Chapter Text
Dear M.P.,
Since Mr. Patrick in the registrar's office won't tell me your full name, I have no choice but to greet you by your initials. I hope you won't take offense. This morning he informed me that you've decided to fund my tuition and living expenses at Northwestern for the next three years, and I truly don't know how to thank you. I've taken up my pen to write to you, but I still haven't recovered from the shock of the news. My head is still spinning with happiness, and I'm afraid I may ramble, so I apologize in advance.
To be honest, I had already prepared myself to leave school after this fall semester and go home to help out on the family farm. My father says our savings only seem to be enough for my older brother to continue his studies, and with me as well, things would be stretched too thin. Although his law program is very expensive, what he'll earn at a firm later is far more than what my literature degree would bring in, so I thought it was reasonable that I should go home. But then you appeared and generously solved this urgent problem, allowing me to finish my remaining three years. Having a university degree will keep me from being confined to the family farm. Maybe I can find a decent job, and maybe even have the chance to go to New York. Mr. Patrick says you have a major enterprise there. I truly hope that one day I can become as accomplished as you, though isn't that rather too presumptuous a thought?
My roommate Lily is telling me to turn off the light and rest, so I can only write this much for now. Once again, thank you so much for your support. May I write to you regularly to report on how I'm doing? I will study hard, live well, and be a good child, so that your kindness won't be wasted. If you have the time and inclination, please read my letters, but if you don't, that's all right too. That way my conscience will rest a little easier.
Thank you once again.
Sincerely yours,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
I never expected you would actually take the time to write back to me. I was so happy when I received your letter at the registrar's office that I jumped for joy, and Mr. Patrick gave me a good scolding. He doesn't allow students to jump about on his creaky wooden floor. He's always convinced it's about to give way. But his hearing isn't very good, so he doesn't know that Ethan from the next class has hidden a little plastic frog under the floorboard. (Please don't tell him.) Every time Ethan goes to mail a letter, he deliberately steps on that spot just to annoy Mr. Patrick.
Thank you for allowing me to write to you regularly. Speaking of which, could you give me an address that's convenient for you? Sending letters from school is quite restricted. The school doesn't want us corresponding frequently with the outside world. I thought I could mail my letters when I can leave campus on weekends. I have so many things I want to tell you. I might write every day, but I'll pack a whole week's words into one envelope, so receiving them won't be too much trouble for you.
Oh, and I have good news. Lily and I have both joined the university literary society. Every Wednesday and Friday after classes, we gather to read poems and novels and things like that. This Wednesday we read Shelley. Our literary society is as impoverished as this major's career prospects. I shared a copy of a book with two other friends, and its spine was already half split. I did a little repair work, and now it's been upgraded to a sewn binding. I've enclosed a photo of it.
Still, I do love reading Shelley, even if he won't be on the exam. If winter comes, can spring be far behind? Ha—the "Ode to the West Wind" might be too elementary for you, but it's just right for a childish person like me.
Still, winter really is coming. I hope you stay warm!
Your clever-handed,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
I received the two boxes of books you sent. That wasn't quite what I meant in my last letter, but I'm still deeply grateful for your gift. Your generosity has made me, in one leap, the second most important person in the literary society after our president Dylan. He has appointed me vice president, so I appear to have been promoted. Although our society doesn't have many people at all, I'll keep an eye on them and make sure they take good care of the books you sent.
Recently, far fewer students have been coming to our reading sessions. I hear a new roller-skating club meets at the same time as we do, so many students have gone off to skate instead. Even Lily has abandoned me and gone roller-skating. Hmph.
On Friday, two new faces, Doug and Gavin, came to our reading group. They had given up roller-skating to attend, and I was deeply moved. I held them up as positive examples of people who value the life of the mind. It wasn't until today that I learned they had simply overdone it on skates and sprained their ankles, and so went looking for a club activity they could do sitting down. If it weren't for the fact that we already have so few people, I'd really be tempted to throw the pair of them out.
I hear there's a flu outbreak in New York. Are you well? Please take care of yourself.
Your spiritually-minded,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
The past two weeks were all exams, and I held myself back from writing to you. I hope you won't blame me.
Although you didn't ask, I thought that since you have, after all, paid for my studies and my life, I have a duty and an obligation to give you at least a passable report card. So I prepared very hard for half a month, and as soon as the grades were out today, I couldn't wait to write you this letter and enclose the report. Of my six major courses this semester, only Race and Ethnicity was an A-minus; the rest were all A-pluses.
Nate says I'm a racist, but he only got a B-plus himself! He says it's his highest grade in any course, which proves his attitude is proper. Is he implying that my attitude isn't? That may be somewhat reasonable. Oh, right—Nate is Doug's friend. They're both from Ohio, and neither of them lives far from Lily and me. What a coincidence, isn't it?
And Doug seems to have genuinely fallen in love with our reading group. He doesn't go to roller-skating anymore, and he even pulled Nate in. I'm a little moved. The two of them have now become part of our small core group of regulars. But I always feel like there's something odd about their dynamic. I can't tell if the two of them are a couple. Lily and I have bet a month's worth of cleaning duty. I bet they are a couple.
It's snowing in Illinois. Behind Northwestern's Bishop Hall there's a square with thick snow, and everyone's been having snowball fights there. I took a photo with the snowman I built and enclosed it for you. It looks a bit silly. I mean the snowman, of course. Its nose is made from a tortoiseshell button that fell off my coat, and it's wearing my scarf, so it looks a bit like me, except its nose is ridiculously small, right?
Has it snowed in New York? If you have a snowball fight, watch out for bad people stuffing snow down your collar. Wishing you good health!
Your frozen, red-nosed,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Merry Christmas!
I had nothing to do at home in Columbus, so I knitted you a wool scarf. I'm not very skilled yet. I couldn't control the tension well in the first half, and the spacing was uneven, so I unraveled it and started over three times. My mother is a needlework expert. After guiding me for a while, I was able to continue the work more smoothly, but I swear this scarf contains no maternal labor. She thought I was making it for a boyfriend, and that's exactly why she refused to help. I told her it wasn't, but she didn't believe me. Oh well. I hope you like it.
I brought all the letters you sent me at school back home with me. I had a print shop laminate them for me, and now they're all neatly stored in a box in my room. Your handwriting is so beautiful, and both the ink and the stationery have such a lovely scent. It hurt me to have them laminated, but it was the only way to keep them from fading. I really want to learn your handwriting, so I've been tracing each of your letters and practicing when I have time. But I'm still missing eight letters. Could you please write me a slightly longer letter next time, one that contains all twenty-six letters? This is definitely not a trick to get you to write more to me. It's purely for educational purposes.
Oh, by the way, I lost the bet. Nate actually came and confessed to me today. I genuinely thought he and Doug were a couple, but he told me that Doug and Gavin are the ones who are together. I haven't told Lily this bad news. Maybe by the time the new term starts, she'll have forgotten our wager.
Did you have a happy and warm Christmas? My wish is for your wishes to come true, and also to meet you in person one day. Are two wishes too greedy? I've heard Santa Claus only grants one. If that's the case, then please let only the first one come true.
Your newly reformed gambler,
Andrea Sachs
Generous, kind, gentle, dear M.P.,
When I received your letter, I was so happy that I passed out on my bed. Two whole pages... two pages... I'm going to sleep with this envelope in my arms tonight. No, wait—if I roll over, it'll get wrinkled, and then my sin will be very great. I've decided to memorize it.
Hearing that you like the scarf I knitted has ignited a real ambition in me for the knitting enterprise. Is there a chance I could build a career from this? I've decided to move on to something slightly more difficult—a beanie—and after that, a sweater.
Oh, and I still haven't answered your question. Yes, I accepted him. I don't actually understand what's really different before and after. The four of us still hang out together just the same, except that Nate occasionally kisses me. Is that what a boyfriend is? It feels a little blurry. But he's a fun companion, and he cooks very well. I don't know how he ended up in Northwestern's physics program. He should have gone to Le Cordon Bleu. I learned a couple of things from him—oil-poached cherry tomatoes and butter-seared tuna. They're delicious, and I didn't set the kitchen on fire. If it wouldn't spoil, I'd really like to enclose some in this letter for you.
Our little group of friends now each has a specialty. I can knit, Lily can make coffee, Nate can cook, and as for Doug—well, Doug is very good at talking nonsense. We've agreed that after graduation, if none of us can find jobs, we'll open a knitting-themed restaurant. I'll sell crafts, Lily will make the coffee, Nate will prepare the food, and Doug will be in charge of talking nonsense online to drum up customers and also cleaning the shop. It sounds like we could hold on for at least three months before going bankrupt.
Your quite talented cook,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Lately, too few students have been taking part in our literary society, so we've been thinking about turning it into a campus newspaper. There are plenty of fun and interesting things happening at Northwestern every day. If we collected them and put together a monthly or biweekly paper, it might be quite interesting. Mr. Patrick didn't agree at first. He thought it would take up too much time that should go to studying. But Mrs. Patrick agreed. She's an associate professor in our literature department and rather likes my idea, so she's willing to act as our faculty advisor. Heh heh. I don't know what she did, but a weekend later, Mr. Patrick stopped objecting.
Because I have a lot of wild ideas and often help professors write articles, they've elected me editor-in-chief, with additional duties as correspondent and editor of the literary page. Nate joined the school soccer team and knows the athletics department well, so he's in charge of sports. Lily is in student government, so she covers news from the university side. We also requisitioned her camera and put Gavin in charge of photography. We've gathered about a dozen other students who are also interested, and we're preparing the first issue.
But now that I've brought everyone together, I'm a little nervous. It feels like a very heavy responsibility. Would it be better if I only handled the literary page? I seem to have set up quite an enormous operation. What do you think?
Your multi-armed and multi-headed,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Your encouragement put my mind greatly at ease. Enclosed is the first issue of our inaugural paper. We jointly decided to make it a biweekly publication. The school not only approved funding but also gave us a large vacant classroom specifically for this purpose. It's starting to look quite impressive. We hung up the sign for the Northwestern campus newspaper and took a photo beneath it with all the founding members. The one in the middle is me. I tried very hard to keep a straight face and look serious, but the final result came out even sillier. Why?
Lately I've been throwing myself into this day and night, along with scholarship matters (I'll quietly mention that I won the university's first-class scholarship), and the dark circles under my eyes are terrible. Once I finish this letter to you, I'm going to go pass out for a while. Wishing you plenty of sleep!
Your half-zombie,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
All the comments you made about our first issue were so precise, and we adopted every one of them! The professors gave us very good feedback, too. It looks like a completely professional newspaper now. My classmates regard me with a certain reverence, but I didn't dare keep your contribution to myself. I told them everything honestly, and everyone was thoroughly convinced. How is it that you know everything and excel at everything? Though now that I think about it, perhaps that's only natural. You ought to be omniscient and omnipotent. So I've added M.P. to the masthead, placed before my name. I hope you won't be angry about this presumptuous decision.
Let me also report that Nate is no longer in charge of the sports page. It seems he wasn't really interested in this work. He was only doing it out of a sense of duty as my boyfriend. Whenever it required him to put in real effort—or whenever I was the one putting in effort—he grew dissatisfied. He seemed to think he hid it well, but the moment you talk to him about it, it becomes glaringly obvious. He felt I was spending too little time with him. I can understand that, so I replaced him with a boy from the field hockey team named Justin to run the sports page, and told Nate to go play more soccer. That way he'd have less energy to sulk at me.
I've talked too much about him again. I'm sorry. Thank you for all your suggestions. I've enclosed our second issue for your review, our ghost editor-in-chief.
Your wholly prostrate,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
As usual, I've enclosed the twenty-second issue of our biweekly paper.
Next issue, the paper will be handed over to the next editor-in-chief. I'm about to graduate. It's been a truly difficult year. I don't think I've ever poured myself into anything so intensely in my life. Though, ha, my life hasn't been very long. My successor is a junior who has been with us since the very first issue, and she's very experienced. I trust her completely. I've told her that even after I graduate, she can call me anytime to discuss the paper.
Yesterday we took our graduation photos early, and I've enclosed one for you. Everyone is anxious about what comes next after graduation. My father wants me to come back to Columbus and find a newspaper job close to home, but Lily, Doug, and I all want to go to New York. Nate doesn't care either way. He'll follow me wherever I go. Every time he says that, I get a strange feeling. He always wraps his decisions as if they're considerations for me, and then brings them up later when things don't go smoothly, just like when we started the paper. But it doesn't matter. He can at least share the rent with me, and he really is a great cook. Ha.
After graduation, your support will come to an end, and I'm deeply grateful for your help over these three years. I have a presumptuous request: may I continue writing to you after I graduate? To finally be in the same city as you—it feels like a dream that's about to come true. Though living in a big city seems rather more complicated than running a campus newspaper. Please bless me and help me survive New York.
Your honorably graduated,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
New York is amazing!
I've tried very hard not to act too much like a country bumpkin, but I've probably failed. But Nate is even more of a country bumpkin than I am, so I feel a little more balanced. The fact that you've achieved such enormous success in a place like this only redoubles my already boundless admiration for you! We found a small apartment in Brooklyn and got settled. It's not large, but after I decorated it a bit, it looks quite cozy. I've enclosed a photo.
The three of us are all looking for jobs now. Only Doug has an uncle in New York, so he went straight into his uncle's advertising company as an office worker. When we met up for dinner, he drove over in his uncle's BMW. The first time I saw him in a suit and a nice car, he really did look the part. After giving the three of us a hearty round of mockery with no thought for his own safety, he paid the price of a week's salary by treating us all to dinner. Nate is really planning to find work in the restaurant industry. I think it suits him quite well. He'll probably start as an apprentice and later become a chef. And here's a funny thing: he picked up the knitting tools I'd set aside and started learning to knit himself. Watching him curl up on the sofa playing with a ball of yarn is absolutely hilarious.
As for Lily, she's been exploring opportunities in art and galleries. There's a curator position she's been in talks about that seems to be going well. As for me, I don't seem to have made much progress with any of the newspaper or magazine jobs I've interviewed for, and I've started applying to everything now. It's a little disheartening. But no matter what, with your blessing, I'm sure I won't end up last!
Your slightly unlucky,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
I followed up on the information you gave me about Auto Universe. I don't know much about cars, but I did some research before going in, and the HR person seemed quite satisfied with me. Their office building is on Madison Avenue in Manhattan, soaring into the clouds, its glass exterior glittering and shining. It looks very imposing, as though the whole building belongs to various businesses of their group.
It also seemed that this HR person was quite friendly with the HR of another magazine in the same building and, as a favor, introduced me to someone in HR at a magazine called Runway. That magazine is about fashion, and although I don't know much about fashion either, I really couldn't afford to be picky, so I chatted with them for a while as well. The embarrassing part is that I hadn't done any homework on fashion before going in, and the HR person asked me several things I couldn't answer. Looking back now, there were some questions I could have answered more tactfully, but my brain was a bit slow, and I'm kicking myself.
Runway isn't hiring editors, but apparently their editor-in-chief is looking for a second assistant. The pay is lower than at Auto Universe, but they say that after spending a year there, I could choose any magazine or newspaper I wanted. That sounds suspicious. I've been fooled many times before. It feels like they're making me a pie in the sky.
I hope the Auto Universe offer works out. Please bless me.
Your often promised pie in the sky,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Something even more embarrassing has happened! Auto Universe called me in to reject me, but then informed me that I'd moved to the second round of interviews at Runway. I never expected things to develop this way, and I was sent straight up to the seventeenth floor. A terrifying red-haired assistant named Emily received me, and I was sent into the second interview with exactly as little preparation as before. An editor-in-chief with white hair, ten times more terrifying than Emily, interviewed me. Her voice was very soft, but I swear, her tone and her expression were both extremely frightening. I could only answer truthfully about my situation, and then she threw me out of the office. It looks like this one is over too.
Though, come to think of it, her initials happen to be the same as yours. Her name is Miranda Priestly. But you are far, far better. You are the best person in the world. She is terrible. I unilaterally forbid her from using that abbreviation.
Your loyal,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Something very strange has happened! Runway hired me! I thought I had completely botched that last one, but the next day Emily called and told me to come in to start. What happened? Your blessing must have worked. Ah, but the thought of working under this M.P. is already starting to make me a little desperate. No, she doesn't get to use that abbreviation. I'll just call her Miranda.
Anyway, my job is to meet her needs. All of her needs. A dizzying variety of needs, and usually very urgent ones. She seems to be harsh with everyone, and everyone in the office watches her every glance. Knowing she isn't singling me out makes it a little easier. I've decided to treasure this hard-won offer and use your blessing to survive the year. What if that pie in the sky turns out to be real?
I'm writing this letter to you secretly at my desk outside her office. It's already seven o'clock and she still hasn't left. I still need to rush off to celebrate with the other three. All four of us have now found jobs, and tonight we plan to drink ourselves into a blackout. Just kidding. I know to be careful. Love you.
Your forcibly overtime-working,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Well, I assumed when Miranda hired me that she already knew I wasn't much of a fashion girl, but today she stared at me and humiliated me again. I wore a sky-blue sweater Nate knitted for me. It may be a little itchy at the neck, and some of the stitching isn't quite even, but it is, after all, the fruit of his effort and love, and Miranda looked down on it. She surely cannot understand the idea of respecting someone else's heartfelt effort. She is nothing like you. I must say it again: you are the best M.P. in the world. Bar none.
Lately, I've been getting a little better at this assistant business. I bought a voice recorder to capture her instructions, so that after I leave her side, I can listen to them again and again until I understand every detail. She speaks far too quickly, almost like a machine gun. She doesn't seem to need to breathe. Maybe she has gills I can't see. That might be the only way she could keep firing out instructions for ten minutes straight. Have you seen Spider-Man? She may have been bitten by a fish once.
You haven't written back much lately. Are you very busy? I don't mean to rush you into replying. But if you've grown tired of my complaints, I'll rein them in. Only please don't stop reading my letters. They are truly my motivation for living.
Your hard-laboring,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
I've discovered that even this worst M.P. has some good qualities. She's quick, and she's certainly very smart. When colleagues try to fool her, they never succeed. She can pick out the key points from a mountain of information and weave them into a clear thread. When everyone is hesitating, she can make a decision decisively and sharply, and her instructions are always clear, with almost no room for ambiguity. She really does have some skill, running Runway as she does. I think I can learn a lot working with her. Perhaps that thing about being able to go to any magazine after a year is really about this.
Honestly, I'm now beginning to understand fashion a little. Which is to say, whatever Miranda says fashion is, that's what fashion is. What's even more shocking is that I think she's right about everything. She's slowed down her speech a lot recently. Perhaps her gills have receded. Pondering. I've decided to move her up one rank, from the worst M.P. to the relatively bad M.P. I repeat: you are the best.
My colleague, her first assistant Emily, isn't so bad either. She's a very sharp-tongued Englishwoman. Though she never spares me with her mouth and often mocks my ugly dresses, she's still very conscientious about teaching me how to do things, and when I need to work late, she never leaves early. But she's gotten terribly thin. It doesn't seem healthy. Last time I brought her a chocolate sandwich Nate made, she asked me ungratefully, "You actually eat this kind of sugar-and-fat mixture?!" A person with no appreciation. I'll never share with her again.
Speaking of which, Nate's chocolate sandwich is a masterpiece. He's already found work at a French restaurant called Yd'or, not far from my office, so I can go meet him for lunch. But Emily only gives me fifteen minutes for lunch. Otherwise I could sit and enjoy Nate's service. But the service at his restaurant is far too expensive anyway. I'd probably need to spend Nate's salary just to afford it. Ha—what if one day I get promoted to first assistant? Then I'd give myself half an hour for lunch. Wait, if I'm going to dream, I shouldn't dream so stingy. What if one day I became the editor-in-chief? Then I'd give myself two whole hours for lunch!
I'll dream that dream tonight. Sweet dreams!
Your hurriedly eating,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
The past few days have been a whirlwind. Since Nate started working night shifts at the restaurant, the time the two of us can see each other has been very limited. I often have bits and pieces of work on the weekends, and he's started sulking again. We've had a few small spats because of this, but none of it was a big deal. Except today was his birthday, and I was late again. Because I went to some dinner with Miranda that I wasn't really needed at. I got back late and couldn't have the meal with everyone, and by the time I got home, he was already very angry.
I tried to smooth things over and brought a little cake to wish him a happy birthday, but he made a few cutting remarks, and I lost control of my emotions too. Then he started digging up old grievances, saying things like he came to New York for me. Ah, it turned into a huge fight. I won't trouble you with the more irritating details. The fight has just ended. He's gone to the bedroom to pretend to sleep, and I'm sitting at my desk writing to you. I knew before we left Northwestern that this day would come. I just didn't expect it so soon.
Maybe I'm in the wrong. Maybe he needs me to be a housewife. But he's wrong. This isn't Miranda's fault. It's a problem that would arise whenever my work conflicts with his interests. He even said I'd be better off being a couple with Miranda. Hmph. Maybe that would really be more comfortable than being with him. I feel like our relationship is getting heavier and heavier. It didn't start out that way.
Wishing you well.
Your bewildered,
Andrea Sachs
Dear M.P.,
Miranda has started bringing me along to lunch lately. Strange. It's not as though she needs me standing by for anything in particular, but she keeps taking me to meet different people. Once she even went to Nate's restaurant. Fortunately, he was in the back kitchen and not in the front dining area, or I would certainly have been exposed. Exposed as what, I don't know. But I don't really want Miranda to see him.
I've been spending a lot of time with Miranda recently, and I think she pushes herself too hard at work. She handles many things personally and has to review every detail herself, down to the front lines. How can her energy possibly be enough? I'm truly curious how she hasn't been angered to death by all the idiots in her company. I've prepared a few small items in her office and car to make her more comfortable between one thing and the next. Lily says my soul has been sucked out by the capitalists.
If I'd just started the job, I'm sure I would have said the same thing. But now I think Miranda isn't a capitalist. She just wants to do everything properly, the way I did at the Northwestern paper. Her attention to detail is very much like yours. Could that be a trait shared by successful people?
Speaking of shared traits...
Your soul-still-intact,
Andrea Sachs
Andy hasn't been writing letters lately.
A strange premonition, a lingering cold sweat, made her put down her pen. It couldn't possibly be happening in such a bizarre way, could it? Was this some kind of five-year hidden-camera reality show? She now occasionally stopped suddenly to check for cameras in the room, then laughed at her own paranoia. There was no way the world could contain such a coincidence, was there?
But once she began paying attention to Miranda's handwriting, her word choices, her editorial comments, everything about her, the whole thing turned into an enormous labyrinth that made her shiver.
That afternoon, Emily informed her that the one part of her assistant duties that had never been handed over to her—the delivery of the Book—would at last be passed to her. Emily meticulously explained how to handle this task, which involved going to Miranda's private residence, along with more than ten taboos and precautions. Then she gave her the address.
Andy clutched the little note and read it three times in disbelief, confirming with her normally functioning retinas and memory that this was the address she had written to over a thousand times. She stood there for ten minutes. She checked again for cameras in the room. None under the table. None in the drawers. Seriously?
Miranda Priestly. Andy stood at the door of her townhouse, holding the Book, and read the name again in bewilderment. M.P. She checked the address once more. In her mind, she reviewed all the terrible things she had written in her letters. Then she checked the address again. Could Emily have given her the wrong one?
Andy gritted her teeth and stepped forward, trying the key with a faint hope. Click. It opened smoothly.
Trembling, Andy felt her sanity had entirely fled. God.
She decided to leave the Book in the entryway and go home first. She wasn't ready to face M.P., and she wasn't ready to face Miranda Priestly either. On tiptoe, she crept inside, and then one of the wooden floorboards creaked loudly under her foot. Ah! Andy closed her eyes in agony. Did people in New York also hide plastic frogs under the floor?
From the study, Miranda's soft voice came: "Andrea?"
Andy swallowed. "Yes?"
"Come in."
Forcing herself forward, Andy saw Miranda sitting comfortably in her reading chair, wearing her lovely glasses and holding an envelope that looked extremely familiar.
She said,
"Where's my letter from last week?"