“Yes,” I say, then divert the drama by pointing to her photos. “What’s that—you did a shoot?”
“Yeah, my first one!” Liza says, excited. “For Elgamela—she’s really working hard on getting her portfolio together. I think she’s definitely gonna win one of the modeling contracts in the competition.”
“We agree,” Angora says diplomatically.
“Did you interview her yet?” Liza asks, like she hopes we did. “I told her I was coming here.”
“Um, no, but who knows? The night is still young,” I say, then divert the drama again. “I love her hair swept up like that.”
“We could do upsweeps like this for the show—with chopsticks?” Liza offers.
“Love, love,” Angora coos. “Did you interview with anyone else?”
“Well, yeah, but I don’t want to start any bidding wars,” Liza says, running her fingers through her bright red hair.
“Name your price,” I say sarcastically.
“I get to pick the lead stylist,” Liza quips.
Now I wonder if she’s serious, so I put her to the test. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Dame Leeds?”
I can’t help but think, we are definitely not picking the lucky numbers tonight.
“We’ll take your offer into consideration,” I say politely.
“Is that hennafied, Miss Redhead?” Aphro blurts out, breaking the heated negotiations.
“Freakin’ yes,” coos Liza, lightening up. “Seriously, though, I like what you guys are doing. The every-size concept. My mother is plus size, and she is always on the major frus about the frumpy clothes. Unify—that’s what I think.”
“My mother is assistant manager of Forgotten Diva on Madison,” I add in agreement.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything bad,” Liza says, embarrassed.
“Oh, puhleez. My mother knows. Her customers are old school, or else they’d be petitioning for fiercer threads. Trust,” I assure her.
“So, are you gonna get back to me for real?” Liza asks nervously.
“We’d love to have you for the hairstyling assistant.”
Liza shifts in her chair for a second, then asks the obvious. “What about your sister?”
Angora shoots me a look, and I know exactly what she’s thinking: she wants me to heed her mother’s advice, which is exactly what I do. “She’s so busy with clients from our, um, neighborhood, she’s not stressing the extra responsibility.”
“Not even for a piece of a hundred thousand dollars and Louis Vuitton luggage—and a trip to Italy?” Liza asks in disbelief, spieling off the goodies like a gameshow host. “Well, I’m in it for the loot. And that’s the truth.”
“Well, sometimes the truth is just plain appropriate,” Angora says, and we all giggle at the inside joke.
Meanwhile, a few more students come in and sit at the studio table, so I turn my attention back to Chintzy, who has been waiting patiently for a grand finale. “But what would you do—in the house, I mean?” I ask her.
“Be your assistant, and I can help with the PR when the time comes. I can also be one of the dressers for the models backstage at the show,” Chintzy says, like she’s adding on extra helpings of duties for good measure.
Felinez is talking to Mink Yong from her geometry class but still finding time to glare down my throat. Nonetheless, I make a decision. “Okay, Chintzy, let’s do it.”
“Great!” Chintzy says, sprinkling me with her smile, then reaching over to hug me. Felinez glares at me like she did in kindergarten after I snatched all the pink crayons, which I deemed only for my domain, hence my nickname.
“Bye!” Chintzy says, bouncing off the chair and almost right into the bosom of Jackie Moore and a few more designer candidates, all of whom Diamond recognizes instantly.
“Hi, Jackie,” Diamond says sweetly. Roger Rivet nods at her and makes it clear that he is strictly business. Frail and tiny, he unzips his portfolio and places a well-manicured (and frosted?) hand on top of it like he’s posing for a hand cream ad. The three design candidates take seats as Shantung Jones takes a twirl for Aphro. Roger stares at his hand like he’s about to dig for gold under his nails instead of focusing on the fierce fashion model.
“Now, you know you’re gonna have to change your hairstyle?” Aphro tells Shantung teasingly, because they’re both wearing the same exact dippin’ do—an asymmetrical blunt-cut bob with razor-sharp bangs.
“When Naomi wears her hair like that—for me, she looks bellissima,” declares Lupo. Aphro hates any comparisions to the British supermodel who whacked her maid with a cell phone and landed herself in an orange sanitation vest—and I don’t mean on the runway, okay.
Shantung giggles, her cinnamon-specked eyes sparkling.
“We’ll discuss her hairstyle later,” pipes up Liza Flake, like she’s the head britch in charge. Only problem is, she isn’t.
Aphro throws me a glance like, Is she the assistant hairstylist, or the lead?
I make a note to my fashion self to handle that skirmish—as soon as we find someone above Liza’s level, thank you. Truth is, any distraction is welcome, because I can tell that Diamond is definitely not feeling Roger’s designs, and let’s just say I’m definitely not ready-to-wear them either.
Lita Rogers’s sketches are a little more appetizing. “I like the lace tops and gypsy skirts,” Diamond says.
“My family is going to invest in my clothing line as soon as I graduate,” Lita tells Diamond.
“Oh, so you got it like that,” Aphro says, demi-joking, demi-serious.
Lita shifts her gears into gratitude mode. “I know I’m lucky.”
“What’s your line going to be called?” Diamond asks sweetly.
“Lollipops,” Lita says, grinning proudly. “I’ve had the name picked out for a while. My father is going to get it trademarked.”
“That’s tasty,” I say politely. Angora’s silence, however, is palpable.
“Chérie—what say you?” I ask, grinning. My mouth is starting to hurt from all this interviewing.
“There is a famous strip club in Baton Rouge called Lollipops,” Angora informs us hesitantly.
Lita’s face turns beet red. She flaps her sketchbook shut tighter than a Venus flytrap. “Really?” she asks in disbelief.
Angora nods. “Ms. Harness, our fashion merchandising teacher, is right. Research is everything.”
“I gotta go,” Lita informs us, still red-faced.
“I’ll let you know,” I tell Lita, trying to smooth her ruffled fashion feathers. After all, it’s still a tasty name, and it’s hard coming up with an original name someone hasn’t already used for their schemes and dreams.
“Um, I have to go too,” Roger Rivet informs us, and I give him the same we’ll-be-in-touch spiel.
Jackie Moore looks at us like a deer caught in headlights. She pulls out a skimpy sketchpad filled with swimwear designs. “Yellow bikini,” I say, observing the bling-bling string set.
“Are we going to do swimwear?” Aphro asks.
“Um, it’s possible,” I say, but I can’t help but wonder where Jackie is picking up her color cues.
“I’m from Florida,” explains Jackie. “It’s always sunny—that’s why I’m into yellow.”
I thank Jackie for coming and scribble a few notes on my pad. Heather Bond is next in the hot seat. After Jackie jets, she sits on the edge of her chair like she’s ready to eject herself on my cue. Then she nervously opens her sketchbook for our perusal. “I’m into vinyl. I think that goes with feline fatale—big-time.”
“I agree,” pipes up Diamond, obviously looking out for the hides of all her four-legged friends.
Aphro, however, has an opinion about that one. “I prefer leather—soft as butter and not Parkay, thank you.”
“A black pleather catsuit would be cute for the show,” I interject. Although Heather’s designs are strictly fade to black, I’m trying to see whether she has any diversity.
“Is bla
ck your favorite color?” Diamond asks.
“Um, yeah, I guess it is,” Lita says, shrugging and sealing her coffin. She definitely seems more like a design disciple for Anna Rex, even if she doesn’t know it.
After two more hours of noshing and networking, we decide to wrap up our session like a fashion falafel.
“Thanks for stopping by!” Felinez says giddily. She hugs Shantung Jones so hard, the frail model winces as if her tiny bones are being crushed. “Next time we’ll have party hats and piñatas!”
Lupo grins and walks out the door after Shantung. I tap him gently on the back and mouth, Stay.
He breaks into a big grin and resumes his posturing.
“Okay, so now that it’s just inner crew, I want to get some feedback.” I instruct everybody to sit down.
“I can’t believe you invited Chintzy into our house without asking the rest of us!” Felinez blurts out.
“Okay, you’re right. My bad. But I knew what you were going to say, and I don’t agree with you,” I say firmly.
“I’m telling you. She’s a sneaky senorita!” Felinez says, her face flushed.
“She’s going to be our assistant, and she’s gonna help with our publicity campaign. I think she’s an asset—on some level,” I say, kaflustered.
“That’s a croc—like those fea clogs she was wearing!” Felinez cries. “You never liked her before!”
“Okay, you’re pissed. Now you can pick whichever model you wanted out of the—” I count the number of model sheets we’ve collected and render the final tally. “Okay, we saw twenty-five models so far. I know you want Mink. Kissa. Who else?”
“Jaynelle—and the guy with the corkscrews,” Felinez says, still pouting.
“Dreads—that’s Benny Madina,” I remind her. “Okay, he’s in. Who else do you want?”
“Shantung.” Felinez folds her arms across her chest and continues to pout. “Never mind, mija, you don’t listen to me!”
I figure Felinez is cranky because we haven’t eaten dinner, so I let it go. “Shantung, of course.”
“We still don’t have a lead designer,” Aphro reminds me.
“Jackie is tacky,” I moan.
“I agree,” adds Angora. “Yellow is only a fashion color if you’re Big Bird. What about Roger?”
“All those hanky hemlines. No, thank you. I wanted to pull out a tissue and blow my nose,” I respond.
“Heather ‘Pleather’?” asks Aphro.
“Well, at least she’s into catsuits. Lita with the dirndl skirts and crop tops was too sickeningly sweet. Yuck,” adds Angora.
“So we still don’t have a lead designer,” Aphro repeats.
“I know,” I shout, finally losing it. “What do you want me to do!”
“Need a moment?” Aphro snarls.
I take a second to chill before I blurt out, “Look, Diamond can do it. I’m leaning toward her. I’m telling you, she’s a gem in the rough.”
“Rough is right. You sure she won’t crumble under the pressure? I mean, she seems more interested in us not eating lamb chops than in winning a competition, okay?” shouts Aphro. “I mean, no disrespect for her vegetarian plan and whatnot.”
“We’ve got her back,” I insist.
“Ayiight,” Aphro says, sounding unsure. “You’re the boss, Miss Ross.”
“That’s right, you are,” says a familiar voice. I look up and there is Ice Très, darkening the doorway.
I smile at him automatically, probably from smiling all afternoon at interviewees. Suddenly, I feel my throat tighten and announce, “I gotta get some water.”
I ignore Ice Très, but he trails behind me. “Can I holla at you for a sec?”
“You’ve got my undivided attention from here to the water fountain. Let’s see if you can hold it,” I bark at him.
“I just wanna explain what happened,” he says with a grin.
“I know what happened,” I counter. “So it’s a wrap, falafel, and a shish kebab. Get it?”
“Got it,” Ice Très concedes. “Look, I didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. I thought if I joined Shalimar’s house, then we could just be friends. Know what I’m saying?”
“Um, no, but I’ll be right up,” I say, bobbing my head down to sip some water from the faucet. When I finish, I stand back up and announce, “Time’s up.”
“Okay, how ’bout Friday we hook up? Around six? I’m going to see Zeus spin.”
“I was going anyway,” I say, not giving in.
“You can stretch me to the limit with your catty stance. I deserve that. But we’re cool?” Ice Très asks pitifully.
“Chilly,” I say, then run back to the studio to retrieve my crew.
My crew is all ears when I return, except for Aphro, who is all mouth, as usual.
“I cannot believe you agreed to hook up with him!” she snarls. “A five-year-old could have cooked up a better story in his Creepy Crawlers Oven than that one.”
“Back to business, big mouth, if you don’t mind,” I warn Aphro.
“Whatever makes you clever,” Aphro hisses, and storms off.
Lupo runs after her, which annoys me. “You’d think she was a runaway sheep with a USDA clip on her ear in need of sanctuary,” I say, agitated. “Are you two gonna stand there like dummies?” I shoot at Angora and Zeus, who are posed so still they look like mannequins in a Macy’s window.
Angora purses her lips and says, “This dummy is going home. And remember, we’ve only got till Friday to hand in the membership forms.”
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!!
FASHION 101: DON’T FALL FOR FAKE FENDIS
Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be head of the class. Perhaps my leadership skills come naturally to me since I’m the oldest of four kids and my mother died when I was six years old. During the difficult years that ensued, fashion became my refuge in what I considered to be a cruel and not-so-chic world that could snatch my mother in such an untimely death. While my father worked long, endless shifts as a male nurse at Brooklyn Hospital, I’d keep the four of us entertained by staging elaborate fashion shows in our tiny living room. (To this day, I think my little brother Socket is the best male model on the catwalk.) Becoming one of the lucky ones granted entry into Fashion International has given me an allaccess fashion pass.
First of all, I’m armed with valuable insider 411: for example, did you know it was not French designer Paul Poiret who created the narrow, elevated ramp used in fashion shows known as le podium in gay Paree, but rather British designer Lady Duff-Gordon who staged the first catwalk-style fashion show in 1904? Secondly, FI has afforded me the incredible opportunity to stage my own fashion show this year in the prestigious annual Catwalk competition. (Nole Canoli, I want the world to know that you are the star jewel in my fashion crown!) Perhaps the most important lesson that I’ve learned at Fashion International, however, wasn’t taught in any of the classrooms. Let’s just say it’s the un-credited addendum to the course Fashion 101. So listen up, aspiring house leaders: the secrets to any leader’s success are assembling the most formidable team and always keeping an eye out for true talent. On the flip side of the fashion token, never ever fall for the fake Fendis hiding among us, or you’ll develop a serious case of toxic schlock syndrome that will prevent you from competing at the top of your fashion game…. That’s all for now. See you at the shows, darlings!
10/05/2008 12:35:00 PM
Posted by: Gucci Girl
9
Aphro is still all up in here about our designer duel at the interview finale. At least Felinez and Angora are trying to squash it like two-day-old beef jerky, which is exactly what it is. Literally. Call me paranoid, but I even think Aphrodite has been blasting her mighty “Biggie” mouth to Lupo Saltimbocca. After all, he didn’t stay and watch my back; instead, he ran
toward Miss Blunt (Bob) like he was going to live up to his last name and jump in her mouth. Or so I grumble to Felinez, who squeamishly mumbles back at me, “Mija, I’m just trying to A-B-C my way out of it, esta bien?”
“Pash, I think he tried,” Angora says gently, adjusting her powder blue beret one micromillimeter away from her forehead. I’m not surprised that Angora instinctively knows why I’m really upset with Lupo. She’s got it like that.
“Well, Loopy made it sound like all he had to do was click his camera and Elgamela would wiggle her belly button for him,” I whine, nervously shoving my hands into the pockets of the shrunken denim blazer I decorated last night with paw prints from a metallic marker, secretly inspired by Ice Très. On the back, I sewed a CAT JUNKIE appliqué. I know that I’m exaggerating Lupo’s claim, but I’m upset that he didn’t come through on the promise of procuring the next Cleopatra for our house.
In the meantime, Aphro has agreed to meet us by Stingy Sami’s newsstand this morning before we go to school. When she finally arrives, she squints at me like she’s looking through the scope of a shooting gallery rifle to knock down a plastic duck. At least it’s an improvement from yesterday. After I grunt “Hello,” we proceed to forage the newsstand like press-poaching possums in search of any tasty tiddies that miraculously have been fed to the gossip columns by Caterina and her crew about the Catwalk competition.
Sami nods knowingly at us before staring off into space, the bit on his high-tail pipe clenched between his teeth. The newsstand owner has given up trying to stop fashion freeloaders—meaning students from FI—from thumbing mags and rags without forking over a finder’s fee. But everybody else has to pay the piper. Once we saw him chase a lady in a wheelchair away after she threw a quarter at him for the pawed-over copy of the New York Post she was reading.
“I swear if I see Shalimar’s name, I’m calling the sham police,” I hiss, carefully turning every page of the New York Post.
After scouring every single newspaper in the newsstand, including the Daily Tattle, we finally decide to let it go like disco.
Catwalk Page 13
