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a mixture of Bulgari perfume and moisturizer and occasionally a
whiff of B…DAD’s cigarette smoke and was not at all unpleasant； it
made me feel physically ill。 British accents； Bulgari perfume； white
silk scarves—just a few of life’s simpler pleasures that were
forever ruined for me。
The mail was the usual； ninety…nine percent garbage that Miranda
would never see。 Everything that was just labeled “Editor in Chief”
went directly to the people who edited the Letters pages； but many
of the readers had gotten more savvy and now addressed their
correspondence directly to Miranda。 It took me about four seconds to
skim one and see that it was a letter to the editor and not a
charity ball invitation or a quick note from a long…lost friend； and
those I just threw aside。 Today there were tons。 Breathless notes
from teenage girls and housewives and even a few gay men （or； in all
fairness； maybe straight and just very fashion…conscious）： “Miranda
Priestly； you’re not only the darling of the fashion world； you’re
the Queen of my world！” one gushed。 “I couldn’t agree more with your
choice to run the article about red being the new black in the April
issue—it was ballsy； but genius！” another exclaimed。 A few letters
ranted about a Gucci ad being too sexual since it depicted two women
in stilettos and garters who lay together on a rumpled bed and
pressed their bodies together； and a few more decried the
sunken…eyed； starvation…wracked； heroine…chic models thatRunway had
used in its “health First： How to Feel Better” article。 One was a
standard…issue post office postcard that was addressed in flowery
script to Miranda Priestly on one side and read； quite simply； on
the other： “Why？ Why do you print such a boring； stupid magazine？” I
laughed out loud and tucked that one in my bag for later—my
collection of critical letters and postcards was growing； and soon
there wasn’t going to be any fridge space left。 Lily thought it was
bad karma to bring Home other people’s negative thoughts and
hostility； and she shook her head when I insisted that any bad karma
originally intended toward Miranda could only make me happy。
The last letter of the massive pile before I’d begin tackling the
two dozen invitations Miranda received each day was addressed in the
loopy； girly writing of a teenager； plete withi ’s dotted with
hearts and smiley faces next to happy thoughts。 I planned to only
skim it； but it wouldn’t allow itself to be skimmed： it was too
immediately sad and honest—it was bleeding and pleading and begging
all over the page。 The initial four…second period came and went and
I was still reading。
Dear Miranda；
My name is Anita and I am seventeen years old and I am a senior at
Barringer H。S。 in Newark； NJ。 I am so ashamed of my body even though
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 unhap