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everyone tells me I’m not fat。 I want to look like the models you
have in your magazine。 Every month I wait for Runway to e in the
mail even though my mama says it’s stupid to pay all my allowance
for a fashion magazine。 But she doesn’t understand that I have a
dream； but you do； dontcha？ It has been my dream since I was a
little girl； but I don’t think it’s gonna happen。 Why； you ask？ My
boobs are very flat and my behind is bigger than the ones your
models have and this makes me very embarased。 I ask myself if this
is the way I wanna live my life and I answer NO！！！ because I wanna
change and I wanna look and feel better and so I’m asking for your
help。 I wanna make a positive change and look in the mirror and love
my breasts and my behind because they look just like the ones in the
best magazine on earth！！！
Miranda； I know you’re a wonderful person and fashion editor and you
could transform me into a new person； and trust me； I would be
forever grateful。 But if you can’t make me a new person； maybe you
can get me a really； really； really nice dress for special
occasions？ I don’t ever have dates； but my mama says it’s OK for
girls to go out alone so I will。 I have one old dress but its not a
designer dress or anything you would show in Runway。 My favorite
designers are Prada （#1）； Versace （#2）； John Paul Gotier （#3）。 I
have many faves； but those are my first three I love。 I do not own
any of their clothes and I haven’t even seen them in a store （I’m
not sure if anywhere in Newark sells these designers； but if you
know of one； please tell me so I can go look at them and see what
they look like up close）； but I’ve seen there clothes in Runway and
I have to say that I really； really love them。
I’m gonna stop bothering you now； but I want you to know that even
if you throw this letter in the garbage； I will still be a big fan
of your magazine because I love the models and the clothes and
everything； and of course I love you too。
Sincerely；
Anita Alvarez
P。S。 My phone number is 973…555…3948。 You can write or call but
please do so before the week of July 4 because I really need a nice
dress before then。 I LOVE YOU！！ Thank you！！！！！
The letter smelled like Jean Naté； that acrid…smelling toilet water–
spray preferred by preteen girls the country over。 But that wasn’t
what was causing the tightness in my chest； the constriction in my
throat。 How many Anitas were there out there？ Young girls with so
little else in their lives that they measured their worth； their
confidence； their entire existence around the clothes and the models
they saw inRunway ？ How many more had decided to unconditionally
love the woman who put it all together each month—the orchestrator
of such a seductive fantasy—even though she wasn’t worth one single
second of their adoration？ How many girls had no idea that the
object of their worship was a lonely； deeply unhappy； and oftentimes
cruel woman who didn’t deserve the briefest moment of their innocent
affection and attention？
I wanted to cry； for Anita and all her friends who expended so much
energy trying to mold themselves into Shalom or Stella or Carmen；
trying to impress and please and flatter the woman who would only
take their letters and roll her eyes or shrug her shoulders or toss
them without a second thought to the girl who’d written down a piece
of herself。 Instead； I tucked the letter into my top desk drawer and
vowed to find a way to help Anita。 She sounded even more desperate
than the others who wrote； and there was no reason that with all the
excess stuff around I couldn’t find her a decent dress for a date
she would hopefully have soon。
“Hey； Em； I’m just going to run down to the newsstand and see if
they haveWomen’s Wear yet。 I can’t believe it’s so late today。 Do
you want anything？”
“Will you bring me a Diet Coke？” she asked。
“Sure。 Just a minute；” I said； and weaved quickly through the racks
and past the doorway to the service elevator； where I could hear
Jessica and James sharing a cigarette and wondering who would be at
Miranda’s Met party that night。 Ahmed was finally able to produce a
copy ofWomen’s Wear Daily； which was a relief； and I grabbed a Diet
Coke for Emily and a can of Pepsi for me； but on second thought； I
took a Diet for myself as well。 The difference in taste and
enjoyment wasn’t worth the disapproving looks and/or ments I was
sure to receive during the walk from reception to my desk。
I was so busy examining the front page’s color photo of Tommy
Hilfiger； I didn’t even notice that one of the elevators had opened
and was available。 Out of the corner of my eye； I caught a quick
glimpse of green； a very distinct green。 Particularly noteworthy
because Miranda had a Chanel suit in just that shade of greeny
tweed； a color I’d never really seen before but liked a whole lot。
And although my mind knew better； it couldn’t stop my eyes from
looking up and into the elevator； where they were sort of not really
surprised to find Miranda peering back。 She stood ramrod straight；
her hair pulled severely off her face as usual； her eyes staring
intently at what must have been my shocked face。 There was
absolutely no alternative but to step inside the elevator with her。
“Um； good morning； Miranda；” I said； but it came out sounding like a
whisper。 The doors closed behind us： we would be the only two riding
for the entire seventeen floors。 She said nothing to me； but she
pulled out her leather organizer and began flipping through the
pages。 We stood side by side； the depth of the silence increasing
tenfold with every second that she didn’t respond。Does she even
recognize me？ I wondered。 Was it possible that she was entirely
unaware that I had been her assistant for the past seven months—or
perhaps I really had whispered so softly that she hadn’t heard？ I
wondered why she didn’t immediately ask me about the restaurant
review or whether I’d received her message about ordering new china；
or if everything was in place for the evening’s party。 But she acted
as though she were all alone in that elevator； that there was not
another human being—or； to be precise； not one worth
acknowledging—inside that small vestibule with her。
It wasn’t until nearly a full minute later that I noticed we weren’t
progressing through the floors。 Ohmigod！ Shehad seen me because
she’d assumed that I would press the button； but I’d been too
stunned to move。 I reached forward slowly； fearfully； pressed the
number seventeen； and instinctively waited for something to explode。
But we immediately whisked upward； and I wasn’t even sure if she had
noticed we hadn’t been moving all along。
Five； six； seven 。 。 。 it felt as though it took ten minutes for the
elevator to pass each floor； and the silence had begun humming in my
ears。 When I worked up enough nerve to steal a glance in Miranda’s
direction； I discovered that she was looking me up and down。 Her
eyes moved unabashedly as they checked out first my shoes and then
my pants and then my shirt； and continued upward to my face and
hair； all the while avoiding my eyes。 The expression on her face was
one of passive disgust； the way the desensitizedLaw & Order
detectives appear when they’re faced with yet another beaten and
bloodied corpse。 I did a quick review of myself and wondered what
exactly had triggered the reaction。 Short…sleeve； military…style
shirt； a brand…new pair of Seven jeans I’d been sent free from their
PR department simply for working atRunway； and a pair of relatively
flat （two…inch heels） black slingbacks that were to date the only
nonboots/nonsneakers/nonloafers that allowed me to make four…plus
trips to Starbucks a day without shredding my feet to bits。 I
usually tried to wear the Jimmy Choos that Jeffy had given me； but I
needed a day off every week or so to allow the arches in my feet to
stop aching。 My hair was clean and assembled in the kind of
deliberately messy topknot that Emily always wore without ment；
and my nails—though unpainted—were long and reasonably well shaped。
I had shaved under my arms within the last forty…eight hours。 At
least as far as the last time I’d checked； there were no massive
facial eruptions。 My Fossil watch was turned around so the face was
sitting on the inside of my wrist just in case anyone tried to catch
a glimpse of the brand； and a quick check with my right hand
indicated that no bra straps were visible。 So what was it？ What
exactly had made her look at me that way？
Twelve；