Authors: Deborah Gregory
“Right! Y’all are all wrong! It’s definitely a
thang—
like the Queen of England donating her royal jewels to the winning team,
ayiight
,” quips Aphro.
“So
sari
,” I counter, ready to throw mystery into the mix, “but it’s none of the above.”
My crew gives me the look that I know all too well:
Whatever makes her clever!
Despite my excitement about what’s about to jump off, I lean on Angora’s shoulder and sneak a yawn.
“Pash—if I tell you something, you won’t get upset?” Angora says, leaning closer.
I respond warily, “Wazzup, buttercup?”
“You need a spritz,” Angora says, palming her vial of Bitty Kitty fragrance into my hand.
“
I should have known that Tahitian vanilla soap wasn’t going to hold up,” I whisper. “I had to take a bird bath this morning because the hot water went to a hootenanny, leaving me high and dry.”
Angora smiles at me, but I’m so embarrassed that I can feel the eye on the backside of my bloomers blinking in discomfort.
“God, I’d like to undo Mr. Darius with a seam ripper!” I mumble.
“Not to worry,
chérie
—only I can tell you smell,” Angora whispers into my ear.
“Thank you for the blast,” I say, spritzing on more of the Bitty Kitty fragrance before handing it back to Angora.
Yet another Catwalk opponent, Chandelier Spinelli, and her best friend, Tina Cadavere, scurry to grab seats in our row. Two steps in, Chandelier slides back out apologetically, like she’s forgotten something terribly important—“Forgot her false teeth maybe,” I whisper to Angora. Flinging her suede cutout scarf once around her neck, Chandelier unwittingly whacks Tina on the nose. “I’m sorry, Miss
Fluff
!” she squeals. Tina lets out a round of heckles as the dizzy duo scurry to another aisle.
“Tina the Hyena is on the loose,” Angora observes. When we were freshman, Chandelier was real cool with me until she started throwing shade—as in Gucci twisted horsebit–hinge eyeglasses. By sophomore year, she went from tore up from the floor up to chic chitty-bang-bang with Nole Canoli and his crew.
“All I wanna know is how Miss
Chan-de-lee-ay
started hanging with Guccis?” shouts Aphro drawing out the pronunciation, which garners snickers from the nearby seats.
We shush Aphro in unison, but to no avail.
“Someone tell me please, then I’ll shut up!”
“Maybe her father got promoted to head nurse,”
Felinez offers with a giggle. In sociology, Chandelier mentioned that she lives with her father and that he’s a male nurse at a hospital in Brooklyn.
Aphro twirls the ends of the purple chain wrap draped around her neck like a detective meditating on clues. She designed the scarf from knitted links intermingled with chain mail; unwrapped, it would trail for miles. Aphro was in the same modeling 101 class as Angora and I. Hands down, Miss Aphro is the best catwalker among us, which is why the anointed strutter will be choreographing our fashion show. See, scoring points in the Catwalk competition depends as much on the choreographed posing and prancing as it does on a house’s fashion theme and scheme.
At last, the auditorium has filled up with students who want to put their dibs in. Our principal, Mr. Mario Confardi, skips onto the stage with his signature sprightly gait. He smoothes down his fuschia silk tie, which contrasts sharply against a pale pink shirt and superbly tailored dark gray gabardine suit. Everything about our steely principal spells professional, which is why I suddenly sit up straight in my chair and poke Felinez to do the same. Mr. Confardi steps to the mike in clipped choreographed motion, his every move revealing the hidden Confardi code clearly deciphered by the most perceptive fashionistas among us. Loosely
translated, it means:
I’m serving it up like pancakes, so you’d better grab my guidance while it’s hot!
Standing like a model on the catwalk patiently posing for the photographers stationed below the ramp to capture fashion shots, Mr. Confardi waits for our catty chatter to cease without having to signal us. That’s also Confardi code. Our top fashion dog may be short with a slight build, but he is
très
commanding—and chic. Take his wardrobe: he’s aways Dolce down in the suit department but pinches his pennies for Prada when it comes to his footwear—usually baroque brown lace-ups with perforated and stitched toes.
“Good morning,” Mr. Confardi announces in his piercing voice. “Glad to see you could make time in your busy schedule to place your nominations—including you, Countess.” Mr. Confardi motions to Nole Canoli and Countess Coco, who is clearly on the fast track to divadom, judging by her well-placed paw on the armrest.
Mr. Confardi continues with the words we are all waiting to hear: “Welcome to the nomination process for house leaders for the Thirty-fifth Annual Catwalk Competition.”
We all clap. “Bring it on!” someone shouts. I turn and catch Anna Rex’s stone-faced profile: that long aquiline nose and dark straight hair pulled back severely into a ponytail. Not one facial muscle registers
excitement, not even a twitch. On last year’s Catwalk blog, one of the house leaders claimed they vetoed picking the stoic one as a model because she is obviously a Botox-injection regular. While that rumor has still not been verified, one thing is true: Anna Rex maintains a 4.0 grade point average without breaking a sweat. There are five Anna Rex disciples—all super-skinny, with an obvious clique code that requires them to always wear black and never smile in public. It’s also no secret that Anna Rex and her calorie-conscious cronies are the reason why the school implemented its no barfing policy in three languages. They never eat in the Fashion Café, but they can be seen outside the school smoking tiny clove cigarettes, supposedly hand-rolled in Dutch Teepees by a Surinamese Indian Chief, or so claims the snobby one.
A hush washes over the auditorium as Mr. Confardi continues his shrill spiel: “Our founding principal, William Dresser, had a unique vision when he created the charter for Fashion International forty years ago. He wanted an educational environment where a passion for fashion could truly flourish.”
Speaking of unique visions, I can’t help my wandering eyes, which search the crowd for just one more peek at Zeus. Not a zebra stripe in sight. My fashion lights are dimmed.
“Our founding father also created the format for the
Catwalk competition so that the most talented of our students could walk right into a fashion career—almost literally—after they graduated,” Mr. Confardi continues. “To facilitate this process, the five competing Catwalk houses must be helmed by a committed leader.”
Angora, Fifi, and Aphro turn and beam at me like I possess the key to fashion
paradiso
. I blush instinctively.
After Mr. Confardi winds down, he announces: “Now for the driving force behind the Catwalk competition, Ms. Fabianna Lynx!”
As we all clap, Ms. Fab grandly walks up the steps onto the stage with her pampered, pudgy white bichon frise, Puccini, hot on her heels.
“Sashay, parlay!” Aphro shouts out. It’s giggles all around. As if on cue, Puccini plops his fat white extra-furry body down on the stage like a pancake next to Ms. Fab as she proceeds to adjust the microphone stand to accommodate her six-foot-tall stature. More giggles.
“Check the outfit,” I whisper. Ms. Fab’s style can be spotted from the last aisle in the auditorium: today she is wearing a leopard-print ankle-length denim dress with leopard-fur trim around the scoop neckline, and calf’s-hair leopard-print mules with red piping. Puccini is wearing a matching outfit—a leopard-print denim coat—minus the mules. We all know that Ms. Fab makes both their outfits because, as she says, she wouldn’t be
caught dead shopping at the Forgotten Diva, no offense against my mom.
“I heard she used to carry secrets for the Soviet Union in her lynx muffler,” Angora offers about the so-called Lynx legacy, which fascinates us all.
“I bet she was the most furbulous double agent to grace the Kremlin,” I concur.
Ms. Lynx looks ready to speak, so we wait with bated breath. “Good morning, my fellow fashionistas!”
“Good morning!”
we shout back.
“Candidates nominated today will be eligible to run in the Catwalk elections. And next week, you will cast your ballots at the Catwalk election. The final five will be responsible for selecting their team members, delegating duties, and presenting a style vision that will culminate in one of the five full-concept fashion shows, which are held at Bryant Park.”
Angora and I take a deep breath. We are definitely at the starting gate. Let the fashion games begin.
“Okay, shall we begin placing nominations?” Ms. Lynx says, looking down at Puccini as if he will be contributing. “Oooh, Puccini, don’t you just get goose bumps at this petticoat junction?”
Puccini lifts his head and peers at Ms. Lynx, then drops his chin back on the floor with a defined
plop
.
“I had the honor of becoming the Catwalk director
twenty years ago, when our founding father was still here,” Ms. Fab says, then takes a pause, which Aphro feels compelled to fill.
“And we heard you were sleeping with him!” she blurts out.
Sometimes I think Aphro has Tourette’s syndrome. What else could explain why things just slip out of her mouth like hazardous emissions?
“He may be gone, but I believe he’s watching with pride,” Ms. Lynx goes on spookily, luckily not having heard Aphro. “
Okay
. I now move for nominations to begin. Raise your hand if you second.”
Hands fly up, and I feel the excitement buyers must feel sitting at a Sotheby’s auction, waiting to get their bid on with their numbered paddles.
“Farfalla and Sil Lai will assist with nominations,” Ms. Fab explains as her two assistants ascend to the stage.
Nole’s hand flies up first. “I nominate Chandelier Spinelli.”
“I second that,” someone else says.
Chandelier blushes and accepts the nomination.
Everybody claps, including Angora, who can’t help herself; after all, her mother runs Ms. Ava’s Etiquette and Charm School in Baton Rouge. Meanwhile, I keep my hands to myself and instead try to gauge my odds of beating Chandelier to be one of the top five contenders.
I also hide my disappointment that Nole nominated
her
. Aphro, Angora, and Fifi are oblivious. They hold their hands high like they’re totem poles.
Farfalla calls on another student.
“I nominate Chintzy Colon,” someone says.
“I second,” says another.
Both Chintzy and her Splenda smile accept to a strong round of applause. Now I’m starting to sweat. Chintzy got nominated before I did?
Both Willi Ninja, Jr., and Shalimar Jackson also get nominated. Finally, Angora gets her nomination in. “I nominate Pashmina Purrstein,” she announces loudly.
“I second that!” Aphro yells out.
After all the usual suspects and a few long shots such as supa-shrilly Chantez Winan get nominated, Ms. Fab asks the question we’ve been waiting for. “I move that we close the nominations. Does anybody second?”
A sea of voices second Ms. Fab’s motion.
Sil Lai reads the list of Catwalk house leader candidates. “If you are one of the thirteen candidates that I just called, you have one week to launch your campaign. The election will be held next Monday,” she explains. “At that time, all students will be eligible to cast a ballot. The day after Election Day, the poll results will be posted outside the Fashion Café. Please read the Catwalk competition rules and regulations
carefully.
”
Ms. Lynx sashays back onstage, grinning like a spotted Cheshire cat. Sil Lai runs center stage to hand Ms. Lynx the Big Willie bronze statue. Ms. Lynx holds the Big Willie statue like it’s an Academy Award—and to us, it is.
“This is what you will work so hard for—our school’s ultimate symbol of promise, potential, and dedication. Each year, a Big Willie is bestowed upon the winning house. Good luck to you all!”
Ms. Lynx waits for the thunderous rounds of applause to die down. “I’m sure each and every one of you is also familiar with the $100,000 prize and college scholarships that will accompany this prestigious award—thanks to our generous corporate sponsors. What everyone has been dying to know, of course, is this year’s destination for the all-expenses paid two-week trip.”
I sit up in my chair, my appetite whetted for more than a Mambolatte all of a sudden.
“The winning team will be whisked off to … Firenze, where they will stage their fashion show as the opening collection in
Pitti Bimbo
!”
“Italy! Knew it!” I scream, cupping my hands to Angora. Firenze is Italian for Florence, where the junior fashion collections—Pitti Bimbo—are held every summer.
“But hold on. We do have one extra perk this year
that has managed to stay hush-hush on the plush,” Ms. Lynx goes on. “Someone please hand me the note written in invisible ink!” she giggles, motioning to Farfalla, who eagerly marches toward her with a satin leopard tote. She plops it into Ms. Lynx’s outstretched left hand.
“Break it down!” Aphro shouts, because she can’t stand the anticipation anymore. None of us can.
We watch as Ms. Lynx opens her spotted tote like it’s Pandora’s box, but all she pulls out of it are a pack of leopard tissues. Coughing, Ms. Lynx puts her hand to her ample chest and waits for her throat to clear before she resumes speaking: “For the first time, we have an unprecedented surprise.”
“What is it!”
someone screams.
We all burst out laughing. “Let me catch my breath, will you?” Ms. Fab insists. “Okay, okay. I am incredibly pleased to announce that for the first time in the thirty-five-year history of the Catwalk competition, you will have more than just memories to savor, because this year the entire process will be taped, then televised by the Teen Style Network!”
“Omigod!” Aphro shouts, like a supa-giddy contestant on
The Price Is Right
.
I drop my jaw like a sun-kissed guppy, then announce, “I
think
I won the bet!”
Amid a cacophony of screams and shout-outs, Ms.
Fab smiles before she explains that film crews will have unlimited access to Fashion International.