Catwalk (19 page)

“Awright already with the Sesame Street cue cards,” I grumble. “Spill the refried beans.”

“Snaps, I can’t believe you’re not on this. Awright, it’s like this. Well, let me put it this way: Chandelier’s father was indicted for chopping up body parts and selling them!” Ice Très says, delivering the news-breaking
blow like the first reporter on the scene. “And at six thirty-five p.m., Chandelier’s father was taking the perp walk outside arraignment court for participating in a
lucrative
cadaver operation.”

“What,
what
?” I ask in disbelief, forgetting my deep freeze on Ice Très.

Angora shrugs and gives me a look like
Don’t blame me
.

“Geez. It’s not enough to have your ear to the street anymore. You’ve got to get down there with your nose,” I moan, embarrassed that we’ve been trumped by the tagger. “I’m
gagulating.
”

Chintzy Colon catches my glance and runs over, eager to serve up every gory detail of the latest drama like they’re chorizos hot off her homemade grill.

Between her excited spurts, I gather that Lee Spinelli, a nurse at Mount Morris Hospital and formerly of Brooklyn Hospital, was involved in a black market body parts ring headed by a dentist. “It would take forty-five minutes to take out the bones, then another fifteen minutes for the skin, the upper arm, lower arm, thigh, abdominal area, and more,” Chintzy babbles, like she’s spouting a recipe.

“Can you believe it?” interjects Angora, who got briefed quickly by peeps on the side.

“No, actually, I can’t,” I admit. “Is this an early Halloween gag—like somebody’s pulling my leg?”

“Nah!” counters Ice Très. “It’s on the real. Body snatchers be making
bank
. They be parceling out a whole body and delivering to the highest bidder.”

“Like who?” I ask, still not believing the hype.

“Tissue banks—and we’re not talking Kleenex, okay. Research facilities—fresh or frozen, you can get a fresh elbow à la mode—or some freeze-dried brains, okay.”

Angora picks up the news feed where Chintzy left off. “It’s true,
chérie
. Chandelier’s father and the rest of the cadaver crew were so busy that they often ate lunch or dinner in the dissecting rooms. He went from earning fifty thousand dollars a year as a nurse to making a hundred eighty-five thousand….”

Suddenly, Aphro gets a shopportunity alert: “That’s how come Chandelier started featuring Gucci all of a sudden!”

“Speaking of label dropping—she was so worried about us so-called fake Fendis that she didn’t even realize there was one right under her nose,” Angora says sadly.

We watch as the crowd outside multiplies intensely. Everyone is completely aghast about the Chandelier blast.

“The pelvis went for five thousand dollars?” Felinez squeals, getting creeped by all the statistics. “Ay,
dios
, I hope mine goes for more than that!”

“I’m sure they’d get at least twenty thousand for your butt!” I blurt out before I realize how insensitive it is. It’s bad enough Felinez has to contend with all the stuffed
puercos
in the world who target juicy girls’ body parts. “Sorry, Blue Boca. I was on a Tootsie Roll.” I wince.

All of a sudden, Mr. Bias, the assistant principal, steps outside and announces loudly, “Okay, everyone, proceed to your homeroom classes. Right
now
, please.”

Reluctantly, we all shuffle toward the front door, wondering if we’re going to be graced with a Chandelier Spinelli sighting. Even her best friend, Tina Cadavere, is nowhere to be seen. Ice Très taps me on the shoulder and leans close, which gives me the creeps. “Hold on,” he whispers. “I’m just trying to tell you something.” I figure whispering is in order with this turn of eerie events. “I left you a little something in the stairwell by the Fashion Annex,” he coos.

I nod like I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t. “Look forward to Friday,” he says, and jets in front of us.

“What was that?” Angora asks, concerned.

“I don’t know but apparently there’s a prize for me behind door number three, if you catch my drift,” I report, revealing all the details of the secret location. “Now I’m wondering if this is Ice Très’s definition of a treasure hunt.”

“Speaking of hunted,” whispers Angora, pointing to Nole Canoli, who is huddled in the hallway by the security checkpoint. He’s clearly trying to hide in plain sight. I can tell by the way he has his back turned to everyone but Kimono Harris, Dame Leeds, and Elgamela Sphinx.

“Doesn’t he look a little pale?” I whisper.

“Yeah, even Countess Coco looks a little peaked,” adds Angora. “I mean for a Pomeranian, her pallor is off!”

“So is yours,” I warn her, then hope she isn’t offended.

“I’m still tired from our interview session,” confesses Angora. “That was
exhausting.
”

Suddenly, I feel deflated too. “The only item we’re getting on ‘Page Six’ is gonna be about Chandelier, the heiress to a chop shop dynasty!”

“I know,” admits Felinez. “But I wonder if she is going to show her face—or fibia—in school again?”

Suddenly, a lightbulb appears over my head. “You think she’s gonna drop out?” I quiz, secretly plotting a coup like Haiti’s dethroned leader Papa Doc, who we’re studying in history class.

Felinez and Angora get the picture. “Or maybe she’ll be cut from the Catwalk competition like a dangling thread,” says Angora.

Nole Canoli whizzes by us with Countess Coco perched in his Prada bag. He is trying desperately to
keep his head down, as if he is shielding his face from probing cameras on a perp walk. We all watch warily as Caterina and her crew march down the hall toward an unknown destination.

“I bet you she’s going to Ms. Fab’s office,” Angora predicts.

Meanwhile, I ponder our possibilities. “Even if Chandelier doesn’t drop out, there’s definitely too much squeal appeal. I mean, what’s she got to offer now: ‘Gee, my Dad can get us a fabbie deal on tendons and ligaments’?”

Aphro has had enough. “I’m out,” she informs us. Angora attempts to say something, but I put my hand on her shoulder to tell her not to bother. “She can keep stressing me if it makes her happy,” I say.

“Let’s take the back stairwell, then,” Angora says.

“Might as well,” I concur. My curiosity has been piqued by Ice Très’s mysterious message outside the bottle. When I swing open the door and spot the huge heart shape with Cupid’s arrow sprawled wall to wall in the stairwell, my heart sinks like a sunken treasure. It’s a message all right: SOS!

“Maybe this is just a clue?” Angora says weakly, her blue eyes popping in utter disbelief.

“He must be sniffing spray paint,” I reply, shocked by this blatant disrespect for Fashion International’s cardinal rule: don’t scribble or dribble on the walls.

We stare at the huge metallic black-and-silver letters left courtesy of the misguided graffiti artist:
WAZZUP, PUSSYCAT? THIS IS 4REAL. ICE TWICE
.

“Omigod,” Felinez moans.

“Maybe no one will know he’s talking about you?” Angora says hopefully.

“He might as well have hired the Goodyear Blimp and scrawled my name across the sky.
That
would have been more subtle!” I wince.

I check my Kitty watch and realize it’s time to get to home period. “Geez,” I say, looking back at Ice Très’s handiwork. “A good marker is a terrible thing to waste.”

By lunchtime, the speculation about the subject of the tagger’s ardor has reached a peak second only to a Chandelier sighting and the unveiling of the spring fashions today in the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week shows at Bryant Park. “Wazzup, pussycat!” a chorus of shriekers yells in my direction. I ignore them and run into the Fashion Café like it’s safe passage to the Underground Railroad. “The situation is outta control,” I gripe to Felinez because my nerves are on edge.

“It’s not your fault,” Felinez says, trying to reassure me. Somehow she has regained her appetite and is
hovering at the lunch counter, with her arms bent like chicken wings, unable to make a decision about her order.

“Velma, what should I get?” Felinez asks our favorite food attendant.

“Angel hair capellini,” Velma shoots back.

“I’ll have the same,” I say. “This suits our continuing exploration of Italian culture.”

“If we make it to Italy.” Felinez grunts. “I don’t know if I can go through a year of this roller coaster.”

“Puhleez. A roller-coaster ride is more predictable,” I grumble in return. Suddenly, a lightbulb goes on. I take out my Catwalk notepad and begin to scribble some thoughts for our Catwalk Credo. “Strap yourself in and fasten your Gucci seat belt,” I read out loud.

“Très bon,”
says Angora, looking over my shoulder, then adding her tasty thoughts to the Catwalk Credo until we come up with the remainder of the tenet right there on the spot.
Whenever I feel like screaming my head off or jumping out of my chic caboose, I will resist the urge; instead, I will tighten a notch on my fears like a true fashionista
.

“Yoohoo!” shouts Bobby Beat, zooming by us with his food tray poised gracefully at his waist. “Can you believe the drama today? Talk about Zorro—somebody left their mark in the stairwell! I’m so outta here after lunch!” he coos.

I’m relieved that Bobby Beat doesn’t know that I’m the secret source of inspiration for our urban Zorro, and I have no intention of telling him. I also instinctively know what Bobby’s early departure means. He is one of the lucky seniors who have been granted access passes to the one event we juniors have yet to witness: the fashion shows taking place at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week.

“Oh, I am so green with Gucci Envy,” I admit. Bobby laughs it off. “Oh, look at the credo we’re creating. You’ll get a copy, of course, at our first official team meeting.” My stomach ties in knots as I say that.
Please, God, let me get my team assembled before I’m disgraced
, I silently plead.

Bobby Beat takes the glasses off the top of his head and puts them on to read the credo. “Truly fabulous!” he agrees. I exhale, satisfied that I have at least channeled some of my agitation into something constructive for our cause. And I also managed to snag a bona fide makeup artist for our house. “Okay, I’ve got to twirl,” Bobby says excitedly. “After the shows, I have to get to work.”

“When do you work?” I ask, my ears perking up at the mention of a job.

“Honey, I work twenty-four-seven,” Bobby says evasively.

“Yes, I should have known, Superman—the glasses were a clue,” I coo.

Bobby air-kisses each of us on each cheek, including Angora, who blushes. “Mademoiselle Blue Beret, that’s how they do it in Europe—so get used to it!” he advises.

I’m relieved that the static between them was squashed. I would have felt fried if we didn’t snag Bobby Beat for our house. When he sails away, Felinez says, “See, not everything is bad. I really like him.”

“Yeah, I do too. Let’s perch in our catty corner,” I say, feeling inspired by Bobby Beat’s effusive energy. “If he beats like he talks, then he’s the second Rembrandt.”

“
C’est vrai!
That’s the truth,” Angora agrees.

We always sit four tables back from the entrance of the café, which affords us a panoramic view of the floor show, as we call lunchtime antics.

Zeus and Lupo burst through the door, looking wild-eyed—like everyone is today—obviously searching for clues of intelligent life in fashion land. They spot us and sit down to cross paws. “I just wanna give you a heads-up. Ice Très is in Mr. Confardi’s office.”

“Why do I get the feeling the other platform shoe is about to drop,” I moan, mortified that Zeus knows about my situation. I’ve even given up hope that he’s ready to tango with me. Why would he want to? I’m the object of affection of a magic marker gone haywire.

“Pashmina?” Zeus repeats, and I realize he has been trying to bend my ear some more. “I just saw the camera crew coming out of Ms. Fab’s office, too.”

“You don’t think—?” I freeze, wondering if I’m gonna be the source of more shame for my house.

“Nah, nah,” Zeus says, waving his hand like a freestyle paw.

I start coughing wildly.

“You all right?
Va bene?
” asks Lupo.

I cough and nod at the same time, then sip some water till I regain use of my larynx. I try to resume eating. That’s when I notice a long dark hair resting on my pasta.

“Not mine,” Zeus says, running his fingers through his wild wavy hair. “Want me to take it back?”

“Yeah, get Velma to handle this, cuz I don’t think that’s a hair from an angel,” I explain, handing him my plate of capellini.

My cell phone rings and I shriek because I forgot to turn it off. Even a fashion toad would know that today is definitely not the day to break any more Fashion International rules like the one clearly posted on the wall of the Fashion Café:
EAT YOUR JELLY, BUT NIX THE CELLY
.

Angora covers me while I discreetly grab the phone out of my purse and see that the number belongs to
exactly the person I’d like to avoid right now, the prying Teen Style producer, Caterina Tiburon.

“
Tales from the Crypt
, part two?” I moan, getting paranoid.