Catwalk (23 page)

Just then, Elgamela breaks into her dimpled smile, beaming at him. There was definitely no riddle to her rave reviews: she is charmed and dangerous. All of a sudden, Ruthie Dragon, who is out of breath, comes running into the reception area. I refrain from blurting
out,
Look what the cat dragged in—a dragon
. Good thing too, because as soon as the traitor catches her breath, she blurts out to Nole, “Sorry I’m late!”

Nole introduces us, but I gently inform him that we already know each other—unfortunately. What I want to ask is why she’s here: the haters’ corner is in the other annex.

“Okay, so you know why we’re here. Dr. Zeus said you wanted to see me,” Nole says, wrapping his arm around Elgamela’s slender waist.

“We want you in our house,” I say, opting for the direct approach, because sometimes the truth
is
plain appropriate.

“Yeah, well, I want Ed McMahon to knock on my door and tell me that I’ve won a million dollars. I might actually have a shot at that,” Nole retorts, staring intently at me.

Despite the barking in the background, the room gets so quiet you could hear a dog biscuit drop.

“Well, have you interviewed with any of the other houses yet?” I ask, stalling for time so I can put on my fashion game face.

“Like whose—Anna Rex’s?” Nole asks, challenging me. “Why do you think she wears black all the time? Olives in a jar have more color coordination sense than she does. At least they made sure to get stuck with red pimentos!”

“Puhleez. After she loses, she can always get a job working at Vera Wang,” Dame Leeds snarls, leaning his shoulder against the safari mural on the wall, right on the large rhinoceros’s behind.

“Why there?” Diamond asks innocently.

“Black is de rigueur for all Wang employees,” Angora says. God, Diamond is definitely not earning any karats today.

Dame looks at Angora, impressed, then adds, “Churl, I knew one of the showroom sales assistants. Miss Thing showed up to work one day in pink—and Vera gave her a pink slip to go with her outfit!”

“Speaking of pink …” Nole pauses, then pulls a tube of hand cream out of his black leather briefcase. “Do you always wear it?”

He carefully opens the tube of Kiehl’s hand cream and moisturizes while waiting for my response. Now I’m afraid to answer because I don’t want to blow my shot at snagging the infamous Holy Canoli, as he’s been aptly nicknamed by Dame Leeds. I try to conjure up an image of the designing drama queen helping his semiinvalid mother out of her Hoveround. It works.

“When I’m not, I’m thinking pink,” I answer, then take my honesty to another level. “I dug what you had to say,” I stammer, referring to Nole’s much-buzzed-about blog entry. “My mother raises us by herself. Me and my sister. I’ve got to win that prize money and snag
a modeling contract because I can’t take the Payless situation much longer.”

Now Nole shifts gears. He sits down carefully, like he’s afraid the chair is going to break. This is the first time I’ve ever noticed that he’s insecure about his pudgy figure. “Please. Every time we have to buy five cans of cat food, my mother starts her Poorvarotti aria!” he admits. I’d heard that Nole’s mother is Italian and his father is black, although I don’t get the impression his dad is in the family photo album, if you catch my drift.

“You have cats?” I ask, surprised.

“Why do you think I’m here? You think my Gucci loafers are my most prized possessions? No, it’s my Persian cats, Penelope and Napoleon. And of course, Countess,” explains Nole, dropping more catty details. “They’re both snooty by nature, and Penelope has already had two nose jobs. I mean, she did have collapsed nostrils.”

Of course, Diamond backpedals again to talk about Crutches.

Nole nods but interrupts to praise me. “I like your all-size philosophy. I want to design a line like that too.”

“What’s your line called?” Aphro asks.

“Nole Canoli,” he responds, like
What else?
“I’m over people associating me with a deep-fried tube of
pastry filled with ricotta cheese. It’s time ‘Canoli’ is associated with
chic
ness.”

“I heard that,” Aphro seconds, who jumps at the chance to explain the philosophy behind her funky jewelry collection, Aphro Puffs.

“And all this time, I thought your name was spelled like the Afro pick!” Nole snickers. “I was gonna call my company Chic Canoli—and make my logo two Cs like Chanel’s—but I didn’t want the fashion police coming for me with trademark trauma, okay?”

“Speaking of trauma—have you heard from Chandelier?” I boldly ask.

“You know I have,” Nole retorts. “She’s down for the body count. What can I say? And all she was trying to do was win the competition so she could get that corporate mentorship at Betsey Johnson, then take over the fashion business to help her brothers and sisters.”

Now I feel guilty for bad-mouthing Chandelier. We had more in common than I ever realized.

“It’s hard when you’re fierce,” Nole says knowingly, stroking together his freshly moisturized hands. “Night after night I fantasized about becoming famous, lying there in my bed on sheets with a thread count so low I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

“Puhleez—how do you spell Maxicale without
counting to a hundred, hello? I’d sure like to forget,” blurts out Dame Leeds.

“So, pink purrlicious one. Does everything match?” Nole asks teasingly.

At first, I don’t comprehend, but the image of Hello Kitty watching my butt promptly brings Nole’s probe into sharp focus.

“Well, take a guess,” I say playfully.

“My guess is you always wear pink ones,” Nole says, smirking, then turns to Dame. “What do you think?”

“Sometimes they’re purple,” quips Dame. “Let’s make a bet. Loser buys all of us the first round of gelato in Firenze.”

Suddenly, I realize that Nole is baiting me. “So do we have a deal?”

“About the gelato?” teases Nole.

“No, about you joining my house as lead designer,” I say firmly. “Do we have a deal?”

“In principle,” Nole stalls. “I have certain conditions.”

“Shoot.”

Nole turns to Diamond. “I’m the lead designer and I get star billing?”

A look of relief washes over Diamond’s face. “Please. I was the one who suggested you in the first place. I’d be honored to work with you.”

“Male fashions make up at least thirty percent of our Catwalk collection,” Nole tells me, continuing the negotiations.

“Done,” I say.

“My crew is in: Dame is lead hairstylist, Liza Flake is second. Kimono assists Bobby Beat. Elgamela, of course, is star model. And Ruthie Dragon will be me and Diamond’s assistant,” Nole says. “And my cat closes the show in the bridal gown.”

I hesitate for a second, because I would like to slay Ruthie Dragon instead of having her join my house now, but I guess fashion beggars can’t be choosers. I have also dreamed about Fabbie Tabby walking down the runway in the Catwalk competition for as long as I’ve wanted to win it. The truth, though: as long as my show closes with a feline, my vision remains intact, so I find myself saying with a sigh, “Done and done.” Immediately I can’t help but wonder if I have indeed sold my soul for a shot at stardom. I take some blank team membership forms out of my Hello Kitty tote bag and hand one each to Nole, Kimono, Elgamela, Dame Leeds, and Ruthie.

I think Nole secretly wonders the same thing: I can tell by the way he fingers the blank form, then puts it down on the empty chair next to him and rubs his hands in despair. “Again.” He sighs as if he is exhaling the disappointment of the Chandelier drama. But
somehow I don’t think he wants to admit that to us, not yet. Instead, he switches to his signature smirkiness: “I hate those little cuts I get on my hands from cutting fabric. Sooo not chic.”

We all laugh. Even Aphro. I take off my game face and watch with glee as the pets romp around in the playground where Countess Coco is holding court. Five minutes later, I’m clutching the last signed membership forms that I need to fulfill my first official task as a house leader. Now I feel fortified to face whatever drama awaits me in the Lynx lair. One down, one to go. I sigh. Then I make the one announcement I’ve been dying to make: “The House of Pashmina will have its first official team meeting tommorrow at three-thirty sharp. All team members are required to attend.”

Sil Lai still doesn’t crack a smile when I hand her my membership forms, but now I don’t care. The door to the inner sanctum of the Lynx lair is opened, and Sil Lai motions for me to enter. Puccini, who is resting in his leopard bed, looks up at me loopy-eyed, like he’s been daydreaming but I’ve brought him back to some reality. Ms. Lynx is scribbling furiously with a leopard-patterned pen, so I let my eyes roam over her office walls. It’s true what I’ve heard: all the walls are
plastered with photos and magazine tear sheets of her back in her modeling days. I’m not at all shocked at how thin she is in the photos because I’d already heard that she was obviously a much smaller size than her present “diva size” 22.

Now Ms. Lynx looks squarely at me, and her intense dark eyes activate another round of stomach fritters. “Do you always wear pink?” she asks, finally smiling.

I break into a grin but refrain from revealing why I’m so amused: two people have asked me the same question in one day. I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ear,
When something’s not broke, don’t fix it
. “Well, when I’m not, I’m
thinking
pink,” I say, smiling warmly.

“Well, that’s why I wanted to see you,” Ms. Lynx starts in, causing my stomach to flip-flop. “What I mean is, because you are a house leader, I’m going to need you to be discreet about certain events that have occurred recently. That means
on
camera and
off
, if you follow the bouncing ball?”

“I follow it,” I say, my voice squeaking. I’m frozen inside. I wonder who told her that I was bad-mouthing Chandelier. Or is she referring to Ice Très and his misfired Cupid’s arrow? Neither of which is going to earn me any purr points—forget about my final tally!

“In any case, gossiping is not encouraged, but now,
with the Teen Style Network being granted full access to the faculty and student body, I find it imperative to encourage everyone to take a proactive approach,” continues Ms. Lynx in her commanding voice.

Now I feel dizzy because I’m not sure if Ms. Lynx is reprimanding me or is merely on spin patrol.

“Yes, I feel—I mean, I hear you, Ms. Lynx,” I say, nodding cooperatively.

I’m so relieved that I’m obviously still in the fashion game that I take a
segundo
to decompress on the spot. “Um, I just handed in my team membership forms,” I announce, like a proud mother who just delivered a big litter of kittens.

“Good. I knew you would,” Ms. Lynx says sharply. “Now, I’ve referred you for a sales position. It’s for a new boutique that will be opening in Harlem. The owner is an old friend, and the two of you certainly share a shade in common.”

“Wow,” I say, gingerly taking the piece of paper from her hand. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me yet. She’s quite a handful, but as I always say, if you can’t handle a designer’s roar, you’ll never survive in the fashion jungle.”

I nod furiously like an obedient lion tamer while the words from Gloria Gaynor’s disco hit rush to my brain:
Oh, no, not I! I will survive!

“Make sure you get your budget forms in to me on time,” Ms. Lynx says politely.

I assure her I will, then run to the bathroom to deal with the flood under my arms. Now I know what the expression “dodging a bullet” means, because I feel like I just dodged a fashion missile big enough to topple the Eiffel Tower in gay Paree!