Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “Where did you get your name?” Angora asks, using a technique we learned in Salesmanship: always focus on something about the customer to stimulate interest.

  “It’s my tag,” he says proudly.

  “You mean, like your design label?” Angora quizzes.

  “Nah—more like for my art.”

  Suddenly, I realize that Ice Tray is referring to the intricate doodlings left behind by grafitti artists on practically any surface in the Big Apple that will take to spray paint. All the buildings in Amsterdam Gardens are “decorated” by taggers. For all his blustering, Mr. Darius has never caught anybody defacing the property, and of course, he’s too cheap to get the walls repainted.

  “It’s très—you know, like French?” he explains proudly.

  “Oh,” Angora says, beaming.

  “Wazzup with your name?” Ice Très asks Angora.

  “She looked like a goat when she was born—without the horns, of course,” I quip.

  “Oh, you mean cuddly—like you,” he teases.

  “Actually, my mother thought it was a pretty name for a girl with good breeding—she is very proud of her French heritage, by way of Canada,” Angora interupts.

  “What about your name?” Ice Très asks me.

  “My mother wanted her daughters to live in the lap of luxury, I guess,” I say, shrugging because I realize it sounds pretentious. It sounds more endearing when Mom says it.

  “Ayiight. Well, I’m trying to get to Paris in a few to study art,” Ice Très informs us.

  Now I wonder what he’s doing at our school, but he clears that mystery right up—at least geographically.

  “I just moved here from Hamilton, Washington. We had to outrun the Pineapple Express,” he says. I have no idea what he’s talking about, but Felinez perks up at the sound of an exotic dish. “See, we was always getting flooded out. Tropical water coming up from Hawaii made the river situation a little too hectic round our way, so my family got tired of that and we moved here.”

  Felinez listens with sympathy as he continues, “Thought about going to High School of Visual Arts, but everybody knows the honeys are over here!” Ice Très chuckles, winking and blinking again—at me.

  “Wow, that’s deep,” I retort, impressed—not—at how he turned a natural pineapple disaster into a shallow move for honey dipping.

  “I know, right,” he says mischievously. “Nah, on the real, I wanna open my own company, Fashion Thug, you know, with hand-painted denim joints and whatnot—and jeans that fit big booties specifically.”

  Felinez winces and makes a face behind his back like, Don’t do me any design favors, graci-ass!

  I take a closer look at the graffiti on his jeans, checking out the details, which causes Ice Très to jump on an explanation like a firefighter with a water hose. “These are from PRPS—you know, it’s pronounced ‘purpose.’ I got a lot of their joints from Pieces on 135th. Their wash is sick!”

  “Pamphlets, please,” orders Aphro, signaling that our chat with Ice Très is over. Time is tick-tocking away.

  “Awright, check y’all later.” Ice Très breaks out.

  After he walks away, Angora says approvingly, “I think Mr. Ice Très is très smitten with you.”

  “Claro que sí. Nobody is ever smitten with me!” Felinez says, pouting. “Not when you two are around.”

  “I’m sorry, but I am not interested in members of the thugeration,” I say offhandedly, even though I think with the right makeover Ice Très could be even tastier than a croissant. But Felinez is right: whenever guys come flocking like geese, they treat her like she’s a hologram. What’s up with that?

  Aphro, however, is oblivious to Felinez’s feelings: “So is that a no on a hug from a thug?”

  “Yes,” I say firmly.

  “Yes to a hug, or no to the thug?” Aphro continues.

  “Yes—I mean, no!”

  Luckily, the bell rings. “Showtime!”

  Watching the students pour into the hallway, I tap my feet impatiently. It will take them forever to snake down the corridor to us—especially now that Chintzy will be plying potentials with chunky chorizos! I also can’t help but notice how many guys stop to congregate by Shalimar’s scentsation. Even Ice Très stops to do a buffalo stance. Shalimar pushes one of her sachets up to his nose, causing him to break out in his rabbit grin. Now I know he’s not a true artist; if he were he wouldn’t have fallen for Shalimar’s sham (and I’m not referring to her pillows, either).

  “Maybe we should have padded our booties for the occasion,” I say, wincing.

  “Someone is green with Gucci Envy,” chides Angora.

  As usual, Angora is on punto.

  “Maybe I’d better rethink my position on, um, aspiring visual artists,” I say pensively. “After all, I am originally from the Boogie Down, where graffiti art was born on the cars of the IRT subway line.” Staring at him with my mouth open, I wonder if Ice Très sensed that I wasn’t digging his doodlings. “Close it!” Aphro shouts.

  “You talking to me?” queries Zeus, who I didn’t see hovering in back of me.

  “No—not you!” shrieks Aphro, letting out a snort.

  Now I want to gaspitate over zebra stripes, but instead, I quickly snap into election mode. “Hi, I’m Pashmina Purrstein and I’m running for Catwalk house leader.”

  “I’m Zeus,” he says, grinning. I try not to stare at his chiseled cheekbones. Zeus, on the other hand, is trying to show me his artistic side. “I dig your slogan—‘Style Should Make You Purr.’ I can do a lot with that visually—I’m a graphic artist. We have three cats, too.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” I ask, wondering if he means his family. I’m always curious about other people: if they have more than I do—like a real father, or even a mother who maybe talks about their father sometimes, hello.

  “Oh—my mom and dad. And I got two sisters. You’d dig my mom; she’s crazy about cats. My dad was upset when she brought the third cat home. But she was like ‘What do you want me to do? Cats are like potato chips, you can’t have just one!’ ”

  Angora laughs loudly. She just loves sound bites. Zeus stands like a statue and rests his left hand on the back of his hat, which I gather now is like his security blankie. “I’m serious. I could do a lot with your catty theme—um, visually. I major in display and whatnot.”

  “Yeah, you said that before,” I say, nodding. But before I can continue, Zeus fills me in on the rest of his credentials like he’s auditioning, when I’m the one trying to snag a vote—and maybe even more than that.

  “I’m also a deejay, so I could hone in on your whole vibe—you know, laying down rap over tracks.”

  I’m not surprised by Zeus’s allegiance to hip-hop—anybody could spot the flavor he savors. “Yeah, Angora told me you’re a deejay. But you’re a model, too, right?”

  Zeus blushes big-time, staring down at his sneakers. Definitely Adidas. “Yeah, I’m trying to get a hookup with Vanna Snoot. She’s a customer of my father’s,” he admits like he’s embarrassed.

  “Straight up?” interrupts Aphro like he said the magic password. Vanna Snoot owns Snoot, Inc., the fiercest model agency in New York. As if reading our minds, Zeus elaborates. “My dad owns a custom tailor shop on Fifty-ninth Street under the bridge.”

  “I think I’ve seen that shop,” I say. His dad’s shop is next to the Snoot agency. We’ve all canvassed the block hoping to get a glimpse of the goings-on inside Snooty Central, which is housed in a three-story pink building with gilded window shutters that beckon like an attraction at Madison Square Garden on Halloween: scary but inviting.

  “My dad makes a lot of clothes for her—and the models, too,” Zeus continues. “Anyway, he’s trying to get me an appointment. He showed her a Polaroid—I couldn’t believe he did that, man.”

  “Can he get you an appointment?” I ask.

  “She wants to know—can you get us an appointment, okay?” Aphro asks him point-blank.

  “I hear you. Wo
rd is, Vanna doesn’t see anybody,” Zeus says, undefeated. “And you know the policy about students from Fashion International.”

  I sigh knowingly. The only model wannabes from our school who get snagged by agencies are winners from the Catwalk competition.

  “See, that’s why I want to lead a house,” I confide. The reason we’re all hyped about Snoot, Inc., is that they break new faces.

  I wonder if Zeus is a “friend of Dorothy’s.” Not all the guys in our school are gay, contrary to the snickerings from the bozos across the street. Like Ice Très so aptly put it: everybody knows the fiercest honeys go to Fashion International.

  “Um, you know about our theme?” Angora asks Zeus.

  “Yeah, I can see it,” Zeus says astutely.

  “And we’re definitely catering to the Kats and Kitties!” I say, interrupting her.

  “Well, you’ve got my vote,” Zeus says, beaming.

  After he leaves, Angora announces: “Wouldn’t it be great to have him in our house?”

  “Well, I’ve got to get elected first,” I say, staring longingly after Zeus’s shadow.

  Now Nole Canoli and his best friend, super-exotic Elgamela Sphinx, stand swooning at Chandelier Spinelli’s table. Nole holds a pair of her giveaways—chandelier earrings, of course—to Countess Coco’s furry, pointy ears.

  After a few more snickers, Nole’s entourage marches down the hall.

  “Oops, here come the cattle,” Angora says, beaming. My eyes lock with Nole’s, and he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. I know he’s voting for Chandelier Spinelli, but I break into a grin and hand him a fur ball anyway.

  “Ooh, that would look so cute on Countess’s collar!” coos Elgamela, who wasted no time dangling Chandelier’s sparkly giveaways from her own perfect earlobes, further accenting her Arabian princess aura. Today, she even has an amber crystal stuck in the middle of her forehead.

  “Oh, that’s my version of a Bindi!” she explains giggling, catching me staring and tossing her long, dark wavy hair. Suddenly she’s fascinated by something we have, too. “What’s that?” Elgamela asks, pointing to the pink satin meowch pouches.

  “Felinez makes them,” I announce proudly. “They’re called meowch pouches and you can wear them on your wrist or around your neck. And you are such a feline fatale.”

  “Here, mija, take one!” Felinez says, shoving one in Elgamela’s hand. She hesitates for a second, which prompts Aphro to chortle. “Girl, we know you’re voting for Chandelier, but don’t be bashful when it comes to booty!”

  “Spoken like a true pirate,” Nole says, giggling.

  After they leave, I feel a twinge of sadness. “I wish we could snag Nole for our house, no?”

  “Pash, I thought you said you despised his gawdy Gucci tendencies?” Angora asks, quoting me verbatim.

  “Yeah, well, I’m prepared to believe his hype. Everybody says he’s gonna be the next Versace,” I offer, pouting.

  A student interrupts our little huddle and I automatically snap into vote-for-me mode. “Hi, I’m Pashmina Purrstein. I’m running for house leader.”

  “I know who you are. My textile science class is next to your runway class. I saw you in action, too,” the girl says, giggling. I scan her quickly and notice that she’s hiding behind her big black sweater—kinda like Felinez used to before she began expressing herself big-time.

  “Um, you know anything about our style philosophy?” I ask her gently.

  She shakes her head in the negative.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Janilda.”

  “Look, Felinez and I have had it up to here with the plus-size clothing market. We’re even sick of that distinction. New millennium girls kick it in every size—and that’s what the House of Pashmina will be featuring in our fashion show,” I say proudly.

  Janilda’s pretty eyes brighten.

  “And that’s not just for the Catwalk competition. My career goal is to open a chain of stores—Purr Unlimited—that will break boundaries by offering our fly private label collection in every size.”

  “We’re gonna be like that Florida orange juice company—own the land, the growers, the oranges!” Felinez shouts.

  “You got your strategy down.” Janilda chuckles.

  “You never met Felinez before?” I ask, surprised.

  “Um, no, I’ve seen her around,” Janilda explains.

  “Oh—when you said textile science—”

  “Yeah, but I major in textile science.”

  “Oh. Felinez majors in accessory design, but she will be my right hand, my partner in our enterprise. And, um—”

  “But aren’t you, like, going to be a model? I mean, a major model?” Janilda asks.

  “For true.” Because I understand that not everyone is up on our whole modelpreneur philosophy, I break it down further for Janilda.

  “You are major!” she coos when I finish. “I like that—‘modelpreneur.’ Well, you’ve got my vote!”

  Janilda bounces away.

  “We’re gonna be the Ben and Jerry of the fashion mundo—scooping up profits, big-time!” I coo after her.

  Angora and Felinez cross paws with me on that one.

  But just when I think I can celebrate my victory, along comes Chenille.

  “Hi, Chenille!” coos Angora, shaking a fur ball against the front of Chenille’s overalls.

  Chenille looks down at the fur ball positioned at her ample chest, then grabs it and even reads the slogan before announcing to me: “Oops, you missed a spongie.” My mouth drops open as I clasp at my curls, searching for a runaway sponge roller. “Psych,” Chenille hisses.

  Where’s Grandma Pritch when I need her? I think, glaring at my sourpuss sister.

  “Um, gotta go. See you later,” Chenille says dourly.

  I watch Chenille waddle down the hall in her baggy denim overalls and suddenly I get a flashback to the sixth grade. One day after class, I saw Chenille standing in the hallway, gabbing away with her friends, with my favorite black crochet shoulder bag flung over her shoulder like it was hers. I was so pissed that I walked up to Chenille and took my bag off her shoulder, turning it upside down, dumping all her stuff on the floor. Chenille’s arms started flailing all around, but that’s where the advantage of being a foot taller came in very handy. I just pulled her hair and kept her at arm’s length. Too bad a school monitor appeared out of nowhere and escorted us both to the principal’s office. Obviously, the principal was none too happy when she figured out that we were sisters. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves!” she hurled at us. I wasn’t, but Mom was. She said that I was selfish and didn’t even reprimand Chenille for borrowing my bag without asking me. Ever since then, I guess you could say my sister and I have been on a Rocky Road binge.

  “Well, so much for Ben and Jerry,” I muse out loud.

  “Chérie, she’s gonna vote for you,” Angora says.

  “She’d better do my hair—for free!” Aphro chortles.

  “If I were you, I’d spend my ducats on a real hairstylist,” I hiss back. The magic hour is upon us and I start packing up our toys so we can go home.

  Aphro senses my discomfort and throws a fur ball at my head. “I’m just gonna weave that one alone!”

  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!!

  TRUE PIRATES LOVE THE “BOOTY.” …

  Last night, thirteen Catwalk candidates plied us potential voters with stylin’ spiels and swag before we headed to the Fashion Annex to cast our ballots. The campaign antics may be over, but the drama quotient is about to quadruple seven times a Pucci scarf square once the election results are posted on Thursday! In the meantime, I feel compelled to break down last night’s booty (and I’m not referring to Shalimar in that skintight Silverado Express dress either, which made her look like she was having chipmunks in reverse!)
. After I chomped on Chintzy Colon’s chorizos, which were exactly how I like my fashion—hot, hot, hot!—I proceeded to angle for a pair of danglers from the candidate with the highest fabulosity factor, Chandelier Spinelli. Now, that’s when I couldn’t help but overhear another candidate complaining about the expenses incurred for her “She Shells.” If Chantez Whining, oops, Winan, wanted to make a splash, she should have been asking herself: “Is this bootylicious enough for ya, babe?” I was not born yesterday, so I can tell when someone’s freebies have been lifted from the dirty shores of Jones Beach—for free—thereby counteracting the whole inherent pleasure of receiving goodies and giveaways! Obviously certain candidates should keep a dictionary right by their Lee press-on nails so they can look up the definition for the word “swag” and start appreciating its acronym: stuff we all get (and deserve)!!

  9/23/2008 10:45:34 AM

  Posted by: Miss FLUFF

  5

  The next day I sniff my underarms and detect the distinct smell of Swiss poodle. In one hour, the names of the five elected house leaders will be posted outside the Fashion Café. I’m bouncing off the walls worrying about the results, which is why I shimmied out early from physics so Felinez and I could rendezvous in the Fashion Lounge.

  “How come walking up and down the bathroom doesn’t make time go faster? Newton was a fig,” I complain nervously.

  Felinez is more concerned with fashion reality than the laws of motion. “What is that stain, mija?”

  She is pointing to the ashy white ring on my brown suede fringed moccasins. “I can’t believe it!” I shriek.

  “You stepped into water with alkaline properties,” Felinez says in her distressed Boricua accent.

  “Alka-what? The toilet in my house overflowed this morning!” I cry in disgust. “I had to sop up the water so I could take a shower. If I waited for Mr. Darius to come, we would have floated away in a tsunami!”

  Felinez knows firsthand the fringe benefits of living in a brokedown palace. “Really, mija, he is the worst landlord. You should report him,” she advises.