Catwalk (22 page)

We explain to her about the Catwalk Credo. She seems like she’s proud of me. What I neglect to tell her is that we haven’t assembled our whole team, and that the other four houses are all in place—even if one is about to fall like a house of cards.

When I get to school, there’s a message in my Catwalk in-box to report to Ms. Lynx’s office. My pulse quickens because Ms. Lynx has never summoned me before. I’m supposed to submit my team membership forms to her office today, “But why is she on my case so pronto?” I speculate nervously to Felinez. The indelible image of Zorro’s banned cousin waving wildly as I watch from my fashion tower frightens the froth off my steaming hot cappuccino. “Oh, I get it. I might be joining Ice Très in Style Siberia after all.”

“You’d better go now,
mija
,” Felinez warns me.

“No way, José,” I say. “I have to get cap-happy first.”

“
Cuidate
—be careful,” Felinez sighs, waving her hand in defeat as she heads off to textile science.

I trot in the opposite direction to sociology but get ambushed around the bend by Willi Ninja, Jr., who’s intent on providing a private lesson in the collective behavior of nosy human beings. “Did you stand up for your man?” he asks, posing in a defensive pirouette stance.

“What?” I ask, blushing shades of paranoid pink. I should have known peeps would be offering their own versions of the brou-haha.

“Well, he got suspended because of you—the least you can do is defend his honor,” Willi Ninja, Jr., says, provoking my posture.

“Th-that is radickio,” I stammer. But the truth is, I do feel guilty as charged.

“Is it, Miss P.P.?” Ninja, Jr., says, eyeing me carefully to see if I’ll bend like saltwater taffy. “Better check your in-box. I’m sure he sent you a broken arrow to mend.”

“I checked my in-box,” I say, now getting paranoid times squared. I wonder if Willi Ninja, Jr., saw the note from Ms. Lynx. That’s it—he’s probably already peeped the situation!

Willi Ninja, Jr., pivots and turns to get the last word. “Well, all I can say is: one down, three to go….”

It figures the pedigreed poser already assumes he has the Catwalk competition on lockdown, but the battle hasn’t even begun. “Don’t make me snap my clutch purse!” I call back, marching away defiantly. That’s it! I’ve had it with peeps pushing me around. Time to stop tap-dancing gingerly and bring in the noise!

I send a text message to Zeus: “Make it happen.” He’ll know exactly what I mean. Then I march right into the Lynx lair.

Sil Lai looks up from her desk and purses her
lips. “You haven’t submitted your team membership forms yet?”

“No. Not yet,” I say, my voice zooming from squeaky to leaky in seconds. “I had a message that Ms. Lynx wants to see me?”

Sil Lai looks at her computer screen, opens a document, then looks at me with that Botox face, which makes it hard for me to read between her lines. “She’s busy. I put you in for fourth period,” Sil Lai informs me.

Fourth period? I’ll have a catiac arrest before then. I look around the office and see Farfalla, stationed in her cubicle. I wish she manned the reception desk, because I could read her like the
New York Times
style section—backward and forward. But Farfalla doesn’t look up, and as usual, she seems buried in work, like an archaeologist at an excavation site.

“I spoke to Mink,” Sil Lai says, still stone-faced.

I wait for Sil Lai to drop an Altoid (a minty hint), but
nada
, so I decide to take her probe further.

“I can’t believe she joined my house!” I gush, but realize immediately that I sound like I have no self-esteem—and I’m not talking about the clothing label, either.

Now the phone rings and Sil Lai gives me a look like I’m dismissed. Scurrying out of the office, I pop the collar on my Flower Power burnout sweater to ward off the chilly thought of fashion exile.

After sociology, Zeus is hovering on the horizon to give me the heads-up. “Definitely getting used to buzzwords involving body parts,” I say, smiling. I stare longingly at his beautiful long dark eyelashes and wonder what his girlfriend is like. Probably a model too.

“It’s on—lunchtime at Petsey Betsey,” he informs me proudly.

“I knew you’d come through,” I say softly. What I really want to say is,
Flotsam and jetsam the girlfriend, because I know you’re tickled pink over
moi.
M. O. to the I
.

“You heard? Moet Major has been nominated by proxy vote as the replacement house leader. She’s forming her own team, though. Chandelier is definitely out on a limb,” adds Zeus, snapping me back to my challenging reality.

“Let’s pray I’m not next,” I say, shuddering, then spill the refried beans about my current concerns.

He gets a troubled look in his eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“Nah. Nothing.” Zeus shakes it off.

I send a text message to Diamond, Aphro, Felinez, and Angora: “Operation: Kitty Litter is in full effect.”

Although Diamond Tyler doesn’t bring Crutches to school, it should have come as no surprise to me that she is a frequent visitor at the Petsey Betsey annex. “How’s Crutches coming along?” the attendant, Bubba Barbieri, asks her. Diamond gives him a detailed update, then segues into her current cause: rescuing Sheepish Sally who was desperately trying to save herself from the chopping block by saying baaah-bye to the wicked city.

When the rest of my crew arrives, Bubba grants us access to the waiting area after administering a warning: “You’re not allowed in the pet playground.”

Zeus gingerly folds his six-foot frame into one of the bright orange wooden chairs with the giraffe-shaped backs.

“These were hand painted by Garo Sparo and donated to the school,” Diamond informs us. “He’s one of my favorite designers.”

“That’s a cool name—is he into birds or something?” Zeus asks.

“No, it’s spelled S-P-A-R-O. But he does volunteer at the animal shelter. That’s how I got my job. He’s an amazing designer. He does a lot of corsetry work—evoking style from the Victorian era,” Diamond explains,
babbling. It’s clear she’s nervous—and truth is, so am I. “He’s gonna let me intern at his studio,” she continues. “I mean, so he says. Maybe later in the year.”

“We’re not interested in interning,” Aphro blurts out, like she’s not impressed. “We need jobs paying some real paper, okay.”

I smile warmly at Diamond to make up for Aphro’s aversion to “freebies,” which is what she calls internships.

“Have you found anything yet?” Diamond asks, concerned. But she only manages to irritate Aphro—again.

“You make it sound like we’re lost,” she says, then gives one of her signature snorts.

Zeus spurts out a laugh. He can’t help himself because he’s still not used to the Babe squeals that emanate from Aphro’s smoocher.

Right now, I’d like to stick Aphro Biggie’s head in a trough to cool her off.

At last, Nole and most of his entourage—Dame Leeds, Elgamela Sphinx, and Kimono Harris—enter the Annex. Nole kisses Countess Coco on her nose, then hands her over to Bubba, cozily tucked in her black Prada carrier.

“Okay, Countess, no funny business today with the biscuits. Even Your Highness has to share,” Bubba warns the fiery-haired Pomeranian.

Meanwhile, Diamond is fixated on Elgamela’s bandage dress in juicy orange, which looks very similar to the French designer Hervé Léger’s hand-sewn numbers, favored by Beyoncé. It’s probably just a knock-knock, even though Elgamela is so fierce she could wear a dress made out of real Band-Aids and still earn purr points.

“Omigod, Nole, did you make that?” Diamond coos, pointing to Elgamela’s mummy-tight curve hugger.

Diamond is obviously wearing on Nole’s nerves, because he winces and shoots back, “Don’t disrespect Hervé like that. And why would I steal his trademark?”

The delicate designer’s face cracks like a cubic zirconia. So much for Operation: Kitty Litter. Maybe sticking my head in the odor-absorbing clay would have been a better idea.

“Today’s my birthday. My dad got it from the designer consignment shop near where we live,” Elgamela coos humbly. “He just got so tired of hearing me whine about it that he bought it for me!”

Nervously, I clear my throat before I speak to ensure that no squeaky sounds emanate against my will. “Wow, that’s nothing like the reject consignment shop near my house,” I babble, then repeat the motto plastered in the dingy window of Second Time Around: “Why go to JCPenney when you can save at Secondhand Benny’s!”

“That’s hysterical,” Elgamela squeals back, her exotic accent lilting on the words. Elgamela quickly tells us all about Cherry Hill, New Jersey, where she grew up; it is apparently chock-f of designer-obsessed housewives. “My father owns Chirpin’ Chicken on Second Avenue. I work there after school,” she goes on. “That’s why I smell like chicken half the time. Can’t get it out of my pores.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” Felinez says, surprised.

“What—that you can’t get the smell of chicken grease off your skin?” Elgamela asks, amused.

“No!” Felinez tries quickly to divert any more drama. “That you worked, um, as a chicken. I mean, that your father was rich. You know what I mean!”

We all laugh hysterically.

“It’s right off Sixty-second Street,” Elgamela explains. “Come by any time after school—wings are on me. I’ll even throw in a breast and a leg!”

“Awright—as long as you chop it up Benihana-style,” laughs Zeus, crossing paws with Nole. Suddenly, I realize that maybe Elgamela is Zeus’s girlfriend.
Duh!