes of toy cars and airplanes stacked on the shelves. An electric train circled a miniature Christmas village, and Eddie knelt to stare at it, transfixed, while Lily was drawn to a table-top chemistry set. There were test tubes in a stand, and a tiny Bunsen burner, and strangely colored liquids housed in little glass vials. The box that the chemistry set came in had an illustration of two boys playing together, and over their blond heads were the words DISCOVER THE FUTURE TODAY!

She didn’t know how long she examined the chemistry set, but suddenly her mother appeared with Eddie and Frankie in tow, exclaiming that she had lost her, and what had she been doing? Lily had pointed to the chemistry set and asked, “Can I have this for Christmas?”

Her mother gazed at her for a moment, and then said, “Don’t you want a doll instead?”

Lily had been too old for tantrums, but something about her mother’s response made her angry, and she fisted her hands by her sides and announced, “I don’t want a doll!”

Her mother’s face had hardened instantly, and Lily saw her hand jerk as if she were about to strike her, but she couldn’t let go of either Eddie or Frankie. Instead, she snapped, “You’re in Macy’s, for goodness’ sake. Be quiet.”

Her mother’s cutting tone had stunned her, and Lily had burst into tears.

Now, the dressing room door opened and her mother returned, Miss Marshall in tow, with another two suit jackets. “Try this one on,” her mother said, handing over a smaller size.

Lily complied. The smaller jacket fit much better. When she buttoned it, the waist nipped in as it was supposed to, rather than ballooning out around her hips. Her mother adjusted the jacket’s drape. Over her mother’s shoulder, Lily saw Miss Marshall carefully plucking a stray black hair from the lapel of the larger jacket and surreptitiously dropping it on the floor.

“Better,” Lily’s mother said, stepping back and blocking Lily’s view of the salesgirl. There was an unusual expression on her face, and it took a moment for Lily to realize that her mother was satisfied.

“,”² her mother said in Cantonese. “.”³

Lily turned to the mirror. She saw a Chinese girl in a characterless gray suit—blank faced, nothing special, even a little boring. Respectable. The word felt square, immovable, like a sturdy box with all four corners equally weighted. A respectable girl was easily categorized, her motivations clear. She wanted a college degree, and then a husband, and then a nice home and adorable children, in that order. She saw her mother smile tightly, as if conscious of the salesgirl hovering behind them, and then Lily understood why her mother had worn the church suit to Macy’s. Even if it was ugly, it declared her investment in respectability. Her mother was a real American wife and mother, not a China doll in a cheongsam, relegated to operating the elevator.

“It’s so professional, but also very ladylike,” said Miss Marshall. “Would you like me to ring it up for you?”

1. A traditional Chinese dress.

2. Not bad.

3. Pretty good.