Catwalk (40 page)

I shrug like I’m not stressing, even though I am. “I think I’m down with the Thug Nation after all,” I say, getting giddy.

“Urban Thug,” Angora says, correcting me on the moniker for Ice Très’s clothing line.

After I pay for our fabbie fabric finds, we each grab a plastic bag, then head two blocks down to Steinlauf and Stoller for notion supplies.

Diamond grabs two bags of down feathers for the
zippered vests. “Whoa, we only need one,” I order. “I always advise, add but don’t pad!”

“No, you don’t,” pipes up Angora.

“Now I do,” I quip back.

Nole hassles the salesclerk about the shady selection in threads. “You don’t have neon pink?” he demands.

“No, we don’t,” says the blasé salesclerk.

“I bet if Gianni came out of his tomb and demanded it, you’d stock it like it’s
haute
!” snaps Nole, referring to his design idol, the late Gianni Versace.

“I think the cerise shade would contrast cutely,” I point out, hoping to squelch Nole’s divo designer tantrum.

“No, it won’t!” Nole says, stomping his foot. Now even Countess Coco has been shocked out of her stupor. Her ears perk up and her eyes bulge in distress. I pat Countess’s head to assure her that I’ve got this sticky situation handled.

“It’ll work—trust me,” I say. Examining the cone of thread, I read the label and realize its polyester. “We need cotton,” I instruct the salesclerk.

“Cotton,” he mumbles.

“Yes, long-staple, mercerized, forty-weight, hundred-percent-cotton thread, please,” I say.

Now Nole smiles. “That’s my girl—count on her to get testier than me.”

The salesclerk hops to it. “I’ll bring it up.”

“He’d better,” huffs Nole. “He’s out of stock
and
must be out of his mind if he thinks I’m working with Polly and Esther!”

“Ruthie, go get us some snaps and closures while we’re waiting,” I order, sending his reluctant assistant for some reinforcements for the bustier and corset panels.

“I don’t trust her,” I confess to Nole.

“Well, I do, Inspector Clouseau—so close the case!” he giggles.

“I can’t wait till Garo Sparo sees our corsets,” Diamond says, satisfied. Garo Sparo is a downtown designer who specializes in corsets. “I can’t believe you turned down an internship to volunteer in the animal shelter instead,” I groan.

“I felt the animals need me right now,” counters Diamond, defending her decision.

“Just remember we need you more,” Nole warns his second-in-command.

Then, armed with everything from interface to muslin, we decide to call it a day.

“Thank God it’s Friday!” shouts Nole, strutting down Seventh Avenue.

“Not so fast,” I interject, needing one more quick huddle to make sure we’re on the same production page.

“I’m going over to your house on Sunday and Diamond’s house next week,” I explain to Nole.

“When am I going to see you?” protests Felinez.

I didn’t think I had to hover over her to get the bags done; she’s such a pro I know I can trust her to turn out billboard
borsas
and belts faster than a factory in China.

“Okay, well, I can after I finish at Nole’s?” I ask, fondling Fifi’s forearm.

“Okay, squeeze me in,” she sighs.

“Fifi?” I query, like
come on, work with me
. I realize that we’d better talk. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

She nods like I’m kicking her to the curb.

Right now, I realize that I have to get ready if I’m going to head down to Native by seven o’clock for my date with Ice Très.

“Time to get Native,” I giggle. Everybody, of course, follows my dating drift.

“Work the Ice Man for points on the Dow Jones, Miss Pashmina,” advises Nole.

“Abso-freakin’,” I say, nodding.

Standing in front of Mrs. Paul’s apartment, I ponder whether I should indeed knock on her door. But then I’m swayed by the image of Eramus held hostage in a checked shirt and high-water tweed pants for two days running. This prompts my hand to move like it’s being controlled by a Ouija board. I rap softly on the hollow steel door and, on the spot, conjure up my fashion game plan: I’ll butter her up first,
then
ask.

Luckily, Eramus answers the door—or rather flings it open with glee.

“Hi, E.T.,” I say, officially anointing him with a new nickname. He must like that, because he beams, but my heart sinks at the sight of him standing there in his overcoat with a stack of pamphlets in his hands. I know this means he’s going out with Mrs. Paul to play a not-so-fun game of “knock, knock” on people’s doors. In other words, his glum grandmother has already enlisted him to pound the pavement in the name of Jehovah’s Witnesses, handing out
The Watchtower
.

“You want one?” Eramus asks, his doe eyes widening with fear.

“Um—” I stop myself and then say, “Sure, I’ll take one.”

Mrs. Paul marches down the hallway, purse and pamphlets clutched tightly in her fist. “I told you not to open the door,” she scolds him, looking at me suspiciously. I want to blurt out,
Hello. I’m your neighbor
, but I know the drill. She hates us. See, one early Sunday morning she made the mistake of knocking on our door to bestow us with a pamphlet—and received a verbal thrashing from my sleepyhead mother.

“You look nice,” I lie to Mrs. Paul, then blurt out my business. “Um, you know about the Catwalk competition I’m doing. I was wondering if you would consider letting Eramus audition to be one of the junior models in our fashion show.”

Mrs. Paul looks at me like I’m a just-released juvvie. “Really?” squeals Eramus, excitedly, his eyes widening like pool balls.

“Come on, now,” orders Mrs. Paul, walking toward the door, which is my cue to scram. Eramus looks at me, appearing frightened, like he’s going out to meet the boogeyman on a Friday night and wants me to rescue him.

“Um, maybe you wanna come over tomorrow—and I’ll show you some sketches for my fashion show?” I query.

“No, we’re going out shopping tomorrow—over to Benny’s,” Mrs. Paul informs me.

Benny runs the thrift shop, Second Time Around, where Mrs. Paul does most of her shopping. Eramus looks sad that my pleas for his fashion advancement have been torpedoed.

“Okay, well, another time,” I say, cheerfully, trying not to act defeated. God, that went over worse than the Maxi Coat and Hot Pants Ball at Club Vinyl. Not one ticket sold.

Inside my own apartment, I’m greeted by another tense scenario: this one between my mother and Ramon. Mom is all dressed up in a bronze scoop-neck minidress, shimmering from a bounty of iridescent paillettes. “You promised we would go dancing! And do something I wanna do for a change,” my mom moans.

Ramon winces. “Who do you think I’m remodeling that bathroom for—not me, you know?” he counters, sitting slouched in a chair, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead with a cloth. My mom puts her hands on her hips, hovering over him. Little does he know that she’s not going to take that dress off until she’s danced thirty times to her favorite disco song, “I Will Survive,” by Gloria Gaynor. Meanwhile, Chenille is hovering over her, stabbing at her frosted wig with a teasing comb, determined to get every strand in place, despite the fracas.

“Look at all this trouble Chenille went through fixing my hair!” exclaims my mom. She refers to all her
wigs as her hair, which I’m sure Ramon hasn’t even figured out yet.

“That’s right. I’m missing a client,” Chenille brags. She raises a can of Aqua Net hair spray at a ninety-degree angle to Mom’s head like she’s coming in to the finish line.

Reluctantly, my mom puts her pounce on pause to turn and acknowledge my presence—her other, unemployed daughter. “Did you get the job?” she asks, like she’s having déjà vu.

The spritz has obviously put my mom’s memory on the fritz, because I already told her I didn’t get the job at the Jones Uptown boutique.

“Aphro got it,” I grunt.

Chenille rolls her eyes, which makes me Double-mint paranoid that she knows something she’s not telling me.

“
Aphro
got it?” my mom repeats, looking puzzled. “I thought she was going to work for a designer. Ain’t she designing something?”

“Well, she majors in jewelry design—and Laretha is gonna let her showcase her pieces at the boutique, too,” I say, down for the count.

“Now I know you’d better go dancing,” interrupts Chenille.

“I am,” says my mom, glaring at Ramon.

“Well, I gotta go get ready,” I say, quickly.

“Where you going?” my mom asks me.

“Out,” I say, not wanting to also remind her that I told her I was going out with Ice Très tonight.

“With the computer guy?” she asks, teasing me.

“Abso-freakin’—not!” I exclaim.

“You need to be going out with somebody who can fix something around here,” she declares.

“She’s going out with Ice Très,” interjects Chenille, matter-of-factly.

I’d like to whack Chenille with the wig brush. Instead, I just glare at her. She has the nerve to brush up against me as she saunters by me to her bedroom.

I turn quickly to follow her. “How did you know that?” I ask, demandingly.

“I know.”

“Well, since you’re in such a chatty-catty mood, tell me this,” I badger her, “what were you trying to tell me the other day? Something’s going on in the House of Pashmina? Did it have to do with Aphro?”

“Could be,” Chenille says in a tone that lets me know water torture won’t loosen her tart tongue.

“Could be
not
,” I counter, tired of the tawdry tango.

I slam the door to my private sanctuary and commune with Fabbie Tabby for a few tranquil minutes before I decide what I’m going to wear. “Turn to the power of pink,” I say out loud for Fabbie’s ears only. I take out my pink pullover crewneck sweater embroidered with
diagonal hot-pink hearts. As I ponder whether to pad my bra, and which pants to pair with my soon-to-be-ample hearts, my pink Princess phone starts ringing. Now my heart—the beating one in my flat chest—flutters nervously. I pick it up, half expecting to hear Ice Très’s giggly voice querying me about my wardrobe choices for the evening. He’s the only guy besides Zeus, Bobby Beat, and Nole who genuinely digs riffing about the fashion groove. Instead, I’m greeted by Snorty by Nature.

“Your ears must be scorching,” I say hesitantly.

“On fire,” Aphro says, gruffly.

There is an awkward pause, which I know means Aphro has something she wants to get off her equally flat chest. “So what do you want to tell me?” I ask, trying to get this party started.

“Hold up. Lemme finish this personality quiz in
CosmoGirl
,” she says, obviously stalling.

“What for? I can tell you that without any quiz!” I snap. “You’re a
bieeeotch
!”

“Oh, shut up and wait,” she starts. I almost want to tell her,
Not now, please, I’ve had enough “reality” for one day—between Caterina and her crew, you, Benny, Diamond’s designing drama, Liza Flake, Ruthie Dragonbreath, and Shalimar’s shadiness
—but I hold my pink tongue and listen.

“Listen, I knew you would put me on blast about taking that job,” Aphro says, defensively. Yet again,
she’s displaying her annoying attitude. When Aphro and I first became tight freshman year, I always allowed it, because secretly I felt bad about her situation—being in a foster home. Now I just wish I lived in a house as nice as she does with the Maydells.

“I don’t care that you took the job, but you coulda given me the heads-up before I had to hear about it from my assistant—in front of everybody else in the Catwalk meeting!” I exclaim, getting my piece out before she interrupts me like she always does. And I hate that about her, too.

“Oh, hold on to your hot sauce, Miss Purr. I was gonna tell you, but you’ve been avoiding me like I gave you meningococcal meningitis!” protests Aphro.

“Don’t be so dramatic with the teen diseases,” I say, twirling my hair nervously, but what I really want to blurt out is
You gave me more than that—you sent me a computer virus!
“Well, now that you’ve got a job, you can kick in for supplies for the jewelry.”

Although I’m half teasing, Aphro isn’t. “Hello, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I went down to Chinatown today after I got a hot tip on some counterfeit Chanel ivory bangles,” Aphro states emphatically. “That backroom action down there is fierce. They look like Chanel, for sure, and I did kick in so I could get two dozen of them!”

“Okay, well, whatever blows your circle skirt up,” I
say, still confused. On one hand, Aphro seems down for the Catwalk twirl, but on the other, I sense she’s trying to sabotage my leadership.

Right now, I’m more interested in strategizing my ensemble, so I interrupt Aphro’s flow for feedback: “Should I wear the pink velvet jeans with my sweater tonight—or the leggings?”

“Wear the jeans and the pink shoes with the kitty pom-poms,” she suggests.

I pull out my pink velvet jeans and search for stains. Once they pass my inspection, I plop them on top of Fabbie’s head as she lies on the bed in her royal kitty pose. She loves when I do that. Why else would she just sit there on the bed and not move the cover-up till she’s good and ready?

“I gotta jet,” Aphro announces, abruptly.

“Hold up.” Before I can press my edit button, I blurt it out: “You didn’t send me that virus, did you?”

Aphro doesn’t even pause. “I’ma act like I didn’t hear that, cuz you’re tripping. I’ll see you at Nole’s for the fitting.”

“Right,” I say, my cheeks flushed. “So are you going to tell me what is going on with you?”

“No, because there is nothing to talk about,” claims Aphro.

“Okeydokey,” I say, signing off. And Aphro knows what that sign-off means: I’m not buying it!

I have to get ready, so I scurry to the bathroom to start beating my face with Glam Kitty cosmetics. First I apply meowverlous cream foundation in my shade—tawny beige—then set it off with a pouf of loose powder applied with a big plump brush. After I sweep my eyelids with moody pink frosted eye shadow, I apply shy pink shimmery booty dust to the corners of my eyes and my imaginary cleavage. Bobby Beat turned me on to this feline fatale finish—and it will be de rigueur for all the models in our fashion show. “
Meowch
,” I moan to myself when I approve my handiwork.