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；