I hurry into Aibileen’s kitchen. The look on my face must tell her something’s wrong.

“What is it? Somebody see you?”

“No,” I say, pulling papers from my satchel. “I talked to Missus Stein this morning.” I tell her everything I know, about the deadline, about “The Pile.”

“Alright, so . . .” Aibileen is counting days in her head, the same way I have been all afternoon. “So we got two and a half weeks stead a six weeks. Oh Law, that ain’t enough time. We still got to finish writing the Louvenia section and smooth out Faye Belle—and the Minny section, it ain’t right yet . . . Miss Skeeter, we ain’t even got a title yet.”

I put my head in my hands. I feel like I’m slipping underwater. “That’s not all,” I say. “She . . . Wants me to write about Constantine. She asked me . . . What happened to her.”

Aibileen sets her cup of tea down.

“I can’t write it if I don’t know what happened, Aibileen. So if you can’t tell me . . . I was wondering if there’s someone else who will.”

Aibileen shakes her head.“I reckon they is,” she says, “but I don’t want nobody else telling you that story.”

“Then . . . will you?”

Aibileen takes off her black glasses, rubs her eyes. She puts them back on and I expect to see a tired face. She’s worked all day and she’ll be working even harder now to try to make the deadline. I fidget in my chair, waiting for her answer.

But she doesn’t look tired at all. She’s sitting up straight and gives me a defiant nod. “I’ll write it down. Give me a few days. I’ll tell you ever thing that happened to Constantine.”

I WORK FOR FIFTEEN HOURS straight on Louvenia’s interview. On Thursday night, I go to the League meeting. I’m dying to get out of the house, antsy from nerves, jittery about the deadline. The Christmas tree is starting to smell too rich, the spiced oranges sickly decadent. Mother is always cold and my parents’ house feels like I’m soaking in a vat of hot butter.

I pause on the League steps, take in a deep breath of clean winter air. It’s pathetic, but I’m glad to still have the newsletter. Once a week, I actually feel like I’m a part of things. And who knows, maybe this time will be different, with the holidays starting and all.

But the minute I walk in, backs turn. My exclusion is tangible, as if concrete walls have formed around me. Hilly gives me a smirk, whips her head around to speak to someone else. I go deeper into the crowd and see Elizabeth. She smiles and I wave. I want to talk to her about Mother, tell her I’m getting worried, but before I get too close, Elizabeth turns, head down, and walks away. I go to my seat. This is new, from her, here.

Instead of my usual seat up front, I slip in the back row, angry that Elizabeth wouldn’t even say hello. Beside me is Rachel Cole Brant. Rachel hardly ever comes to meetings, with three kids, working on her master’s in English from Millsaps College. I wish we were better friends but I know she’s too busy. On my other side is damn Leslie Fullerbean and her cloud of hairspray. She must risk her life every time she lights a cigarette. I wonder, if I pushed the top of her head, would aerosol spray out of her mouth.

Almost every girl in the room has her legs crossed, a lit cigarette in her hand. The smoke gathers and curls around the ceiling. I haven’t smoked in two months and the smell makes me feel ill. Hilly steps up to the podium and announces the upcoming gimme-drives (coat drive, can drive, book drive, and a plain old money drive), and then we get to Hilly’s favorite part of the meeting, the trouble list. This is where she gets to call out the names of anyone late on their dues or tardy for meetings or not fulfilling their philanthropic duties. I’m always on the trouble list nowadays for something.

Hilly’s wearing a red wool A-line dress with a cape coat over it, Sherlock Holmes-style, even though it’s hot as fire in here. Every once in a while, she tosses back the front flap like it’s in her way, but she looks like she enjoys this gesture too much for it to really be a problem. Her helper Mary Nell stands next to her, handing her notes. Mary Nell has the look of a blond lapdog, the Pekingese kind with tiny feet and a nose that perks on the end.

“Now, we have something very exciting to discuss.” Hilly accepts the notes from the lapdog and scans over them.

“The committee has decided that our newsletter could use a little updating.”