The help novel by kathryn stockett5/18/2023 The black-and-white linoleum floor has been scrubbed thin. The kitchen is about half the size of the living room and warmer. Aint nothing to look at, but come on back. ∼ould we sit in the kitchen this time? I ask. I try to smile, like Im confident it will work this time, despite the idea she explained over the phone. Shes wearing the same green dress and stiff black shoes as last time. I knock softly, already dying for another cigarette to calm my nerves. But Mother once told me tongue kissing would turn me blind and Im starting to think its all just a big plot between the surgeon general and Mother to make sure no one ever has any fun.Īt eight oclock that same night, Im stumbling down Aibileens street as discreetly as one can carrying a fifty-pound Corona typewriter. I give in and light another cigarette even though last night the surgeon general came on the television set and shook his finger at everybody, trying to convince us that smoking will kill us. Two days later, I sit in my parents kitchen, waiting for dusk to fall.
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