Authors: Deborah Gregory
Catwalk (57 page)
Zeus winks in acknowledgment of my cuteness. Staring at Zeus on the sly, I wonder if he was always so secure and confident. With those dark, dreamy eyes and chiseled cheekbones, he probably knew at the age of two that he was gonna be a Tasti D-lite. Or maybe that’s what it’s like when you have a big, tight family with a father at the helm; you get to feel warm, secure, and fuzzy inside.
Lupo, on the other hand, wears his insecurities like an itchy wool sweater plagued by pilling. His eyelids are so droopy he has to tilt his head sideways when he levels a gaze, like he’s searching for his good angle. Like right now, as he sidles over to Aphro and plants a kiss on her satin-smooth cheek.
“Ciao, bella,”
he coos.
“Hey,” she shoots back, angling her face so she doesn’t butt heads with his Pinocchio-plus nose. Despite what Aphro says, I know she is feeling Lupo, and definitely vice versa. For a second, I fantasize that Zeus is feeling me, too—and that that’s why he comes over and gives me a hug.
“Congrats,” I coo, blushing. Suddenly, I start blathering about my creepy catmare. “So I had a dream that we were playing this funny remix of ‘I Will Survive’ in our fashion show—and you were nowhere to be found. And I was like, what’s with the switch-up? Why did Zeus do that? And where is he?”
“Yeah, well, I’m right here. So, what you got?” he asks, interrupting my babble flow.
I shake my head like
Forget it
, but I can’t get the song out of my head, so I start singing it in my cackling jackal voice. After all, Zeus is the deejay and will be putting together the tracks for our show.
“Oh, Lord, rip the runway, not my eardrum, puhleez!” Aphro puts her hands over her ears.
“
Párate
, stop!” hisses Felinez. She slaps Aphro on
her arm. “Nobody stopped you when you were singing like an old-timey washbucket.”
“
That
was the blues. Get your history straight.”
“Go ahead,
mija
—it’s really cute!” coaxes Felinez.
Because everyone else giggles, too, I shrug off my shame and resume singing like a cackling jackal.
“First I was afraid
I was Petri-FRIED
Kept thinking I could never live
Without Fabbie Tabbie by my side …
But as long as I know how to pose
I know I’ll stay alive
I will survive! I will survive!”
While I’m singing, Diamond Tyler, our second designer in command, sneaks into the meeting like a field mouse, quietly popping into an empty seat. When I squeak to the finish line, I record the reactions: Angora and Felinez clap loudly. Liza Flake snaps her gum loudly, then snickers until she’s posy-pink in the cheeks. Aphro just shakes her head, embarrassed. Zeus’s reaction is the most surprising. “I could make a track out of that. I’m not kidding,” he reassures me.
“Really?” I respond, surprised. “My mom would dig that. Let’s mix it.” Trailing off into the outer limits, I resume trying to decipher my trippy dream. “In my dream,
I was wondering—why were you standing next to Shalimar in the audience instead of remaining backstage with us?”
Zeus shrugs his shoulders like he’s lost me in the Twilight Zone. He meets my gaze, and his eyes twinkle until we’re locked into a mutual adorationfest. That is, until the spell is broken by the noisy entrance of nosy Nole Canoli, model Elgamela Sphinx, and makeup artist Kimono “Mini Mo” Harris, who has brought her little cousin.
“Oh, look, it’s Mini Mo Two!” squeals Dame Leeds, our lead hairstylist.
Nole is more interested in Zeus’s brim victory. “Fly Hat Fridays! You’d better work, supermodel!” Nole Canoli squeals like he’s Miss Piggy, whom he strongly resembles, only without the strands of pearls. “In honor of the first Fly Hat Friday, I’m making the Countess a red pillbox hat!” Nole plops down with his better half, Countess Coco, perched neatly at his side in a Prada carrier.
“That’s it—we need some pillbox hats for the bomber jackets and ruffled chiffon skirts,” I brainstorm.
Kissa strokes the Countess’s fiery red mane. Unlike snippy J.B., the Countess has manners and appreciates attention and Lambo Lovers delicate liver treats.
“Well, if we don’t win, we’ll be remembered as the house that created Fly Hat Fridays,” giggles Liza Flake.
When she’s not popping her annoying gum, she’s blowing off Catwalk meetings for her internship at Vidal Sassoon. Not once, but twice. Oy, our assistant hairstylist makes me scratch my head—and not to relieve dandruff, either. Of course, Dame Leeds, our lead hairstylist, always makes sure Liza is on time so he can avoid tangling with me.
“I think we should put a few pillboxes in the show—with the minidress segment?” I suggest, inspired by Zeus’s accolade. “We don’t have enough hats in the show—that’s what we need—even though the Ferocious One hates last-minute additions.”
“I second that motion,” seconds Zeus. He tips his brim again and nods humbly again.
“Who’s the ferocious?” Cherry asks innocently.
“The Big Bad Lynx!” blurts out Nole.
Aphro knocks him on the shoulder, her personal code for “Put a lid on it.” The Chintzy Incident has taught us one thing: we don’t know who is carrying secrets to our enemies at the Kremlin (aka Ms. Lynx’s office), or where the Teen Style Network has planted hidden cameras!
“All right, sorry.” Nole smirks, then beams at Cherry. “Are you ready to twirl? What’s your name?”
While Nole continues to coo with Cherry and Kiki, Mini Mo’s miniature lookalike, I can tell Felinez is fretting because Michelette, her older sister, hasn’t arrived
yet with their little brother, Juanito. “She probably has her head stuck in a
telenovela
!” Felinez moans. Michelette works in a video store. She’s addicted to Spanish soap operas—mainly the Colombian
Betty, la Fea
—and sometimes has to be pried out of the recliner chair.
“She’ll be here,” I assure Felinez.
“Don’t you have someone coming, too?” Nole asks me.
I nod. “But not to worry—nothing will keep this divette in training from a shot at model stardom!” I quip.
“I heard that!” screams Stellina, blazing through the doorway like a shooting star.
I jump up to hug Stellina, relieved that she came without Tiara, her timid best friend from Building C. Alas, I hoped too soon. Stellina turns around and looks behind herself like she’s lost her bread basket in the forest. She bolts out the door. Seconds later, she returns—with not only Tiara in tow, but also Eramus “E.T.” Tyler.
“Color me impressed,” I shoot at her, pleased. “How’d ya pull this off?”
“I’m going with Mrs. Paul on Sunday to hand out
Watchtowers
,” she says, rolling her eyes.
The Watchtower
is the official magazine of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Miss Pashmina, you owe me—big-time.”
“I get your drift,” I respond quickly. What I want to
say is
This is a fashion show, not a magic show
. Even the Great Houdini couldn’t pull a runway trick out of his hat to transform Tiara’s fashion travesties!
“Wow, you’re going to see a watchtower? Where?” Zeus asks, intrigued.
Aphro jabs Zeus in the side of his black leather jacket like
Chill for now and we’ll hit you up later with that info
. No point in insulting E.T., who beams at me like I’m his Secret Santa.
“I am so glad to have you in the mix!” I quip.
“You think I could really be in a fashion show?”
“Why not?” interrupts Felinez, ready to reassure him. “My brother, Juanito, is going to be in our fashion show, too, so you won’t be the only boy!”
“Well, he has to try out first,” blurts out Dame Leeds, like he’s in charge of model casting.
I refrain from telling Dame that Juanito’s audition is merely a formality. Juanito’s in there like swimwear.
“Don’t worry—I’m really happy you’re here,” I assure E.T.
“He kinda looks like Lennix,” Aphro says sadly.
“Who’s Lennix?” E.T. asks.
“My brother,” Ahpro says quietly. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her refer to Lennix as her brother. Usually she says foster brother.
“So why are you so late, Miss Diamond?” asks Dame Leeds, shifting the focus from family to feuds. I know
he’s really putting me on blast—not Diamond—because I put him on blast for Liza’s two no-shows.
“I had to go see for myself—I heard that three coyotes turned up on the Columbia University campus,” Diamond reports, like she’s delivering a trend observation from the Fashion Week tents at Lincoln Center.
“Really?” Stellina asks, excited.
Diamond ignores my stare and continues like we’re just sitting around having a howling good time and not conducting a Catwalk meeting. “The peak of coyote breeding season is right now, I think—so a lot of them are getting kicked out of their homes while their parents are preparing to—well, you know.” She stops, embarrassed. “So anyway, the young ones migrate south along the train tracks, cemeteries, the park, and even college campuses like Columbia, because they’re looking for food—you know, like small rabbits—”
“Um, Diamond—that’s enough with the urban coyote tales,” I say sharply. I’ve had it up to here with Diamond disrupting the meetings with her “tails” of woe.
“I was just trying to explain—” Diamond stops because her voice is getting shaky. “I mean, if you can talk about your nightmares, why can’t I talk about what’s important to me? This fashion stuff isn’t the whole world.”
“Yes, I know. But I’d appreciate it if you would keep your updates to Catwalk-related topics from now on,
okay?” I plead. Diamond’s face is beet red. “Don’t get me wrong, we can talk about that kind of stuff after the meeting is over. Right now, I want to talk about this great idea we got to set off the the satin bomber jacket and chiffon skirts—what about pillbox hats?”
Diamond doesn’t answer me. She sits down like a petulant child, fiddling with her sketchbook on the table, then gets up and walks out of the meeting!
“I knew it,” I groan. “Today is
not
my lucky day.”
FASHION INTERNATIONAL 35th ANNUAL CATWALK COMPETITION BLOG
New school rule: You don’t have to be ultranice, but don’t get tooooo catty or your posting will be zapped by the Fashion Avengers!
HERE COMES THE JUDGE …
As of late, everyone at Fashion International is tethered to two “seamy” topics: 1) This year’s Catwalk competition, for which the contestants are busy assembling their creations on cutting tables. 2) The ghoulish body-parts ring—members, which include the father of one of F.I.’s former house leaders—accused of running an international illegal chop shop. All related parties will face judgment day real soon. The five competing houses in the Catwalk competition will face the music when the esteemed judges cast their votes after the fashion shows are unveiled at Lincoln Center in June; the five members of the body-parts ring will face the music in Brooklyn Supreme Court after the jurors reach a verdict.
But how can we resist passing judgment in the meantime? Let’s examine the sordid facts: one house leader went MIA after the chop shop scandal broke, leading her to withdraw from the competition; one house is claiming they were duped out of designer shoes; and apparently another will soon be
facing charges concerning misappropriation of funds (that allegation is freshly plucked from the seedless grapevine).
As for the trial: we have discovered that Nurse Spinelli was part of a scheme to harvest corpses at funeral homes for bones, skin, cardiac valves, and other body parts to sell in the global transplant business! Skin, sold in sheets, went to burn victims. More than 12,000 people in the U.S., Canada, England, and other countries received the body parts!
Apparently, on the first day of the trial, juror #2 heaved up her matzoh-ball soup and root beer float during the district attorney’s opening argument: “Thousands of people around the world are walking around with tissue and pieces of bone that were never tested for hepatitis and other diseases!” Yikes! Some trade secrets should never be leaked.
The identities of the trial jurors and the five judges for the Catwalk competition are being kept confidential, but we the people always count on leakage. (Those darn leaks in the Catwalk office must keep Ms. Lynx up at night—and on the prowl for intruders!) A grade-A reliable source has confirmed that one of the judges in the Catwalk competition is Hello Kitty—obsessed jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino—not Betsey Johnson, as certain people falsely reported earlier in the year! Coinky dinky: both
daring designers wear a fuchsia wig, but we the people don’t agree with the recent rumblings that a pink “influenza” will create a “color bias” in this year’s Catwalk competition. Oh, glow up! There are five judges on the posh panel—and as in the cadaver trial, all verdicts delivered must be unanimous.
In summation, we the people think fashionistas should have more faith in the system. How much do you want to bet that one of the Catwalk judges will surely be color-blind—except for the color green, if you catch my drift—thereby ensuring the shoe-in of a certain house. (There, somebody finally said it!)
At any rate, the former house leader who sashayed away in disgrace has announced that she plans on running again next year for house leader in the Catwalk competition. Ahem, we the people think said candidate doesn’t stand a prayer of even a hung jury. Come graduation time, she should just grab that cap and be glad it only comes with a tassel—and no strings attached. But hey—no judgment!
Posted by We the Fashion People at 13:45:34
I’m so frazzled that Diamond Tyler dissed me in front of my entire team that I start yanking my hair like an outpatient from the Amsterdam Gardens psych ward.
“Can we have one meeting without drama?” squeals Nole Canoli. “I’ll go get her!” Nole plops the Countess on his chair in her Prada bag and waddles out of the room.
Ruthie Dragon can’t help but throw a satisfied look at me before she bares her “sole”: “It took a little digging—but I did find out at work about the shoes. The House of Ninja is going to be borrowing them,” Ruthie states, like she’s reporting from behind enemy lines in Afghanistan.