pink in the night ✓

01 | intersection

sept. 4 2003 san francisco, ca

I met Jane Keo at the tender age of 5.

Scratch that, I was made acutely aware of her existence since I was 5, but that doesn't necessarily mean I knew her. Wherever she was, I was a whisper away, watching her from afar. Same classes from preschool to 3rd grade. Same violin tutoring program. Even our parents were best friends. Still, I had only spoken to her once--a simple hello when our parents introduced us to each other. We were two parallel lines--close, but never close enough.

At age 8 years old, I was very different from your average 3rd grader. Standing at an impressive 4′5" and weighing in at approximately 70 pounds, I was statistically significantly smaller. Although I'm aware that the p value might've been small and the bell curve skewed positively, I couldn't help but feel like logically speaking, I was different, and not in a good way.

I told my mother this, as she eagerly pushed me down the busy streets of downtown, urging to stay within the sidewalk. The city skyline, a mismatch of geometric buildings standing in sequential order, was visible between a blanket of thick puffy clouds. At the very edge of the pavement, vendors selling handmade jewelry smile from behind their booths. A bell chimes, and a cable car rushes past us shortly after, groups of high schoolers hanging onto the poles, some with a cup of coffee in hand. Nearby, a street performer dressed as the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz seems to have gathered quite a crowd. With a rap song blaring loudly from the speakers, the performer spun on one heel and slid into a split. The audience erupted into applause, the sound of their clapping were sparks exploding in my eardrum.

Suddenly, my mom stopped me in front of Westfield mall, where Christmas wreaths are decorated at the entrance, hung next to fairy lights. My attention zeros in on the fake snow dusted on the balcony ledge.

"We need to put some sunscreen on you," she muttered, squirting some of the cream from the bottle onto her hand and working it between her fingers to warm it, "you've been getting too dark lately."

Flinching as she massages the goo onto my nose bridge, I can't help but wonder why that matters. Mom always said something about paleness being a symbol of wealth and status, but I don't know who she was trying to fool, since we were obviously very middle class.

"Mom, we're gonna be late," I managed to say as I frantically turned my head right to left.

"Nonsense," she insisted, pursing her lips, "I'm almost done."

I didn't bother to push her. Truthfully, it was her idea for me to audition for first chair violinist. I wanted nothing to do with it. In my opinion, I was lucky enough to even be considered as a part of the Youth Orchestra. Besides, I really didn't like being in the spotlight. Performing at all was a huge step out of my comfort zone.

Grabbing my hand once she's satisfied, my mother rushes us into the building, where a couple of adults were loitering in front of a grand golden elevator. The entire interior was decked out with various fancy embellishments--the velvety red carpet, the fake orchid flowers in glass vases, and the shimmering lace opened to reveal an elaborate entryway to the stage. The ceiling slopes negatively--pointing to a statue of a bear.

From my peripheral, I spotted Jane standing with her mom, dressed in a simple white spaghetti strap dress. The light from the chandelier accentuated the highlight on her cheekbones and jawline--two complementary angles. For a fraction of a second, our gazes connected and I'm reminded of the invisible asymptote between us that neither of us tried to approach. It wasn't like we hated each other--because we didn't (or at least, I don't think we did)--it's just that we were supposed to be rivals. Her and I were auditioning for the same position. There was no way we could've been friends. Then, her mom pulled her away, and we are diverging again before we could even consider converging.