room；　I　couldn’t　take　my　eyes　off　her。
  As　usual；　the　sound　of　her　voice　broke　my　reverie。　“Ahn…dre…ah；　you
  do　know　the　names　and　faces　of　our　guests　this　evening；　do　you　not？
  I　assume　you　have　properly　studied　their　portraits。　I　expect　you
  won’t　humiliate　me　tonight　by　failing　to　greet　someone　by　name；”　she
  announced；　looking　nowhere；　with　only　my　name　indicating　that　her
  words　might　somehow　be　directed　toward　me。
  “Um；　yes；　I’ve　got　it　covered；”　I　answered；　suppressing　the　urge　to
  salute　and　still　acutely　aware　that　I　was　staring。　“I’ll　take　a　few
  minutes　now　and　make　sure　I’m　positive。”　She　looked　at　me　as　if　to
  sayYou　sure　will；　you　idiot；　and　I　forced　myself　to　look　away　and
  walk　out　of　the　gallery。　Ilana　was　right　behind　me。
  “What’s　she　talking　about？”　she　whispered；　leaning　toward　me。
  “Portraits？　Is　she　crazy？”
  We　sat　down　on　an　unfortable　wooden　bench　in　a　darkened　hallway；
  both　of　us　overwhelmed　with　the　need　to　hide。　“Oh；　that。　Yeah；
  normally　I　would’ve　spent　the　last　week　trying　to　find　pictures　of
  the　guests　tonight　and　memorizing　them　so　I　could　greet　them　by
  name；”　I　explained　to　a　horrified　Ilana。　She　stared　at　me
  incredulously。　“But　since　she　just　told　me　I　had　to　e　today；　I
  only　had　a　few　minutes　in　the　car　to　look　them　over。
  “What？”　I　asked。　“You　thinkthis　is　strange？　Whatever。　It’s　standard
  stuff　for　a　Miranda　party。”
  “Well；　I　thought　there　wouldn’t　be　anyone　famous　here　tonight；”　she
  said；　referring　to　Miranda’s　past　parties　at　the　Met。　Since　she　was
  a　huge　contributor；　Miranda　was　often　granted　the　very　special
  privilege　of　renting　out；　oh；　THE　METROPOLITAN　MUSEUM　OF　ART　for
  private　parties　and　cocktail　hours。　Mr。　Tomlinson　had　had　to　ask
  only　once；　and　Miranda　was　scrambling　to　make　her　brother…in…law’s
  party　the　best　the　Met　had　ever　seen。　She　figured　it　would　impress
  the　rich　Southerners　and　their　trophy　wives　to　dine　for　a　night　at
  the　Met。　She　was　right。
  “Yeah；　there　won’t　be　anyone　we’d　recognize　right　away；　just　a　lot
  of　billionaires　with　homes　below　the　Mason…Dixon　line。　Usually　when
  I　have　to　memorize　the　guests’　faces；　they’re　easier　to　find　online
  or　inWWD　or　something。　I　mean；　you　can　generally　locate　a　picture　of
  Queen　Noor　or　Michael　Bloomberg　or　Yohji　Yamamoto　if　you　have　to。
  But　just　try　to　find　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Packard　from　some　rich　suburb　of
  Charleston　or　wherever　the　hell　they　live　and　it’s　not　so　easy。
  Miranda’s　other　assistant　was　looking　for　these　people　while
  everyone　else　was　getting　me　ready；　and　she　eventually　found　almost
  everyone　in　the　society　pages　of　their　Hometown　newspapers　or　on
  various　panies’　web　sites；　but　it　was　really　annoying。”
  Ilana　continued　to　stare。　I　think　somehow　I　knew　that　I　was　sounding
  like　a　robot；　but　I　couldn’t　stop。　Her　shock　only　made　me　feel
  worse。
  “There’s　only　one　couple　I　haven’t　identified　yet；　so　I　guess　I’ll
  know　them　by　default；”　I　said。
  “Oh；　my。　I　don’t　know　how　you　do　it。　I’m　annoyed　I　have　to　be　here
  on　a　Friday　night；　but　I　can’t　imagine　doing　your　job。　How　do　you
  take　it？　How　do　you　stand　being　spoken　to　and　treated　like　that？”
  It　took　me　a　moment　to　realize　that　this　question　caught　me
  off…guard：　no　one　had　really　ever　volunteered　anything　negative
  about　my　job。　I’d　always　thought　I　was　the　only　one—among　the
  millions　of　imaginary　girls　that　would　“die”　for　my　job—who　saw
  anything　remotely　disturbing　about　my　situation。　It　was　more
  horrifying　to　see　the　shock　in　her　eyes　than　it　was　to　witness　the
  hundreds　of　ridiculous　things　I　saw　each　and　every　day　at　work；　the
  way　she　looked　at　me　with　that　pure；　unadulterated　pity　triggered
  something　inside　me。　I　did　what　I　hadn’t　done　in　months　of　working
  under　subhuman　conditions　for　a　nonhuman　boss；　what　I　always　managed
  to　keep　suppressed　for　a　more　appropriate　time。　I　started　to　cry。
  Ilana　looked　more　shocked　than　ever。　“Oh；　sweetie；　e　here！　I’m　so
  sorry！　I　didn’t　mean　anything　by　it。　You’re　a　saint　for　putting　up
  with　that　witch；　you　hear　me？　e　with　me。”　She　pulled　me　by　the
  hand　and　led　me　down　another　darkened　hallway　toward　an　office　in
  the　back。　“Here；　now　sit　for　a　minute　and　forget　all　about　what
  these　stupid　people　look　like。”
  I　sniffled　and　started　to　feel　stupid。
  “And　don’t　feel　strange；　you　hear？　I　have　a　feeling　you　kept　that
  inside　for　a　long；　long　time　and　you　have　to　have　a　good　cry　every
  now　and　then。”
  She　was　fumbling　around　in　her　desk　for　something　while　I　tried　to
  wipe　the　mascara　from　my　cheeks。　“Here；”　she　proclaimed　proudly。
  “I’m　destroying　this　right　after　you　see　it；　and　if　you　even　think
  of　telling　anyone　about　it；　I’ll　wreck　your　life。　But　just　look；
  it’s　amazing。”　She　handed　me　a　manila　envelope　sealed　with　a
  “Confidential”　sticker　and　smiled。
  I　tore　off　the　sticker　and　pulled　a　green　folder　out。　Inside　was　a
  photo—a　color　photocopy；　actually—of　Miranda　stretched　out　on　a
  restaurant　banquette。　I　recognized　it　immediately　as　a　picture　taken
  by　a　famous　society　photographer　during　a　recent　birthday　party　for
  Donna　Karan　at　Pastis。　It　had　already　appeared　on　the　pages　ofNew
  York　magazine　and　was　bound　to　keep　showing　up。　In　it　she　was
  wearing　her　signature　brown　and　white　snakeskin　trench　coat；　the　one
  I　always　thought　made　her　look　like　a　snake。
  Well；　it　seems　I　wasn’t　alone；　because　in　this　version；　someone　had
  subtly—expertly—attached　a　scaled…to…size　cutout　of　a　rattlesnake’s
  rattle　directly　where　her　legs　should　have　been。　The　effect　was　a
  fabulous　rendition　of　Miranda　as　Snake：　she　rested　her　elbow　on　the
  banquette；　cradled　her　chiseled　chin　in　her　palm；　and　stretched　out
  across　the　leather；　with　her　rattle　curled　in　a　semicircle　and
  hanging　off　the　edge　of　the　bench。　It　was　perfect。
  “Isn’t　it　great？”　Ilana　asked；　leaning　over　my　shoulder。　“Linda　came
  into　my　office　one　afternoon。　She’d　just　spent　the　entire　day　on　the
  phone　with　Miranda；　selecting　which　gallery　they’d　dine　in。　Linda
  naturally　insisted　on　one　gallery　because　it’s　by　far　the　best　size
  and　most　beautiful；　but　Miranda　mandated　that　it　be　held　in　the
  other　one　near　the　gift　shop。　They　went　back　and　forth　for　a　while
  before　Linda　finally—after　days　of　negotiations—got　permission　from
  the　board　to　hold　it　in　Miranda’s　gallery；　and　she　was　so　excited　to
  call　Miranda　and　tell　her　the　great　news。　Guess　what　happened　when　。
  。　。”
  “She　changed　her　mind；　obviously；”　I　said　quietly；　feeling　her
  irritation。　“She　decided　to　do　exactly　as　Linda　suggested　in　the
  first　place；　but　only　once　she　was　sure　everyone　would　jump　through
  all　her　hoops。”
  “Precisely。　Well；　this　irritated　the　hell　out　of　me。　I’ve　never　seen
  the　entire　museum　turn　itself　upside　down　for　anyone—I　mean；　christ；
  the　president　of　the　United　States　could　ask　to　have　a　State
  Department　dinner　here　and　they　wouldn’t　let　him！　And　then　your　boss
  thinks　she　can　march　in　and　order　everyone　around；　make　our　lives　a
  living　hell　for　days　on　end。　Anyway；　I　made　this　pretty　little
  picture　as　a　pick…me…up　for　Linda。　You　know　what　she　did　with　it？
  Shrunk　it　on　the　copier　so　she　could　have　a　little　one　for　her
  wallet！　I　just　thought　you’d　get　a　kick　out　of　this。　Even　if　it’s
  just　to　remind　you　that　you’re　not　alone。　You’re　definitely　the
  worst　off；　but　you’re　not　alone。”
  I　stuck　the　picture　back　in　its　confidential　envelope　and　handed　it
  back　to　Ilana。　“You’re　the　best；”　I　said；　touching　her　shoulder。　“I
  really；　really　appreciate　it。　I　promise　to　never；　ever　tell　anyone
  where　I　got　this；　but　will　you　please　send　this　to　me？　I　don’t　think
  it’ll　fit　in　the　Leiber　bag；　but　I’d　give　anything　if　you’d　send　it
  to　me　at　Home。　Please？”
  She　smiled　and　motioned　for　me　to　write　my　address；　and　we　both
  stood　up　and　walked　（I　hobbled）　back　to　the　museum’s　foyer。　It　was
  just　about　seven；　and　the　guests　were　due　to　arrive　any　minute。
  Miranda　and　B…DAD　were　talking　to　his　brother；　the　honored　guest　and
  groom；　who　looked　like　he　had　played　soccer；　football；　lacrosse；　and
  rugby　at　a　Southern　school—one　where　he　was　always　surrounded　by
  cooing　blondes。　The　cooing　blonde　of　twenty…six　who　was　to　bee
  his　bride　was　standing　quietly　by　his　side；　gazing　up　at　him
  adoringly。　She　was　holding　a　snifter　of　something　and　chortling　at
  his　jokes。
  Miranda　was　hanging　on　to　B…DAD’s　forearm　with　the　fakest　of　smiles
  plastered　across　her　face。　I　didn’t　have　to　hear　what　they　were
  saying　to　know　that　she　was　barely　responding　at　the　appropriate
  time。　Social　graces　we