a　falsetto　voice。　“YOU’RE　PRETTY；　BUT　TOO　WHOLESOME。　AND　THE　OUTFIT
  DOES　NOTHING　FOR　YOU！”
  “My　name’s　Andrea。　I’m　Miranda’s　new　assistant。”
  He　moved　his　eyes　up　and　down　over　my　body；　inspecting　every　inch。
  Emily　was　watching　the　spectacle　with　a　sneer　on　her　face。　The
  silence　was　unbearable。
  “KNEE…HIGH　BOOTS？　WITH　A　KNEE…LENGTH　SKIRT？　ARE　YOU　KIDDING　ME？　BABY
  GIRL；　IN　CASE　YOU’RE　UNAWARE—IN　CASE　YOU　MISSED　THE　BIG；　BLACK　SIGN
  BY　THE　DOOR—THIS　ISRUNWAY　MAGAZINE；　THE　FUCKINGHIIPPEST　MAGAZINE　ON
  EARTH。　ON　EARTH！　BUT　NO　WORRIES；　HONEY；　NIGEL　WILL　GET　RID　OF　THAT
  JERSEY　MALL…RAT　LOOK　YOU’VE　GOT　GOING　SOON　ENOUGH。”
  He　put　both　his　massive　hands　on　my　hips　and　twirled　me　around。　I
  could　feel　his　eyes　looking　at　my　legs　and　tush。
  “SOON　ENOUGH；　SWEETIE；　I　PROMISE　YOU；　BECAUSE　YOU’RE　GOOD　RAW
  MATERIAL。　NICE　LEGS；　GREAT　HAIR；　AND　NOT　FAT。　I　CAN　WORK　WITH　NOT
  FAT。　SOON　ENOUGH；　SWEETIE。”
  I　wanted　to　be　offended；　to　pull　myself　away　from　the　grip　he　had　on
  my　lower　body；　to　take　a　few　minutes　and　mull　over　the　fact　that　a
  plete　stranger—and　a　coworker；　no　less—had　just　provided　an
  unsolicited　and　unflinchingly　honest　account　of　my　outfit　and　my
  figure；　but　I　wasn’t。　I　liked　his　kind　green　eyes　that　seemed　to
  laugh　instead　of　taunt；　but　more　than　that；　I　liked　that　I　had
  passed。　This　was　Nigel—　single　name；　like　Madonna　or　Prince—the
  fashion　authority　whom　even　I　recognized　from　TV；　magazines；　the
  society　pages；　everywhere；　and　he　had　called　me　pretty。　And　said　I
  had　nice　legs！　I　let　the　mall…rat　ment　slide。　Iliked　this　guy。
  I　heard　Emily　tell　him　to　leave　me　alone　from　somewhere　in　the
  background；　but　I　didn’t　want　him　to　go。　Too　late；　he　was　already
  heading　for　the　door；　his　fur　cape　flapping　behind　him。　I　wanted　to
  call　out；　tell　him　it　had　been　nice　to　meet　him；　that　I　wasn’t
  offended　by　what　he　said　and　was　excited　that　he　wanted　to　redo　me。
  But　before　I　could　say　a　thing；　Nigel　whipped　around　and　covered　the
  space　between　us　in　two　strides；　each　the　length　of　a　long　jump。　He
  planted　himself　directly　in　front　of　me；　wrapped　my　entire　body　with
  his　massive；　rippling　arms；　and　pressed　me　to　him。　My　head　rested
  just　below　his　chest；　and　I　smelled　the　unmistakable　scent　of
  Johnson’s　Baby　Lotion。　And　just　as　I　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　hug
  him　back；　he　flung　me　backward；　engulfed　both　of　my　hands　in　his；
  and　screeched：
  “WELE　TO　THE　DOLLHOUSE；　BABY！”
  5
  “He　said　what？”　Lily　asked　as　she　licked　a　spoonful　of　green　tea　ice
  cream。　She　and　I　had　met　at　Sushi　Samba　at　nine　so　I　could　update
  her　on　my　first　day。　My　parents　had　grudgingly　forked　over　the
  emergencies…only　credit　card　again　until　I　got　my　first　paycheck。
  Spicy　tuna　rolls　and　seaweed　salads　certainly　felt　like　an
  emergency；　and　so　I　silently　thanked　Mom　and　Dad　for　treating　Lily
  and　me　so　well。
  “He　said；　‘Wele　to　the　dollhouse；　baby。’　I　swear。　How　cool　is
  that？”
  She　looked　at　me；　mouth　hung　open；　spoon　suspended　in　midair。
  “You　have　the　coolest　job　I’ve　ever　heard　of；”　said　Lily；　who　always
  talked　about　how　she　should’ve　worked　for　a　year　before　going　back
  to　school。
  “It　does　seem　pretty　cool；　doesn’t　it？　Definitely　weird；　but　cool；
  too。　Whatever；”　I　said；　digging　in　to　my　oozing　chocolate　brownie。
  “It’s　not　like　I　wouldn’t　rather　be　a　student　again　than　doing　any
  of　this。”
  “Yeah；　I’m　sure　you’d　just　love　to　work　part…time　to　finance　your
  obscenely　expensive　and　utterly　useless　Ph。D。　You　would；　wouldn’t
  you？　You’re　jealous　that　I　get　to　bartend　in　an　undergrad　pub；　get
  hit　on　by　freshmen　until　fourA　。M。　every　night；　and　then　head　to
  class　all　day；　aren’t　you？　All　of　it　knowing　that　if—and　that’s　a
  big；　fat　if—you　manage　to　finish　at　some　point　in　the　next　seventeen
  years；　you’ll　never　get　a　job。　Anywhere。”　She　plastered　on　a　big；
  fake　smile　and　took　a　swig　of　her　Sapporo。　Lily　was　studying　for　her
  Ph。D。　in　Russian　Literature　at　Columbia　and　working　odd　jobs　every
  free　second　she　wasn’t　studying。　Her　grandmother　barely　had　enough
  money　to　support　herself；　and　Lily　wouldn’t　qualify　for　grants　until
  she’d　finished　her　master’s；　so　it　was　remarkable　she’d　even　e
  out　that　night。
  I　took　the　bait；　as　I　always　did　when　she　bitched　about　her　life。
  “So　why　do　you　do　it；　Lil？”　I　asked；　even　though　I’d　heard　the
  answer　a　million　times。
  Lily　snorted　and　rolled　her　eyes　again。　“Because　I　love　it！”　she
  sang　sarcastically。　And　even　though　she’d　never　admit　it　because　it
  was　so　much　more　fun　to　plain；　she　did　love　it。　She’d　developed　a
  thing　for　Russian　culture　ever　since　her　eighth…grade　teacher　told
  her　that　Lily　looked　how　he　had　always　pictured　Lolita；　with　her
  round　face　and　curly　black　hair。　She　went　directly　Home　and　read
  Nabokov’s　masterpiece　of　lechery；　never　allowing　the　whole
  teacher…Lolita　reference　to　bother　her；　and　then　read　everything
  else　Nabokov　wrote。　And　Tolstoy。　And　Gogol。　And　Chekhov。　By　the　time
  college　rolled　around；　she　was　applying　to　Brown　to　work　with　a
  specific　Russian　lit　professor　who；　upon　interviewing
  seventeen…year…old　Lily；　had　declared　her　one　of　the　most　well　read
  and　passionate　students　of　Russian　literature　he’d　ever
  met—undergrad；　graduate；　or　otherwise。　She　still　loved　it；　still
  studied　Russian　grammar　and　could　read　anything　in　its　original；　but
  she　enjoyed　whining　about　it　more。
  “Yeah；　well；　I　definitely　agree　that　I　have　the　best　gig　around。　I
  mean；　Tommy　Hilfiger？　Chanel？　Oscar　de　la　Renta’s　apartment？　Quite　a
  first　day。　I　have　to　say；　I’m　not　quite　sure　how　all　of　this　is
  going　to　get　me　any　closer　toThe　New　Yorker；　but　maybe　it’s　just　too
  early　to　tell。　It’s　just　not　seeming　like　reality；　you　know？”
  “Well；　anytime　you　feel　like　getting　back　in　touch　with　reality；　you
  know　where　to　find　me；”　Lily　said；　taking　her　MetroCard　out　of　her
  purse。　“If　you　get　a　craving　for　a　little　ghetto；　if　you’re　just
  dying　to　keep　it　real　in　Harlem；　well；　my　luxurious
  two…hundred…and…fifty…square…foot　studio　is　all　yours。”
  I　paid　the　check　and　we　hugged　good…bye；　and　she　tried　to　give　me
  specific　instructions　on　how　to　get　from　Seventh　Avenue　and
  Christopher　Street　to　my　own　sublet　all　the　way　uptown。　I　swore　up
  and　down　that　I　understood　exactly　where　to　find　the　L…train　and
  then　the　6；　and　how　to　walk　from　the　96th　Street　stop　to　my
  apartment；　but　as　soon　as　she　left；　I　jumped　in　a　cab。
  Just　this　once；I　thought　to　myself；　sinking　into　the　warm　backseat
  and　trying　not　to　breathe　in　the　driver’s　body　odor。I’m　a　Runwaygirl
  now　。
  I　was　pleased　to　discover　that　the　rest　of　that　first　week　wasn’t
  much　different　than　the　first　day。　On　Friday；　Emily　and　I　met　in　the
  stark　white　lobby　again　at　sevenA　。M。；　and　this　time　she　handed　me
  my　own　ID　card；　plete　with　a　picture　that　I　didn’t　remember
  taking。
  “From　the　security　camera；”　she　said　when　I　stared　at　it。　“They’re
  everywhere　around　here；　just　so　you　know。　They’ve　had　some　major
  problems　with　people　stealing　stuff；　the　clothes　and　jewelry　called
  in　for　shoots；　it　seems　the　messengers　and　sometimes　even　the
  editors　just　help　themselves。　So　now　they　track　everyone。”　She　slid
  her　card　down　the　slot　and　the　thick　glass　door　clicked　open。
  “Track？　What　exactly　do　you　mean　by　‘track’？”
  She　moved　quickly　down　the　hallway　toward　our　offices；　her　hips
  swishing　back　and　forth；　back　and　forth　in　the　skintight　tan　Seven
  cords　she　was　wearing。　She’d　told　me　the　day　before　that　I　should
  seriously　consider　getting　a　pair　or　ten；　as　these　were　among　the
  only　jeans　or　corduroys　that　Miranda　would　permit　people　to　wear　in
  the　office。　Those　and　the　MJ’s　were　OK；　but　only　on　Friday；　and　only
  if　worn　with　high　heels。　MJ’s？　“Marc　Jacobs；”　she　had　said；
  exasperated。
  “Well；　between　the　cameras　and　the　cards；　they　kind　of　know　what
  everyone’s　doing；”　she　said　as　she　dropped　her　Gucci　logo　tote　on
  her　desk。　She　began　unbuttoning　her　very　fitted　leather　blazer；　a
  coat　that　looked　supremely　inadequate　for　the　late…November　weather。
  “I　don’t　think　they　actually　look　at　the　cameras　unless　something’s
  missing；　but　the　cards　tell　everything。　Like；　every　time　you　swipe
  it　downstairs　to　get　past　the　security　counter　or　on　the　floor　to
  get　in　the　door；　they　know　where　you　are。　That’s　how　they　tell　if
  people　are　at　work；　so　if　you　have　to　be　out—and　you　never　will；　but
  just　in　case　something　really　awful　happens—you’ll　just　give　me　your
  card　and　I’ll　swipe　it。　That　way　you’ll　still　get　paid　for　all　the
  days　you　mis