
just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to
be tripping about in those same size seven patent leather shoes
I’d bought in Bloomingdale’s one lunch hour with a black patent
leather belt and black patent leather pocket-book to match. And
when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were
working on—drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé
bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight
Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-
American bone structures hired or loaned for the
occasion—everybody would think I must be having a real whirl.
Look what can happen in this country, they’d say. A girl lives in
some out-of-the-way town for nineteen years, so poor she can’t
afford a magazine, and then she gets a scholarship to college and
wins a prize here and a prize there and ends up steering New York
like her own private car.
Only I wasn’t steering anything, not even myself. I just bumped
from my hotel to work and to parties and from parties to my hotel
and back to work like a numb trolley-bus. I guess I should have
been excited the way most of the other girls were, but I couldn’t
get myself to react. I felt very still and very empty, the way the
eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the
surrounding hullabaloo.
There were twelve of us at the hotel.
We had all won a fashion magazine contest, by writing essays and
stories and poems and fashion blurbs, and as prizes they gave us
jobs in New York for a month, expenses paid, and piles and piles of
free bonuses, like ballet tickets and passes to fashion shows and hair
stylings at a famous expensive salon and chances to meet successful
people in the field of our desire and advice about what to do with
our particular complexions.
I still have the make-up kit they gave me, fitted out for a person
with brown eyes and brown hair: an oblong of brown mascara with
a tiny brush, and a round basin of blue eye-shadow just big enough
to dab the tip of your finger in, and three lipsticks ranging from red
to pink, all cased in the same little gilt box with a mirror on one side.
10 | The Bell Jar