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时尚女魔头 穿普拉达的恶魔 英文原版-第64部分

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  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; 
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