seat　and　held　him　over　my　shoulder；　rubbing　his　back　through
  his　terry…cloth　footie　pajamas；　and；　remarkably；　he　shut　up。
  “You’ll　never　believe　who　that　was；”　I　sang；　dancing　around
  the　room　with　Isaac。　“It　was　an　editor　atSeventeen
  magazine—I’m　going　to　be　published！”
  “Shut　up！　They’re　printing　your　life　story？”
  “It’s　not　my　life　story—it’s　‘Jennifer’s’　life　story。　And　it’s
  only　two　thousand　words；　so　it’s　not　the　biggest　thing　ever；
  but　it’s　a　start。”
  “Sure；　whatever　you　say。　Young　girl　gets　super　caught　up　in
  achieving　something　and　ends　up　screwing　over　all　the　people
  who　matter　in　her　life。　Jennifer’s　story。　Uh…huh；　whatever。”
  Lily　was　grinning　and　rolling　her　eyes　at　the　same　time。
  “Whatever；　details；　details。　The　point　is；　they’re　publishing
  it　in　the　February　issue　and　they’re　paying　me　three　thousand
  dollars　for　it。　How　crazy　is　that？”
  “Congrats；　Andy。　Seriously；　that’s　amazing。　And　now　you’ll
  have　this　as　a　clip；　right？”
  “Yep。　Hey；　it’s　notThe　New　Yorker；　but　it’s　an　OK　first　step。
  If　I　can　round　up　a　few　more　of　these；　maybe　in　some　different
  magazines；　too；　I　might　be　getting　somewhere。　I　have　a　meeting
  with　the　woman　on　Friday；　and　she　told　me　to　bring　anything
  else　I’ve　been　working　on。　And　she　didn’t　even　ask　if　I　speak
  French。　And　she　hates　Miranda。　I　can　work　with　this　woman。”
  I　drove　the　Texas　crew　to　the　airport；　picked　up　a　good　and
  greasy　Burger　King　lunch　for　Lily　and　me　to　wash　down　our
  breakfast　donuts　with；　and　spent　the　rest　of　the　day—and　the
  next；　and　the　next　after　that—working　on　some　stuff　to　show
  the　Miranda…loathing　Loretta。
  19
  “Tall　vanilla　cappuccino；　please；”　I　ordered　from　a　barista　I
  didn’t　recognize　at　the　Starbucks　on　57th　Street。　It　had　been
  nearly　five　months　since　I’d　been　here　last；　trying　to　balance
  a　whole　tray　of　Coffees　and　snacks　and　get　back　to　Miranda
  before　she　fired　me　for　breathing。　When　I　thought　about　it
  like　that；　I　figured　it　was　far　better　to　have　gotten　fired
  for　screaming　“fuck　you”　than　it　was　to　get　fired　because　I’d
  brought　back　two　packets　of　Equal　instead　of　two　raw　sugars。
  Same　oute；　but　a　totally　different　ballgame。
  Who　knew　Starbucks　had　such　huge　turnover？　There　wasn’t　a
  single　person　behind　the　counter　who　looked　remotely　familiar；
  making　all　the　time　I’d　spent　there　seem　that　much　farther
  away。　I　smoothed　my　well…cut　but　nondesigner　black　pants　and
  checked　to　make　sure　that　the　cuffed　bottoms　hadn’t　collected
  any　of　the　city’s　muddy　slush。　I　knew　there　was　an　entire
  magazine　staff　of　fashionistas　who　would　emphatically　disagree
  with　me；　but　I　thought　I　looked　pretty　damn　good　for　only　my
  second　interview。　Not　only　did　I　now　know　that　no　one　wears
  suits　at　magazines；　but　somewhere；　somehow；　a　year’s　worth　of
  high　fashion　had—by　simple　osmosis；　I　think—crammed　itself
  into　my　head。
  The　cappuccino　was　almost　too　hot；　but　it　felt　fantastic　on
  that　chilly；　wet　day。　The　darkened；　late…afternoon　sky　seemed
  to　be　misting　the　city　with　a　giant　Snow…Cone。　Normally；　a　day
  like　this　would’ve　depressed　me。　It　was；　after　all；　one　of　the
  more　depressing　days　in　the　year’s　most　depressing　month
  （February）；　the　kind　when　even　the　optimists　would　rather
  crawl　under　the　covers　and　the　pessimists　didn’t　stand　a
  chance　of　getting　through　without　a　fistful　of　Zoloft。　But　the
  Starbucks　was　warmly　lit　and　just　the　right　state　of　crowded；
  and　I　curled　up　in　one　of　their　oversize　green　armchairs　and
  tried　not　to　think　of　who　had　rubbed　his　dirty　hair　there
  last。
  In　the　past　three　months；　Loretta　had　bee　my　mentor；　my
  champion；　my　savior。　We’d　hit　it　off　in　that　first　meeting　and
  she’d　been　nothing　but　wonderful　to　me　ever　since。　As　soon　as
  I’d　walked　into　her　spacious　but　cluttered　office　and　saw　that
  she　was—gasp！—fat；　I　had　a　weird　feeling　that　I’d　love　her。
  She　sat　me　down　and　read　every　word　of　the　stuff　I’d　been
  working　on　all　week：　tongue…in…cheek　pieces　on　fashion　shows；
  some　snarky　stuff　on　being　a　celebrity　assistant；　a　hopefully
  sensitive　story　about　what　it　takes—and　doesn’t　take—to　bring
  down　a　three…year…long　relationship　with　someone　you　love　but
  can’t　be　with。　It　was　storybook…like；　nauseating；　really；　how
  well　we’d　instantly　hit　it　off；　how　effortlessly　we　shared　our
  nightmares　aboutRunway　（I　was　still　having　them：　a　recent　one
  had　included　a　particularly　horrid　segment　in　which　my　own
  parents　were　shot　dead　by　Parisian　fashion　police　for　wearing
  shorts　on　the　street　and　Miranda　had　somehow　managed　to
  legally　adopt　me）；　how　quickly　we　realized　that　we　were　the
  same　person；　just　seven　years　apart。
  Since　I’d　just　had　the　brilliant　idea　of　dragging　all　myRunway
  clothes　to　one　of　those　snooty　resale　shops　on　Madison　Avenue；
  I　was　a　wealthy　woman—I　could　afford　to　write　for　peanuts；
  anything　for　a　byline。　I　had　waited　and　waited　for　Emily　or
  Jocelyn　to　call　to　tell　me　they　were　sending　a　messenger　to
  pick　it　all　up；　but　they　never　did。　So　it　was　all　mine。　I
  packed　up　most　of　the　clothes　but　set　aside　the　Diane　Von
  Furstenburg　wrap…dress。　While　going　through　the　contents　of　my
  desk　drawers　that　Emily　had　emptied　into　boxes　and　mailed　to
  me；　I　came　across　the　letter　from　Anita　Alvarez；　the　one　in
  which　she　expressed　her　worship　of　all　thingsRunway　。　I’d
  always　meant　to　send　her　a　fabulous　dress；　but　I’d　never　found
  the　time。　I　wrapped　the　bold…printed　dress　in　tissue　paper；
  tossed　in　a　pair　of　Manolos；　and　forged　a　note　from　Miranda—a
  talent　I　was　unhappy　to　discover　I　still　possessed。　This　girl
  should　know—just　once—how　it　feels　to　own　one　beautiful　thing。
  And；　more　importantly；　to　think　there’s　someone　out　there　who
  actually　cares。
  Except　for　the　dress；　the　tight　and　very　sexy　D&G　jeans；　and
  the　utterly　classic；　quilted；　chain…handle　purse　I’d　given　to
  my　mom　as　a　gift　（“Oh；　honey；　this　is　beautiful。　What’s　this
  brand　again？”）；　I　sold　every　last　filmy　top；　leather　pant；
  spiked　boot；　and　strappy　sandal。　The　woman　who　worked　the
  register　called　the　woman　who　owned　the　store；　and　the　two　of
  them　had　decided　it　would　be　best　if　they　just　closed　the　shop
  down　for　a　few　hours　to　evaluate　my　merchandise。　The　Louis
  Vuitton　luggage—two　large　suitcases；　one　medium…size
  accessories　bag；　and　an　oversize　trunk—alone　had　netted　me　six
  grand；　and　when　they　were　finally　finished　whispering　and
  examining　and　giggling；　I　cruised　out　of　there　with　a　check
  for　just　over　38；000。　Which；　by　my　calculations；　meant　that　I
  could　pay　rent　and　even　feed　myself　for　a　year　while　I　tried
  to　get　this　writing　gig　together。　And　then　Loretta　strolled
  into　my　life　and　made　it　instantly　better。
  Loretta　had　already　agreed　to　buy　four　pieces—one　blurb；　only
  slightly　larger　than　a　pull　quote；　two　500…word　pieces；　and
  the　original　2；000…word　story。　But　even　more　exciting　was　her
  bizarre　obsession　with　helping　me　make　contacts；　her　eagerness
  to　get　in　touch　with　people　at　other　magazines　who　might　just
  be　interested　in　some　freelance　stuff。　Which　is　exactly　what
  put　me　at　that　Starbucks　on　that　overcast　winter　day—I　was
  headed　back　to　Elias…Clark。　It　had　taken　a　lot　of　insisting　on
  her　part　to　convince　me　that　Miranda　wouldn’t　hunt　me　down　the
  minute　I　walked　in　the　building　and　knock　me　out　with　a　blow
  dart；　but　I　was　still　nervous。　Not　paralyzed　with　fear　like
  the　old　days　when　a　mere　Cell　Phone　ring　was　enough　to　cause
  my　heart　to　flip…flop；　but　jittery　enough　at　the
  thought—however　remote　the　possibility—of　catching　a　glimpse
  of　her。　Or　Emily。　Or　anyone　else；　for　that　matter；　except　for
  James；　who　had　kept　in　touch。
  Somehow；　someway；　for　somereason；　Loretta　had　called　her　old
  college　roommate　who　just　so　happened　to　edit　the　city　section
  ofThe　Buzz　and　told　her　that　she’d　discovered　the　next　new
  “it”　writer。　That　was　supposed　to　be　me。　She’d　arranged　an
  interview　for　me　today；　and　even　forewarned　the　woman　that　I’d
  been　summarily　dismissed　from　Miranda’s　employ；　but　the　woman
  had　just　laughed　and　said　something　to　the　effect　that　if　they
  refused　to　use　anyone　whom　Miranda　had　fired　at　one　point　or
  another；　they’d　barely　have　any　writers　at　all。
  I　finished　my　cappuccino　and；　newly　energized；　gathered　my
  portfolio　of　different　articles　and　headed—this　time　calmly；
  without　either　an　incessantly　ringing　phone　or　an　armload　of
  Coffees—toward　the　Elias…Clark　building。　A　moment　or　two　of
  reconnaissance　from　the　sidewalk　indicated　that　noRunway
  Clackers　we