Yearling - FEBRUARY 2009
The Jellyroll of Trouble comes bearing a new treat. This solo endeavor comes as a result of just the absolute weirdest thought derailment ever. It is, at its most fundamental, an overview of the nature of...friendship.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada does not belong to me. No infringement intended, no money being made. The building belongs to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. I'm just redecorating. When finished, I will tear down the new curtains and fancy artwork, but leave the festive paint…
Disclaimer #2: This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to actual people, businesses, or events is strictly coincidental.
Rating: T Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Mirandy
AN: This story disregards the novel completely, utilizing only the movie as its base.
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Yearling
By Ruari
FEBRUARY 2009
“You never can tell with bees.”
~ A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh
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Andy ripped the sheet of notebook paper from its spiral in disgust and crushed it into a ball. It was absently tossed over her shoulder as her pen quickly flew across a fresh page. With her thoughts a complete jumble, Andy was having difficulty documenting them in any sort of understandable fashion.
Oh. Andy lifted her head and stared blankly at the wall. Why am I trying so hard? It only has to be understood by one person. She glanced down and reread what she’d just written before tearing up that effort, as well. With her singular audience now in mind, Andy began once again.
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Miranda crossed the threshold of her front door and leaned wearily against the solid wood, her slumping figure having just enough weight to push it closed. With a grace belying her fatigue, she turned the locks, shrugged off her coat, and moved to hang it in the closet. She eyed The Book sitting squarely in the middle of the table and grimaced. She ignored the labors of her minions as she finished putting away her outerwear and left The Book on the table as she moved slowly toward her study.
She vaguely noted the utter stillness of her home, knowing she was now encased in a suffocating solitude. Her children were off at a Valentine’s Day dance and would be spending the night with friends. Contrary to what most people would imagine, Miranda detested an empty house. She loved her girls madly, and they were hers to cherish.
So she missed them when they were away.
Upon entering her study, she flipped on a lamp and headed directly for the liquor cabinet. She splashed a small amount of her favorite Scotch into a crystal tumbler - just enough to warm her belly and temporarily soothe an aching emptiness in her soul. Libation in hand, she meandered to the corner of her desk where a short mound of mail had been placed. She absentmindedly thumbed through the heap; consigning most of it to a pile she mentally labeled “trash.” Her rhythmic movements came to an abrupt halt about halfway through the stack, her fingers resting upon an ecru-colored envelope of heavy stock. She rubbed the pad of her index finger lightly against it and subconsciously recognized the feel of linen in the stationery as her eyes fixed curiously on familiar handwriting.
Miranda picked up the envelope, her brow furrowing in bewilderment, and promptly forgot the rest of the mail. In an irregular display of delayed gratification, she slowly climbed the stairs and retired to her bedroom - the mysterious letter remaining unopened in her hand. She tossed it on the bed and the rest of her drink down her throat, and then went about her nightly ablutions on automatic pilot; her mind remaining preoccupied with the possible contents of the unexpected missive.
Twenty minutes later found Miranda under the blankets and propped against the headboard. She ran her fingers lightly over her name as it was addressed across the thick paper: M. Priestly. Not Miranda. Just…M. She used a nail file from the bedside table to slice open the top and pulled three handwritten pages of stationery from within. She calmly set aside the envelope and began to read.
It was, perhaps, fitting that there was no one around to witness the single tear slide unhindered down her cheek.
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February 11, 2009
Miranda,
It’s been several weeks but if I recall it correctly, you dared me to “see only what Miriam has become, not what Miranda is or isn’t.” The only other time you’ve set me up to fail in such spectacular a fashion as this involved mischievous children and an unpublished manuscript. If you’ll remember how that one turned out, I’ll just say again…I have some experience with difficult, often painful, Dares.
If you find yourself wondering what I find so challenging about parsing the pieces of your life that you, and you alone, have segregated into two different entities…well…consider this my answer to your Dare.
You want me to focus on the parts of Miriam I see now as opposed to the parts of her I met years ago, thus ignoring the Miranda I see every day. The impossibility inherent in your Dare is that Miranda cannot be separated from Miriam; it’s a symbiotic relationship.
And you know this.
You’ve questioned my ability to “see” you. Very well. This is what I see.
Just as Miriam was, I see Miranda is. What exactly were and are you? Misunderstood. You are massively, woefully misunderstood, dear friend. No matter which incarnation of you I visualize, I see a girl turned woman who was and is painfully misjudged in all things that truly matter.
You break my heart, Miranda. That’s not to mean I pity you. That couldn’t be further from the truth, actually. You make a special point to cultivate the image the public has of you. Because of that, there can be no sympathy. But it saddens me tremendously that the number of people who get to walk through the bountiful and beautiful garden that is you can be counted on only one hand.
You invented the Miranda persona as much to hide and protect Miriam as it was to flee from her. The Miriam who used to be a wallflower, the one who had unspeakable things done to her, eventually flourished into a verdant, extravagant garden - one whose beauty, vision, and intensity took over entire neighborhoods, cities, countries...
…the world.
That’s the glamorous façade you’ve fashioned. But that garden, that glitz, that’s the ruse, isn’t it? The sleight of hand. Copperfield could take lessons from you. That illusion you created, and continue to maintain, has fooled thousands of people and two entire industries. And like any great illusionist, you control what others see or, at the very least, what they think they “see.”
Doctors, nurses, orderlies…your family…
No one would take you at face value, so you opted to change the face upon which everyone gazed. They thought they had seen signs of schizophrenia and treated you as they saw fit. So from the moment you escaped Kline, rather than just “being seen” (whether incorrectly or not), you took steps to get to a place where you could be the one to dictate exactly what others saw. Now…now you decide what people look at…so that they never really look at you.
Miriam wasn’t and isn’t the foliage in your garden. She isn’t the lush greenery or the brightly colored blooms. Not the flash, nothing bold. No, she isn’t any of that at all. That’s all Miranda.
But Miriam isn’t exactly hidden. One just has to know where to look. She’s always right there. No, she’s not the garden itself…she’s its Maker. She labors every single day to keep everyone’s focus on Miranda and off of her. Because Miriam?
She’s the bee.
Working tirelessly behind the scenes day in and day out to design such beauty, vision, and intensity. And rabidly protective of what is hers. Just as apt to sting someone for attempting to steal that which she struggles so hard to create as she is to produce something so deliciously, sinfully sweet.
The average spectator is going to focus just where the performer guides their vision. So you direct everyone’s attention to Miranda. Another performer of like-mind is going to focus on all the work being done in the background.
There you have it. You may indeed be the world’s greatest illusionist, but I do see you, Miranda. It’s not enough, however, for me to say that what I see…I love. You need to understand.
I see…
…because I love.
Your friend always,
Andrea
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FEBRUARY 2009
“You never can tell with bees.”
~ A.A. Milne, Winnie the Pooh