Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “It was a thousand-dollar ice cream sundae!” Shalimar brags, peering into his piercingly blue slanty eyes, which are framed by thick blond eyebrows. It’s obvious that Shalimar is still searching for a new taste sensation despite the fact that for her sixteenth birthday, her parents took her to Serendipity 3 restaurant on the Upper East Side, where she got to indulge in the world’s most expensive sundae. All morning, I’ve been hearing dribbles (but seen no nibbles, mind you) about this Golden Opulence Sundae: five scoops of Tahitian vanilla ice cream covered in 23-karat edible gold leaf, then topped with chunks of rare Chuao chocolate.

  “Is there anything she won’t devour?” I whisper to Angora. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were taking a voguing class with the Mad Hatter!”

  Angora is too vogued out to care about the latest object of my ogle. “If one more person asks me why I’m not in intermediate voguing with Pashmina, I’m going to hold a press conference!” Angora marches away quickly, sending Morse code distress signals with each clomp of her powder blue suede UGG boots. By the time we hit the second floor, she’s out of breath and has to rest by the Hall of Fashion Fame passageway.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. Angora’s asthma goes into full throttle when she’s kaflustered.

  “I’m just fine and dandy. I hid in the back of the class so Mr. Blinghe wouldn’t call on me. I think I need a chin splint from hiding my face in my palm—that’s all,” Angora says, struggling to regain her normal breathing.

  “It was just the first day—and I’m sure Shalimar’s shade didn’t help,” I offer.

  “Oh, plissé! I can forget about modeling in a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, okay? I don’t need Je-T’aime’s crystal ball to read the Women’s Wear Daily headline of the future: Angora prance? Not a chance!”

  Je-T’aime is Angora’s dad’s Creole psychic from Louisiana. He doesn’t make a move without her. In Angora’s case, I decide to coax the wilting magnolia into putting one UGGed foot in front of the other. If I get elected, I’ll need my star model to be prance-ready by spring, and that’s why I’m hoping that voguing classes will help Angora unleash her inner feline fatale. According to Willi Ninja, the unspoken fashion rule is: if you can vogue, then you can work the runway for points on the Dow Jones, okay.

  “If I didn’t think you could be as fierce as Tidy or Tyra, I would tell you to move back home with your mother and master the art of hyping hush puppies!”

  “Perch. Prance. Payday!” Angora giggles, repeating another of my mantras. Then she pulls out her inhaler to rebalance her oxygen intake. “His name is Zeus,” Angora adds nonchalantly.

  “What was he doing with the beatbox?” I ask.

  “He’s a deejay—‘hip-hop addict,’ that’s what he called himself. Mr. Blinghe made us introduce ourselves because ‘voguing is about connecting with others,’ ” Angora repeats wearily.

  “Does he want to model, too?”

  Angora nods.

  “Now, there’s a new hyphenate,” I offer.

  “What do you mean, chérie?”

  “A model and a deejay. What should we call him?”

  “Speaking of hyphenates, take a look at this one,” Angora says, perking up. She whips out the Little Brown Book, the magazine for Bloomingdale’s insiders. (Her father’s Funny Bunny antics have their perks now that parents are dropping carrots on his likeness, sold at Toys ‘R’ Us.) Angora opens to the page featuring Nacho Figueras, an Argentine polo player and the face of Ralph Lauren’s new men’s fragrance. “Purrr,” I hum approvingly. “A professional polo player and a model. I think Zeus is tastier, though. Oh, I got it—what about ‘model-spinner’?”

  “I like that,” Angora says, smiling sweetly at the photo collage of Tidy Plume.

  “Your eyes are prettier because they peer deeper into the soul,” I coo to Angora.

  “Her breasts are bigger though. I want those breasts, chérie,” Angora counters.

  “It’s an indisputable facto that A-cup means A-list.”

  “Then add an addendum to our Catwalk Code: B-cup means more Benjamins!” Angora quips.

  “Sounds like a booby trap to me.”

  Senior-year design major Nole Canoli and his five-member entourage turn the corner and walk ahead of us into the Fashion Auditorium. Elgamela Sphinx, the model in the bunch, towers over the rest of them and breaks out her supermodel-in-training smile. “Hi Pashmina and Angora,” she coos.

  As for Nole Canoli, the word on the street is he could be the next Gianni Versace. That means, a designer who is bling-worthy. Nole has a pudgy round face set off by his thick black Gucci glasses. He also has an egg-shaped head that probably glows in the dark because it’s so giganto and closely shaven. Oblivious to our presence, the bling-worthy one walks into the auditorium. “It’s turning into a real Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade,” I observe.

  Angora nods knowingly as I reminisce about my fave cartoon balloons. When I was five years old, my mom finally rescued us from the gingerbread house before Grandma Pritch cooked Chenille and me in her oven. I started kindergarten a few weeks later, and on Thanksgiving the three of us went to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I held my mother’s hand tight because I thought if I let go maybe she would float away. My little hands were freezing, but I was in heaven watching all the gigantic balloons travel by. Sonic the Hedgehog. The Weebles. Snoopy. The only one missing was my favorite, Miss Piggy.

  Angora nudges me from my childhood memories to clock Nole Canoli in action. “Anyone with that much hot air has to be deflatable.” Nole air-kisses Liza Flake, who attends the Fashion Auxiliary program for hairstyling. Every chance she gets, you can spot her whipping out her turquoise faux crocodile portfolio, which is filled with test shots taken by photographers who use hairstylists, makeup artists, and fashion stylists to transform the models being tested into primp-ready posers. Rounding out the Canoli entourage are makeup artist Kimono Harris and hairstylist Dame Leeds, both in the auxiliary program. “Mini Mo,” as the supa-petite blusher is called by her friends, always wears China red lipstick and her dark, straight hair is cut in a geometric precision bob, sorta like Aphro’s (except Mo’s hair requires no “assisterance” from Revlon Realistic Relaxer). Probably the most pampered member of Nole Canoli’s entourage, however, is Countess Coco, whose tiny head topped with a foxy mane sticks proudly out of the black Prada bag thrown over Nole’s right shoulder. She’s a purebred Pomeranian with bulging eyes and equal attitude.

  Speaking of entourage members, as we descend into the doorway of the auditorium, Aphro, who is seated midway, finally waves us down like a desperate housewife in Times Square trying to hail a cab. Even from rows away, we can hear Aphro’s armful of silver and gold bangles jangling to their own fashion jingle.

  “Scratch, scratch!” coos Aphro, sitting next to Felinez. They both extend their cupped hands and we all cross paws. Then Aphro unleashes one of her signature snorts—a laugh so hearty it sounds like a happy hog lapping up slop at its trough. It’s part of what makes the mighty Aphrodite such a purrlicious Babe. Aphro majors in Jewelry Design and invented her own hip-hop moniker by adopting “Biggie” as her middle name. She wants to start a jewelry company called Aphro Puffs. Let’s just say that the self-proclaimed “model-blinger” takes the advice of our marketing teacher, Ms. Harness, very seriously: “You’re never too young to start branding yourself.”

  Angora and I plop down in the cushy hot-pink theater-style seats next to our crew.

  “Okay—time to thread the needle,” Aphro pipes up, which is Catwalk code for taking care of business. “Let’s take bets. What’s the supa-dupa surprise gonna be—a person, a place, or a thang?”

  “Winner gets a Mambolatte,” Felinez chimes in.

  “Oh—all right. I think it’s gonna be a person. A special mentorship with someone like—ooh, I got it—a French designer in Paris, like Yves Saint Bernard!” Angora says satisfied.

  “Um, I think it’s gonna be a place,” Felinez says confidently. �
�Like the Catwalk winners get to stay at the Four Seasons Hotel in Paris, where they’ll plan a party?”

  “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.