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Oppression Studies.” Correctly interpreting our blank looks, she went on, “He enlightens students about the plight of oppressed peoples and cultures throughout history and shows the consequences of imperial and discriminatory mind-sets.” She sounded like she was reading from a course catalog.
    Mom and I exchanged a covert glance. “Sounds interesting,” Mom said. “I hope we get to meet him soon.”
    One of Althea’s neighbors had introduced her to Kwasi whoever six weeks ago and they’d been on several dates. She hadn’t shared many of the details with us, but if appearances were anything to go by, she was more involved with him than I’d realized.
    I could tell Mom felt the same when she said, “Why don’t you and Kwasi come for dinner Friday? I’ll make my fried chicken and a peach pie.”
    “Kwasi’s a vegetarian,” Althea said.
    “I’m sure I can come up with something. Let’s say six o’clock.”
    I knew that tone. It meant “be there or else.” Alice Rose and I heard it frequently in connection with curfews, family dinners, and Sunday school when we were growing up. It even worked on Althea.
    “I’ll invite Walter,” Mom added.
    Walter Highsmith, rabid Civil War reenactor and owner of Confederate Artefacts a couple of storefronts down from Violetta’s, was my mom’s most frequent escort. I shied away from the word “boyfriend.”
    “Thank you, Vi. I’ll check with Kwasi.”
    “You, too, Grace.”
    “If I can get away from the pageant,” I promised. Speaking of which, I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get going. I kissed Mom’s cheek and gave Althea a hug. “Later.”
    “What pageant? What’s that girl going on about?” Althea asked as I grabbed the tote with my supplies and headed for the door. “Nobody tells me anything around here,” she complained.

Chapter Three

    TEN MINUTES LATER I STOOD ACROSS THE STREET from the Oglethorpe Theater, having parked under a graceful magnolia tree. The theater was only a fifteen-minute walk from Violetta’s, but strolling a block was enough to bring on heatstroke in the dog days of August, so I’d driven my old Ford Fiesta. I’d considered dashing to my apartment to change, thinking I should look more pulled together to hang out with pageant contestants, but I’d run out of time. My above-the-knee denim skirt and melon-colored blouse would have to do.
    Crossing the street, I admired the lines of the building, with its peaked roofline in the Greek revival style and a series of white arches topped by a brick exterior. Rumor had it that both Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis and their wives had seen plays put on at the Oglethorpe. Since its heyday, it had hosted high school plays, been a movie theater for a short period, and played home to a variety of defunct community theater groups performing everything from Shakespeare to experimental stuff the local reviewer called “obscene.” I’d seen a production of Waiting for Godot there as a teenager and had never been so bored.
    I shook off the memory and noticed a small group of people waiting on the sidewalk and sitting in folding chairs outside the theater. What the heck were they doing? Two minutes in the August heat and humidity was all I could stand. Almost as wet as if I’d plunged into a pool, but not nearly so refreshed, I crossed the street.
    As I drew abreast of the group—maybe twelve people, most of them women—they lifted posters and looked more alert. One young woman blocked my way and thrust her placard toward my face. It read: “The Objectification of Women Leads to Violence Against Women.” The last two words were hard to read, scrunched to fit on the poster board.
    “Are you in the pageant?” the young woman asked. With sandy hair pulled into a low ponytail, a halter top, and jean shorts, she looked about twenty. Sunburn pinked her bare shoulders.
    “She’s too old, Daphne,” an earnest young man with a scraggly goatee called from the relative comfort