“I can’t believe we haven’t even gotten an honorary mention yet,” Angora says, breathing heavily.
“God, are we not worthy? Are we not worthy?” I moan.
We’re not the only early-morning fashion desperadoes. A tall blond fashionista with a short, stubby ponytail, whom I’ve seen in the hallway at FI, crowds the newsstand and pleads with Sami. “Tell me you have the new Vogue. Puhleez?”
We giggle at his apparent fresh-fashion jones because we know it all too well. All of a sudden, the ponytailed pleader looks at me like I just jumped out of the pages of Vogue. “Omigod, hello! I’m so preoccupied, I didn’t see you standing there in all your kitty fabulousness,” he coos adoringly to me.
I’m puzzled pink because I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.
“Sorry, let me rewind. Hello! I’m Bobby Beat. Okay, it’s my professional name, because I serve the makeup instead of applying it, or so I’ve been told,” he giggles, putting his hand to his chest.
“Where are you from?” Angora asks, honing in on his accent.
“Brooklyn,” Bobby says, giggling again.
“Word?” inquires Aphro. “I’m from the BK, and that ain’t no accent I ever heard.”
“Oh!” Bobby squeals, hitting Aphro on the shoulder with a flicked wrist movement. “Brooklyn, Michigan!”
Angora sighs sweetly.
“Anyhoo, I’ve been hoping I’d run into your fabbie felineness, because I couldn’t make the interview.”
I smile back at him, flattered, as he babbles on.
“I had to do makeup for my sister’s friend’s test shots. Um, she’s sending in photos for the next round of auditions for You’d Better Work, Supermodel!” Bobby explains earnestly, which piques our budding supermodel interest.
“She’s eighteen?” Angora asks rhetorically, because we know the television show’s eligibility rules by heart. We also know that Supermodel provides one winner a season with a $100,000 one-year modeling contract with the Snoot model agency.
“Yup, she’s a freshman at FIT like my sister.” Bobby nods knowingly. “But honey, don’t stress it. With those cheekbones, there is only one way you won’t get a modeling contract from the Catwalk competition.” Bobby pauses, and we wait with bated breath until he continues, “If you don’t have me as the makeup artist in your house!”
“I hear that,” Aphro says, finally lightening up.
“Chéri, what about your cheekbones?” Angora asks approvingly. “You look like you could model too.”
“Oh, I know, but I can’t stand the thought of trudging around all day on go-sees. I’m trying to get paid, chérie,” admits Bobby Beat. “I know what I want: to be the next Kevyn Aucoin,” he continues, referring to the late makeup artist, a graduate of Fashion International back in the day.
“Well, show us your legendary beat,” I challenge him.
He whips out his book, which is half the size of most portfolios I’ve seen so far. Bobby senses my apprehension and quips, “It’s the new millennium, chérie. Time to downsize.”
We all huddle together and look at Bobby’s test shots. “I’m very into Booty Dust, applied with a sponge, not a brush,” he confides, pointing to the sparkly accents on the eyes, shoulders, and cleavage in the photos.
“I definitely dig that,” I comment. “It makes everything pop in the photo.”
“Who needs kitty litter when you have glitter!” Bobby says excitedly.
We guffaw grandly while a paying customer with an obvious Chinatown version of a Marc Jacobs quilted satchel steps up to the newsstand to buy a newspaper.
“Knock-knock,” Aphro whispers to me.
Sami shoots us a look like it’s time for us to take our fashion show on the road.
“Aw, Sami, don’t be so stingy!” Bobby giggles, forking over five dollars for the September issue of Vogue.
“I thought you wanted October?” I ask.
“I do,” Bobby Beat explains, “but I spilled orange juice on my September issue this morning at breakfast, and I hate stains—even on the ads, so I might as well get a replacement while I’m here.”
“I read my Vogue while I’m sipping orange juice too,” I giggle.
“Sipping and flipping!” Bobby coos. “Gucci, Pucci, and Juicy, oh my! By the way, what was that ‘knockknock’ at the counter? You weren’t referring to knocking me off, I hope!”
Aphro lets out a snort and we explain. “Nah. That’s our code word for clocking a designer knockoff!”
“I love you tabby cats!” howls Bobby, who goes on to tell us his own code name: SpongeBob.
“I love you, SpongeBob!” I shout back.
“Now, tell me before I sign on,” Bobby says with confidence, “who is the lead designer gonna be?”
The smiles vanish from our faces like we’re busted piñatas at a pity party. “Um, Diamond Tyler,” I squeak.
Bobby looks disappointed too. “Chéries, mon amis, my new dear friends, she has sparkle potential for sure, but how do you say ‘V for Versace’?” he moans, referring to Nole Canoli’s online identity.
“That’s what I said,” hmmphs Aphro.
“Don’t you just love the Catwalk blog?” Angora asks, veering away from the ensuing drama.
“Honey, first thing I do when I get up and take the chamomile eye pad off is turn on my Apple and read the blog!” claims Bobby Beat. “I loved Nole’s.”
“Is there any reason you want to be in our house?” I ask to keep the flow going.
“I mean, why not Willi Ninja, Jr.’s?” Angora adds.
“Oh, because I’m a queen, we should stick together?” Bobby Beat retorts. “Is that what you’re asking, Miss Blue Beret?”
Angora pales two shades. Before she recovers, Bobby keeps pulling out stitches with his seam ripper. “I have been wielding brushes like Picasso and doing my mother’s and my two sisters’ makeup since I was potty trained. I love being around girls and glam and glitter. Does that answer your question?”
“You checked all the right boxes on the catty questionnaire,” I assure him. “Just one more question: what’s your real last name?”
“Harmon. My grandparents changed their last name when they got to Ellis Island. It was German, like Harmensnauzer or something. But they didn’t want to get dissed. It was right after World War Two and all.”
“That’s totally cool,” I say, reassuring him, though I’m the one who really needs it. Forget about having second thoughts about Diamond. I’m having triplets!
Luckily, Bobby Beat babbles all the way to school, and we all stay lost in our own thoughts. I start perking up when he shares the source of his inspiration during his tender toddler years. “I loved all the original divas. Diana Ross, Eartha Kitt—can you believe that purr?” he coos.
Even Aphro warms up to Bobby, telling him about her foster mother’s former job at Eartha’s estate. As soon as we approach the front of Fashion International, Angora whispers in my ear, “Well, somebody is worthy.” At first, I think she’s referring to the Dalmation dogs from the technical school across the street, because I see them standing in a pack in front of our school as usual, ogling our roster of groovy girls. Then I realize that she is referring to Caterina and her crew, who are standing around like they’re waiting for something to jump off. I notice Shalimar and her chic chortlers huddled together, engaging in a chorus of “Omigod! Omigod!”
“What’s with the cacophony?” I ask, trying to keep the situation Lite FM since Bobby Beat is in our midst. “That should be the new tagline of her house—printed right on T-shirts: ‘Omigod’!” Nonetheless, I watch, transfixed, as Shalimar bats her Lee press-on lashes while she carries on in her shady corner. Meanwhile, Ice Très is trying hard to make eye contact with me. When that doesn’t work, he tries the flip side and bum-rushes me.
“This place is wild,” he says, grinning from ear to ear as he gets in my face.
“Yeah, a real urban safari,” I quip, wondering what his punto is.
“The bet is
she ain’t gonna show,” Ice Très continues, which makes me realize we’re not on the same fashion page.
“What happened?” Felinez asks him.
“We’re waiting for Chandelier,” Ice Très responds.
“Why?” I ask, disappointed he wasn’t referring to a famous fashionista sighting.
“Where y’all been?” Ice Très asks, like we’re clueless kitties. “You ain’t heard?”
“Awright already with the Sesame Street cue cards,” I grumble. “Spill the refried beans.”
“Snaps, I can’t believe you’re not on this. Awright, it’s like this. Well, let me put it this way: Chandelier’s father was indicted for chopping up body parts and selling them!” Ice Très says, delivering the news-breaking blow like the first reporter on the scene. “And at six thirty-five p.m., Chandelier’s father was taking the perp walk outside arraignment court for participating in a lucrative cadaver operation.”
“What, what?” I ask in disbelief, forgetting my deep freeze on Ice Très.
Angora shrugs and gives me a look like Don’t blame me.
“Geez. It’s not enough to have your ear to the street anymore. You’ve got to get down there with your nose,” I moan, embarrassed that we’ve been trumped by the tagger. “I’m gagulating.”
Chintzy Colon catches my glance and runs over, eager to serve up every gory detail of the latest drama like they’re chorizos hot off her homemade grill.
Between her excited spurts, I gather that Lee Spinelli, a nurse at Mount Morris Hospital and formerly of Brooklyn Hospital, was involved in a black market body parts ring headed by a dentist. “It would take forty-five minutes to take out the bones, then another fifteen minutes for the skin, the upper arm, lower arm, thigh, abdominal area, and more,” Chintzy babbles, like she’s spouting a recipe.
“Can you believe it?” interjects Angora, who got briefed quickly by peeps on the side.
“No, actually, I can’t,” I admit. “Is this an early Halloween gag—like somebody’s pulling my leg?”
“Nah!” counters Ice Très. “It’s on the real. Body snatchers be making bank. They be parceling out a whole body and delivering to the highest bidder.”
“Like who?” I ask, still not believing the hype.
“Tissue banks—and we’re not talking Kleenex, okay. Research facilities—fresh or frozen, you can get a fresh elbow à la mode—or some freeze-dried brains, okay.”
Angora picks up the news feed where Chintzy left off. “It’s true, chérie. Chandelier’s father and the rest of the cadaver crew were so busy that they often ate lunch or dinner in the dissecting rooms. He went from earning fifty thousand dollars a year as a nurse to making a hundred eighty-five thousand….”
Suddenly, Aphro gets a shopportunity alert: “That’s how come Chandelier started featuring Gucci all of a sudden!”
“Speaking of label dropping—she was so worried about us so-called fake Fendis that she didn’t even realize there was one right under her nose,” Angora says sadly.
We watch as the crowd outside multiplies intensely. Everyone is completely aghast about the Chandelier blast.
“The pelvis went for five thousand dollars?” Felinez squeals, getting creeped by all the statistics. “Ay, dios, I hope mine goes for more than that!”
“I’m sure they’d get at least twenty thousand for your butt!” I blurt out before I realize how insensitive it is. It’s bad enough Felinez has to contend with all the stuffed puercos in the world who target juicy girls’ body parts. “Sorry, Blue Boca. I was on a Tootsie Roll.” I wince.
All of a sudden, Mr. Bias, the assistant principal, steps outside and announces loudly, “Okay, everyone, proceed to your homeroom classes. Right now, please.”
Reluctantly, we all shuffle toward the front door, wondering if we’re going to be graced with a Chandelier Spinelli sighting. Even her best friend, Tina Cadavere, is nowhere to be seen. Ice Très taps me on the shoulder and leans close, which gives me the creeps. “Hold on,” he whispers. “I’m just trying to tell you something.” I figure whispering is in order with this turn of eerie events. “I left you a little something in the stairwell by the Fashion Annex,” he coos.
I nod like I know what he’s talking about, but I don’t. “Look forward to Friday,” he says, and jets in front of us.
“What was that?” Angora asks, concerned.
“I don’t know but apparently there’s a prize for me behind door number three, if you catch my drift,” I report, revealing all the details of the secret location. “Now I’m wondering if this is Ice Très’s definition of a treasure hunt.”
“Speaking of hunted,” whispers Angora, pointing to Nole Canoli, who is huddled in the hallway by the security checkpoint. He’s clearly trying to hide in plain sight. I can tell by the way he has his back turned to everyone but Kimono Harris, Dame Leeds, and Elgamela Sphinx.
“Doesn’t he look a little pale?” I whisper.
“Yeah, even Countess Coco looks a little peaked,” adds Angora. “I mean for a Pomeranian, her pallor is off!”
“So is yours,” I warn her, then hope she isn’t offended.
“I’m still tired from our interview session,” confesses Angora. “That was exhausting.”
Suddenly, I feel deflated too. “The only item we’re getting on ‘Page Six’ is gonna be about Chandelier, the heiress to a chop shop dynasty!”
“I know,” admits Felinez. “But I wonder if she is going to show her face—or fibia—in school again?”
Suddenly, a lightbulb appears over my head. “You think she’s gonna drop out?” I quiz, secretly plotting a coup like Haiti’s dethroned leader Papa Doc, who we’re studying in history class.
Felinez and Angora get the picture. “Or maybe she’ll be cut from the Catwalk competition like a dangling thread,” says Angora.
Nole Canoli whizzes by us with Countess Coco perched in his Prada bag. He is trying desperately to keep his head down, as if he is shielding his face from probing cameras on a perp walk. We all watch warily as Caterina and her crew march down the hall toward an unknown destination.
“I bet you she’s going to Ms. Fab’s office,” Angora predicts.
Meanwhile, I ponder our possibilities. “Even if Chandelier doesn’t drop out, there’s definitely too much squeal appeal. I mean, what’s she got to offer now: ‘Gee, my Dad can get us a fabbie deal on tendons and ligaments’?”
Aphro has had enough. “I’m out,” she informs us. Angora attempts to say something, but I put my hand on her shoulder to tell her not to bother. “She can keep stressing me if it makes her happy,” I say.
“Let’s take the back stairwell, then,” Angora says.
“Might as well,” I concur. My curiosity has been piqued by Ice Très’s mysterious message outside the bottle. When I swing open the door and spot the huge heart shape with Cupid’s arrow sprawled wall to wall in the stairwell, my heart sinks like a sunken treasure. It’s a message all right: SOS!
“Maybe this is just a clue?” Angora says weakly, her blue eyes popping in utter disbelief.
“He must be sniffing spray paint,” I reply, shocked by this blatant disrespect for Fashion International’s cardinal rule: don’t scribble or dribble on the walls.
We stare at the huge metallic black-and-silver letters left courtesy of the misguided graffiti artist: WAZZUP, PUSSYCAT? THIS IS 4REAL. ICE TWICE.
“Omigod,” Felinez moans.
“Maybe no one will know he’s talking about you?” Angora says hopefully.
“He might as well have hired the Goodyear Blimp and scrawled my name across the sky. That would have been more subtle!” I wince.
I check my Kitty watch and realize it’s time to get to home period. “Geez,” I say, looking back at Ice Très’s handiwork. “A good marker is a terrible thing to waste.”
By lunchtime, the speculation about the subject of the tagger’s ardor has reached a peak second only to a Chandelier sighting and the unveiling of the spring fashions today in the Me
rcedes-Benz Fashion Week shows at Bryant Park. “Wazzup, pussycat!” a chorus of shriekers yells in my direction. I ignore them and run into the Fashion Café like it’s safe passage to the Underground Railroad. “The situation is outta control,” I gripe to Felinez because my nerves are on edge.
“It’s not your fault,” Felinez says, trying to reassure me. Somehow she has regained her appetite and is hovering at the lunch counter, with her arms bent like chicken wings, unable to make a decision about her order.
“Velma, what should I get?” Felinez asks our favorite food attendant.
“Angel hair capellini,” Velma shoots back.
“I’ll have the same,” I say. “This suits our continuing exploration of Italian culture.”
“If we make it to Italy.” Felinez grunts. “I don’t know if I can go through a year of this roller coaster.”
“Puhleez. A roller-coaster ride is more predictable,” I grumble in return. Suddenly, a lightbulb goes on. I take out my Catwalk notepad and begin to scribble some thoughts for our Catwalk Credo. “Strap yourself in and fasten your Gucci seat belt,” I read out loud.
“Très bon,” says Angora, looking over my shoulder, then adding her tasty thoughts to the Catwalk Credo until we come up with the remainder of the tenet right there on the spot. Whenever I feel like screaming my head off or jumping out of my chic caboose, I will resist the urge; instead, I will tighten a notch on my fears like a true fashionista.
“Yoohoo!” shouts Bobby Beat, zooming by us with his food tray poised gracefully at his waist. “Can you believe the drama today? Talk about Zorro—somebody left their mark in the stairwell! I’m so outta here after lunch!” he coos.
I’m relieved that Bobby Beat doesn’t know that I’m the secret source of inspiration for our urban Zorro, and I have no intention of telling him. I also instinctively know what Bobby’s early departure means. He is one of the lucky seniors who have been granted access passes to the one event we juniors have yet to witness: the fashion shows taking place at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week.
“Oh, I am so green with Gucci Envy,” I admit. Bobby laughs it off. “Oh, look at the credo we’re creating. You’ll get a copy, of course, at our first official team meeting.” My stomach ties in knots as I say that. Please, God, let me get my team assembled before I’m disgraced, I silently plead.
Catwalk Page 14
