"The Help" list 2

Having once been an ambitious young lady myself however, I’ve decided to offer you some advice: go to your local newspaper and get an entry-level job.

I dash up the stairs with Mother hollering to take off those tacky Mexican man shoes, and I get to work writing down every goddamn thing that bothers me in life, particularly those that do not seem to faze anyone else.

By the next day, I am ready to mail my first letter to Elaine Stein, listing the ideas I thought worthy journalism material: the prevalence of illiteracy in Mississippi; the high number of drunk-driving accidents in our county; the limited job opportunities for women.

Some dormant instinct tells me to smile, run my hand through my hair.

Which means she’ll ask where I’m going. Which means I have to lie to her on a daily basis, which is in itself enjoyable but a little degrading at the same time.

She has on a blue bathrobe and jumbo-sized rollers, making her head look huge, her body even more waif-like than it is.

'Dear Miss Myrna,’” I read, ‘“how do I remove the rings from my fat, slovenly husband’s shirt collar when he is such a pig and... and sweats like one too...”’

It takes a hard question to pull her eyes off that riveting material.

The fields are brown and crisp with dead cotton stalks, defoliated so the machines can get to the bolls.

Mama, of course, is glued to the color picture, oohing and aahing at the vibrant reds and blues of the team.

So I lean against the counter and present the latest conundrum: how to keep the dogs from getting into your trash cans outside.

And yet, I am awed by my friend, by her tenacity for me.

I walk over and pick it up, afraid the light will fade the paper jacket, the black-and-white photo of the humble, impoverished family on the cover.

It won’t add distinction to my almost translucent eyebrows, nor add weight to my bony frame.

On page four, I read: Boy blinded over segregated bathroom, suspects questioned.

She doesn’t know about my date tonight and if she somehow finds out, the next three months will be full of excruciating questions like “Did he call?” and “What did you do wrong?” when it doesn’t work out.

“Mama, please,” I say, rummaging through a basket where she keeps her keys.

“Sounds like a ploy to me, to find a husband. Becoming an expert on keeping house.”