The Help

by Kathryn Stockett

They ain’t rich folk, that I know. Rich folk don’t try so hard.

Because ain’t that white people for you, wondering if they are happy enough.

“Ever morning, until you dead in the ground, you gone have to make this decision.” Constantine was so close, I could see the blackness of her gums. “You gone have to ask yourself, Am I gone believe what them fools say about me today?”

it’s our own silent agreement, this strict honesty, perhaps the one thing that has kept us friends.

When you little, you only get asked two questions, what’s your name and how old you is, so you better get em right.

it was like something cracked open inside of me, not unlike a watermelon, cool and soothing and sweet. I always thought insanity would be a dark, bitter feeling, but it is drenching and delicious if you really roll around in it.

My eyes sting from the smell of typing ink. My fingers are striped with paper cuts. Who knew paper and ink could be so vicious.

“Miss Taylor says kids that are colored can’t go to my school cause they’re not smart enough.” I come round the counter then. Lift her chin up and smooth back her funny-looking hair. “You think I’m dumb?” “No,” she whispers hard, like she means it so much. She look sorry she said it. “What that tell you about Miss Taylor, then?” She blink, like she listening good. “Means Miss Taylor ain’t right all the time,” I say. She hug me around my neck, say, “You’re righter than Miss Taylor.” I tear up then. My cup is spilling over. Those is new words to me.