The downstairs girl

Stacey Lee

Book - 2019

"1890, Atlanta. By day, seventeen-year-old Jo Kuan works as a lady's maid for the cruel Caroline Payne, the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Atlanta. But by night, Jo moonlights as the pseudonymous author of a newspaper advice column for 'the genteel Southern lady'"--

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Subjects
Genres
Novels
Historical fiction
Published
New York, NY : G.P. Putnam's Sons [2019]
Language
English
Main Author
Stacey Lee (author)
Physical Description
374 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9781524740955
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

It's 1890 in Atlanta, and Jo Kuan has a secret: she's the anonymous author of the popular, yet polarizing, new agony aunt column Dear Miss Sweetie. After spending her life living in a secret basement room (a relic of the Underground Railroad) beneath the press offices of The Focus, a newspaper run by the Bell family, she's picked up a masterful vocabulary to match her sharp wit, and the combination proves intoxicating to Atlanta's young ladies. But if anyone found out that a Chinese American teenager was behind the column, she'd be run out of town or worse. Lee (Outrun the Moon, 2016) has concocted another thrilling historical novel, blending stellar plotting and a dynamic cast of characters with well-researched details and sharp commentary on America's history of racism and prejudice. She pulls no punches when it comes to Jo's experiences of being Chinese in the Reconstruction South: a meeting of Atlanta's suffragettes proves unwelcoming despite their claim to want votes for all women, and though there's stirring romance between Jo and the son of the Bell family, Jo acknowledges the difficulties in that path. But best of all is Jo's first-person narrative, which crackles with as much witty wordplay and keen observations as her column. This spectacular, voice-driven novel raises powerful questions about how we understand the past, as well as the ways our current moment is still shaped by that understanding.--Sarah Hunter Copyright 2019 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In 1890 Atlanta, Chinese-American Jo Kuan, 17, and her guardian, Old Gin, live secretly in abolitionists' quarters underneath the family home of Mr. Bell, publisher of failing newspaper the Focus. When Jo loses her job as a milliner's assistant, she reluctantly takes a job with her former employer, wealthy Mrs. Payne, as lady's maid to her cantankerous daughter Caroline. Jo endures Caroline's cruelty each day, but after overhearing the Bells' wish for an "agony aunt," she anonymously offers her services as a columnist. As "Miss Sweetie," she voices her true feelings about society's ills in a cleverly written column that addresses many forms of prejudice, sparking controversy while increasing the newspaper's subscriptions--and raising questions about her identity. Lee (Under a Painted Sky) slowly unspools secrets about Jo's past as she liaises with Atlanta's notorious fixer, pieces together clues about the parents who abandoned her, and navigates self-realization and romance. Featuring historical signposts (streetcar segregation, suffragists on safety bicycles) and memorable, well-developed characters, this captivating novel explores intersectionality, conveys the effects of restrictions placed on women and people of color, and celebrates the strengths and talents of marginalized people struggling to break society's barriers in any age. Ages 12--up. Agent: Kristin Nelson, Nelson Literary Agent. (Aug.)

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Gr 7 Up--Jo Kuan knows that because she's Chinese, she does not fit anyone's expectations in 1890 Atlanta, but she doesn't mind. She's happy to be unobtrusive, making hats for the fashionable women in town and staying out of trouble with her adoptive father, Old Gin. But when she loses her job at the hat shop, Jo must find work elsewhere, returning to the household of one of the most important families in town to serve as a lady's maid for their daughter. Saddled with an ungrateful mistress, Jo must face the inequalities in her city. Frustrated, she begins penning an anonymous advice column as "Miss Sweetie," dispensing opinions on everything from fashion to suffragettes. Jo is happy with anonymity, but soon Atlanta is abuzz with curiosity about Miss Sweetie, leading Jo to wonder if remaining quiet and safe is the most important thing or if there are reasons to speak up. Along the way, she uncovers truths about her own past that call into question even more of the inequalities she sees in the present. Though society may try to push aside those it sees as different, Jo demonstrates that everyone has a place and a story to be told. VERDICT Unflinching in its portrayals of racism yet ultimately hopeful and heartfelt, this narrative places voices frequently left out of historical fiction center stage. Recommended for any collection.--Zoë McLaughlin, Michigan State University

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

Jo Kuan leads a double life: a public role as a quiet lady's maid and a secret one as the voice behind the hottest advice column in 1890 Atlanta.Chinese American Jo is mostly invisible except for occasional looks of disdain and derisive comments, and she doesn't mind: Her priority is making sure she and her adoptive father, Chinese immigrant Old Gin, remain safe in their abandoned abolitionists' hideaway beneath a print shop. But even if she lives on the margins, Jo has opinions of her own which she shares in her newspaper advice column under the byline "Miss Sweetie." Suddenly all of Atlanta is talking about her ideas, though they don't know that the witty advice on relationships, millinery, and horse races comes from a Chinese girl. As curiosity about Miss Sweetie mounts, Jo may not be able to stay hidden much longer. And as she learns more about the blurred lines and the hard truths about race in her city and her own past, maybe she doesn't want to. In her latest work, Lee (The Secret of a Heart Note, 2016, etc.) continues to demonstrate that Chinese people were presentand had a voicein American history. She deftly weaves historical details with Jo's personal story of finding a voice and a place for herself in order to create a single, luminous work.An optimistic, sophisticated portrayal of one facet of Chinese Americanand simply Americanhistory. (Historical fiction. 13-18) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter 1 Being nice is like leaving your door wide-open. Eventually, someone's going to mosey in and steal your best hat. Me, I have only one hat and it is uglier than a smashed crow, so if someone stole it, the joke would be on their head, literally. Still, boundaries must be set. Especially boundaries over one's worth. Today I will demand a raise. "You're making that pavement twitchy the way you're staring at it." Robby Withers shines his smile on me. Ever since the traveling dentist who pulled Robby's rotting molar told him he would lose more if he didn't scrub his teeth regularly, he has brushed twice daily, and he expects me to do it, too. "Pavement is underappreciated for all it does to smooth the way," I tell his laughing eyes, which are brown like eagle's feathers, same as his skin. "We should be more grateful." Robby gestures grandly at the ground. "Pavement, we're much obliged, despite all the patty cakes we dump on you." He pulls me away from a pile of manure. It was Robby's mother who nursed me when I was a baby, God rest her soul. And it was she who told Old Gin about the secret basement under the print shop. Whitehall Street, the "spine" of Atlanta, rises well above the treetops with her stately brick and imposing stone buildings--along with the occasional Victorian house that refuses to give up her seat at the table. Business is good here, and like the longleaf pine forests, being burned by Sherman's troops a quarter century ago only made the city grow back stronger. "You look different today." I pretend to appraise him from his cap to his tan trousers. "You forget something?" It is rare to see him without the mule and cart he uses as a deliveryman for Buxbaum's Department Store. "They're down a clerk. Mr. Buxbaum's letting me fill in until they find someone new." He straightens his pin-striped jacket, though it's already straight enough to measure with. "You don't say." Mr. Buxbaum is popular among whites and colored alike, but hiring a colored clerk isn't done in these parts. "If I do a good job, maybe he'll let me fill in on a more permanent basis." He gives me a tight smile. "If you don't stick your foot out, you'll never advance. You'd be perfect for the job. I myself am fixing to ask Mrs. English for a raise." He whistles, a short low sound. "If Mrs. English had any sense, she'd give it to you. Of course, common sense was never very common in these parts." I nod, a surge of righteous blood flooding my veins. Two years I have worked as a milliner's assistant at the same wage of fifty cents a day. Measly. It is already 1890. Plus, Old Gin has lost too much weight, and I need to buy him medicine--not a booty ball or buckeye powder, but something legitimate. And legitimate costs money. One of the newly electric streetcars approaches, bringing by an audience of Southerners in various stages of confusion at the sight of me. An Eastern face in Western clothes always sets the game wheels to spinning between curiosity and disapproval. Most of the time, the pointer lands on disapproval. I should charge them for the privilege of ogling me. Of course, I'd have to split the fee with Robby, whose six-foot height also draws attention, even as he keeps his eyes on the sidewalk. He stops walking and squares his cap so that it's flat enough to play chess on. "Here's my stop. Good luck, Jo." "Thanks, but keep some for yourself." He winks, then slips down a narrow alley to use the back door to Buxbaum's. Old Gin tells me things have changed for the worse since I was born. After good ol' President Hayes returned the South to "home rule," Dems told colored people they should use the back alleys from then on, which pretty much sums up everything. Fluffing the sleeves of my russet dress, which have lost their puff and hang like a pair of deflated lungs, I carry myself a block farther to English's Millinery. The shop stands between a candle maker and a seed store, meaning it can smell like a Catholic church or alfalfa, depending on which way the wind blows. This morning, however, the air is still too crisp to hold a scent. The picture windows are as clear as our Lord's eyes--how I left them last night--with several mauve hats displayed. Mauve is having a moment. Instead of going through the front, I also trek to the back entrance. Folks care less about which door Chinese people use nowadays, compared with when the laborers were shipped in to replace the field slaves after the war. Perhaps whites feel the same way about us as they do about ladybugs: A few are fine, but a swarm turns the stomach. Three boxes have been left by the back door, and I gather them in my arms, then enter. The sight of Lizzie trying on the nearly finished "sensible" hat I'd been designing stops me in my tracks. What is she doing here so early? She barely traipses in at nine, when the shop opens, and it's not even a quarter past eight. "Good morning." I set the boxes on our worktable, which is already weighed down with reams of felt. The broadsides for the charity horse race are barely dry, and orders are already flooding in. Fashion is supposed to rest on Lent, but God will surely make an exception for the event of the year. The proprietress will probably want me to stay late again or work during the lunch hour so she can sneak off to nip her coca cordial. Well, not without a raise, I won't. "Mrs. English wants to speak with you," Lizzie says in her breathy voice. She smooths a hand down the rooster tail I'd pinned to the sensible hat with an eternity knot. Ringlets of strawberry-blond hair play peekaboo under the saucer brim. I remove my floor-length cloak and black hat, one of the misfits that Mrs. English let me purchase at a discount, this one made possible through Lizzie's clumsy hands. Then I tie on a lace apron. The velvet curtain separating the store from the workroom jerks to one side, and Mrs. English bustles in. "There you are," she says in her haughty schoolmarm's voice. I dust off my drab shop cap. "Good morning, ma'am. I had an idea. What if, instead of wearing these toadstools, we model our latest styles? See how fetching my sensible hat looks on Lizzie--" Mrs. English frowns. "Put the toadstools on, both of you." "Yes, ma'am," Lizzie and I say in unison. I slip my cap over my head. I should ask now, before she asks me to stay late, so my request does not appear a hair-trigger reaction. I wipe my palms on my skirt. "Mrs. English--" "Jo, I will no longer be requiring your services." "I--" I clamp my mouth shut when her words catch up to me. No longer required . . . I'm . . . dismissed? "I only need one shopgirl, and Lizzie will do." Lizzie draws in a sharp breath. Her normally sleepy eyes open wide enough to catch gnats. "Lizzie, open the packages. I hope the new boater block's in one of them." Mrs. English wiggles her fingers. "Yes, ma'am." Drawers clatter as Lizzie rummages for a knife. "B-but--" I turn my back on Lizzie and lower my pipes to a whisper. "Mrs. English, I trained her. I can felt a block twice as fast as her, I'm never late, and you said I have an eye for color." I can't lose this job. It took me almost two years to find steady work after my last dismissal, and Old Gin's meager wage as a groom isn't enough to sustain us both. We'd be back to living hand to mouth, tiptoeing on the edges of disaster. A bubble of hysteria works up my chest, but I slowly breathe it out. At least we have a home. It's dry, warm, and rent-free, one of the perks of living secretly in someone else's basement. As long as you have a home, you have a place to plan and dream. The woman sighs, something she does often. Her great bosom has a personality of its own, at times riding high, and at times twitchy and nervous, like when the mayor's wife pays a visit. Today's gusting tests the iron grip of her corset. Her rheumy eyes squint up at me towering over her. "You make some of the ladies uncomfortable." Each of the syllables slaps me on the cheeks, un-com-for-ta-ble , and mortification pours like molten iron from my face to my toes. But I'm good at my job. The solicitor's wife even called the silk knots I tied for her bonnet "extraordinary." So what about me causes such offense? I wash regularly with soap, even the parts that don't show. I keep my black hair neatly braided and routinely scrub my teeth with a licorice root, thanks to Robby. I'm not sluggish like Lizzie or overbearing like Mrs. English. In fact, I'm the least offensive member of our crew. "It's because I'm . . ." My hand flies to my cheek, dusky and smooth as the Asian steppes. "I know you can't help it. It's the lot you drew." Excerpted from The Downstairs Girl by Stacey Lee All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.