After fifteen minutes of sitting stiff as a board lest I miss one word, I relax into the couch. Nothing so far about us, or even anything interesting, until one of the anchors announces, “More indictments are expected against the body-cutter ring as new charges are filed by the Brooklyn district attorney’s office.”
“Omigod, listen up!” shrieks Aphro as we all sit on the edge of our seats.
The anchor turns the story over to a reporter outside the downtown arraignment court. We watch as a group of men in suits walk in wearing handcuffs.
My mother senses the commotion and hovers over the couch. “Which one is her father?” she asks impatiently.
“Probably the one in the Gucci suit,” I say. “How do you say, ‘Can I get a refund?’ ”
My mom doesn’t smile at the joke that I cracked for her benefit. She’s always complaining about the snobby, cheap customers who return clothing they’ve purchased but obviously already worn and the way they feign innocence when they’re declined because of sweat stains or driblets of red wine.
We’re all glued to the television as the reporter does her stiff riff: “Five medical professionals—including nurse Lee Spinelli, embalmer Joseph Ricola, and exdentist Michael Minelli, the alleged leader of the notorious body-cutting ring, were indicted earlier today on one hundred and twenty-two counts of body stealing, grand larceny, forgery, racketeering, and other charges. According to that indictment, more than a thousand corpses were harvested from area funeral homes without permission from next of kin….”
“No way Chandelier is coming back to school after this,” Angora predicts. “I mean, who would sit next to her at lunchtime watching her cut a slice of pizza with a plastic fork?”
Zeus starts fiddling with his zebra-striped mink hat, which means he feels a brainstorm coming on.
“I see steam rising,” I say, egging him on.
“I’m gonna hit Dame right now on the cell. I bet you Chandelier has called Nole Canoli and hit him with the hardness!” Zeus says, lit up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
“Wow, that’s not a brainstorm—that’s a hurricane,” I mumble.
“Might as well, cuz ain’t nothing on the news but the news,” Aphro seconds.
It’s true. “We’ve been watching for thirty minutes and there is not a fashion sighting in sight,” Angora reports. “Not even an early Christmas push for très tawdry tartans!”
Zeus is talking on his cell phone to Dame Leeds. “Word. That’s what’s up?” He gives us a thumbs-up sign, which we’re hoping means he’s managed to snag scandalabrious tidbits on the Chandelier crisis.
As a matter of fact, we’re so anxious to get our gossip grub on that we almost miss the anchor announcing: “Now we go to our latest inductee in the Smiley Wiley ‘Shame on You!’ Hall of Fame.”
“Hey! Isn’t that your building?” yells Aphro, pointing to the television screen. Sure enough, newscaster Smiley Wiley is standing in front of Amsterdam Gardens. I see Stellina jumping up and down in the background.
“Oh, that’s what she was trying to tell us downstairs,” I say, realizing that I misinterpreted her excitement. It wasn’t a blast from the past. She was talking about today.
A voice-over continues: “Acting on an anonymous tip, Channel Two learned that landlord Nakheir Darius, who owns the high-rise building complex Amsterdam Gardens, located on Amsterdam Avenue and 114th Street, has been terrorizing his tenants for years with illegal threats of rent hikes and evictions, and postponing basic building repairs, even withholding heat by denying access to the boiler room facilities to repair technicians.”
The camera cuts to footage of the lobby, elevator shafts, and then Smiley Wiley, who was obviously camped outside our building today, chasing after Mr. Darius himself. “Mr. Darius, is it true that tenants have gone without hot water for two weeks?” Smiley Wiley shoves the microphone toward Mr. Darius, who shields his face from the camera and motions for the camera crew to leave.
“Get out of here now!” Mr. Darius shouts.
“What about the unauthorized rent increases? Is it true tenants are subjected to ten percent rent increases despite the rent stabilization guidelines enforced by the city council?”
“Get out, you idiot!” Mr. Darius repeats.
Facing the camera, Smiley Wiley says in a deadpan voice, “Mr. Darius’s favorite phrase seems to be, ‘Get out, you idiot.’ As a result, today we induct into the Smiley Wiley ‘Shame on You!’ Hall of Fame landlord Nakheir Darius. Welcome, Mr. Darius!”
“Omigod, we’re going to get evicted,” I shriek in disbelief.
Chenille throws me a dirty look like You’ve really done it now. We’re going to be homeless!
Surprisingly, my mom’s reaction is exactly the opposite. “Well, I hope that gets him off his lazy behind once and for all. Cuz I’m sure not paying this rent increase,” she announces.
I realize that Mom has kept more to herself than I thought. “You mean he asked to raise the rent?”
“Yes indeed, he did—and we haven’t even lived here a year yet!” she reveals, flashing a rent bill in her hand. “Free market rates, my butt!”
“Oooh, he is low-down,” Aphro says, shaking her head.
“That was great,” Zeus says, beaming at me proudly.
“Thank God they didn’t mention me or the Catwalk competition,” I say, finally realizing that Caterina probably orchestrated the leak to help me. “I wonder how Caterina pulled this off?”
“She probably knows one of the producers,” Angora offers. “But who knew that television shame could lead to fame! I love it.” Her eyes beam with pride at the producer’s handiwork.
Zeus, on the other hand, is anxious to share his handiwork. “Well, you wanna hear what Dame Leeds said?”
We’re so wrapped up in the drama, we forgot about the cadaver crisis. “Tell, but don’t kiss!” Aphro says, slapping him on his arm.
“Nole Canoli did speak to Chandelier,” he says, pursing his mouth like he’s savoring the tasty tidbit he’s about to put on the grill for us. “She’s not coming back to school for a while,” he says, nodding.
“Ay, dios mio!” Felinez cries.
“If she doesn’t come back to school soon, she’s gonna get disqualified from the Catwalk competition,” I say, scanning the competition rules in my head. “ ‘No house leader is allowed any more than five missed school days in the designated year,’ ” I read aloud.
“If that’s the case, then bring it on,” Zeus says. Slick minds think alike.
“Holy Canoli!” I say, licking my lips. Suddenly, I feel a breath of fresh air hitting my lungs. Even Angora seems like she’s breathing easier.
“Wow, doesn’t it look like my living room got bigger?” I say in amazement, looking around.
“No!” shrieks Felinez, “but our opportunities have!”
“So, do you Kats and Kitties want to stay for dinner?” my mom asks with a smile. I can’t believe Mom is so calm about my Operation: Kitty Litter caper. I thought she would throw me in the frying pan and turn me into a burnt frittata—her specialty.
“I want to stay!” Felinez squeals.
While my mother fiddles around in the kitchen, Chenille goes to help.
“I hope she ain’t planning on frying any extensions!” Aphro says, then does her snorting laugh. Obviously the mere thought of being able to snag Nole Canoli for our house has gotten her off my grill.
While we’re waiting for my mom to whip up a frozen dinner, we start talking about everything that has been going on with the Catwalk competition. “Wait till you meet Bobby Beat,” Felinez says enthusiastically to Zeus, her big brown eyes widening. Then she starts playing with a pink toothpick between her teeth that she pulled out of her meowch pouch.
“Oh, that is tick-tacky,” I tell her, slapping her hand. “Next you’ll be carrying sausages in there!”
Suddenly, there’s a loud rapping on the door. “See, la policía are coming to arrest you for that!” Felinez burs
ts, embarrassed. I freeze like a statue in a wax museum.
“Who is it?” I yell, but no one answers, so I look through the peephole and see Mr. Darius. I press my hand to my chest and mouth my horror to my crew: It’s him!
Everyone stands alert, like a dressing team behind the scenes at a fashion show.
I take a deep breath and open the door. “Hi, Mr. Darius!” I squeak, like Miss Piggy on helium, much to my chagrin.
Mr. Darius breaks into a forced smile. “I just to tell that we sorry for problems and make sure to fix soon,” he says. I’m so shocked that I could almost faint. My mother comes to the door and he gives her a forced smile too. “I come to fix soon—everything.”
“Oh, good,” Mom says, looking at him matter-of-factly. “I got something for you, too. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
My mom motions for Chenille to hand her the rent bill. She then hands the bill to Mr. Darius. “I won’t be paying the rent this month. That should make up for all the time we didn’t have hot water or heat. And please fix that amount. I won’t be paying any increase, either.”
Mr. Darius humbly nods to my mother. “No problem.”
“Good night,” my mom says. Translation of her body language: We’re done here, you fool!
She closes the door.
“You read him with relish—and a hot dog!” I say proudly.
There’s another rap on the door. This time Mom opens it. It’s Mr. Darius again. Sheepishly, he hands her the casserole dish he has in his hand. “This my wife make—please enjoy.”
“Oh,” my mother says, suddenly pleased by all the attention. “What is it?”
“Kobideh kebab,” says Mr. Darius. “My wife make.”
“Well, thank you,” Mom says, softening.
This time, after she closes the door, I squeal: “Thank God! Now we don’t have to eat Lean Cuisine!”
I am so hyped by what happened that I can’t resist the urge to hug Mom, even though I know she doesn’t go in for that sort of cuddly behavior, especially in front of my crew.
We all go the table and eat the food Mr. Darius brought, which is actually pretty tasty. “This is the jointski,” Zeus comments. “It kinda reminds me of my mom’s cooking. It’s similar to Mediterranean food.”
I nod like I agree. I’m fascinated by what it must be like to have parents who were born in another country. “I have to check your mom’s cooking real soon,” I say, then get embarrassed. I don’t want Zeus to think I’m inviting myself over.
“Actually, my girlfriend is a better cook than my mother. On the real,” Zeus says, smiling proudly.
Suddenly, I feel like someone just did a touchdown on my chest. I pause for a moment to catch my breath. Angora does too and gives me a look that could easily be translated as, Well, now you know he’s not gay!
“What kind of food is this?” Felinez asks, chowing down the kebabs and oblivious to my deep-dish disappointment.
“The kind you eat,” quips Mom.
After we suck up two bottles of ginger ale, Zeus heads out because he has to go home to Long Island. He lives in Monyville, which is near the “five towns,” as he explained it.
“Heading off to Moneyland,” Aphro teases him.
“Mos def,” Zeus says, yawning with his arms stretched over his head and his hands clasped on top of his mink hat.
I hug Zeus, too, amid oohs and ahhs from Felinez and Aphro. I ignore them.
“From now on, I think we should heed our own advice,” Angora starts in. “The time has come to strap ourselves in and fasten our Gucci seat belts.”
My mom chuckles and hands Zeus his Starter jacket. “That’s original.”
We explain to her about the Catwalk Credo. She seems like she’s proud of me. What I neglect to tell her is that we haven’t assembled our whole team, and that the other four houses are all in place—even if one is about to fall like a house of cards.
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!!
DON’T HATE THE PLAYERS, OR THE FASHION GAME….
Everybody talks about relying on your instincts to survive in the fashion game, but sometimes you should just rely on the facts, okay? You can call me superficial, you can call me shady, but the bottom line is that you call me, period. So when I received a phone call this morning from Chandelier Spinelli, whom I’ve adored and supported throughout her fashion metamorphosis (stop, rewind; actually, I’m the catalyst behind it), telling me that she was going to take a hiatus from school due to a personal crisis, I felt it was necessary for me to publicly state my game plan. Let it be known right here that I did NOT abandon Chandelier Spinelli in her darkest hour of need. I live with a single parent myself—one who is incapacitated and requires a Hoveround Power Chair just to get around because of her weight problem and because she needs hip replacement surgery, which she cannot afford, okay? So I know firsthand the drama that a parent can put you through. (Everyone feels sorry for single parents, but you should feel sorry for their kids, okay?) I might act fabulous, but that does not mean that I’m not honest about who I am. So let me get out my seam ripper and pluck out some useless stitches: no one cares that when I was six years old I started dressing my Barbie dolls in hand-stitched clothes, each sequin and bugle bead given more attention than the parts for my Tonka trucks. Sure, that will make a good sound bite for the Teen Style Network, but the truth is, the only thing anybody cares about is if you’re a winner or a loser. I may not be the most fabulous designer of all time, because we all know who that designer was (Gianni, may you rest in haute couture heaven), but I don’t believe that there is another designer currently in the fashion galaxy who is more FABULOUS than I am. Now, that’s as honest as I’m ever gonna be. My freshman design teacher, Mr. Rocailles, gave me a piece of advice, which has stuck to me like Velcro. He said, “The fashion business is like musical chairs. When the music stops, you’d better quickly plop your ass on another chair, or you’re out of the game.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do. I’m going to bestow another house with my talent, because I sincerely believe it is my destiny to be a winner in the Catwalk competition. So, please, don’t hate the player OR the fashion game!
10/15/2008 9:30:35 AM
Posted by: V for Versace
11
When I get to school, there’s a message in my Catwalk in-box to report to Ms. Lynx’s office. My pulse quickens because Ms. Lynx has never summoned me before. I’m supposed to submit my team membership forms to her office today, “But why is she on my case so pronto?” I speculate nervously to Felinez. The indelible image of Zorro’s banned cousin waving wildly as I watch from my fashion tower frightens the froth off my steaming hot cappuccino. “Oh, I get it. I might be joining Ice Très in Style Siberia after all.”
“You’d better go now, mija,” Felinez warns me.
“No way, José,” I say. “I have to get cap-happy first.”
“Cuidate—be careful,” Felinez sighs, waving her hand in defeat as she heads off to textile science.
I trot in the opposite direction to sociology but get ambushed around the bend by Willi Ninja, Jr., who’s intent on providing a private lesson in the collective behavior of nosy human beings. “Did you stand up for your man?” he asks, posing in a defensive pirouette stance.
“What?” I ask, blushing shades of paranoid pink. I should have known peeps would be offering their own versions of the brou-haha.
“Well, he got suspended because of you—the least you can do is defend his honor,” Willi Ninja, Jr., says, provoking my posture.
“Th-that is radickio,” I stammer. But the truth is, I do feel guilty as charged.
“Is it, Miss P.P.?” Ninja, Jr., says, eyeing me carefully to see if I’ll bend like saltwater taffy. “Better check your in-box. I’m sure he sent you a broken arrow to mend.”
“I checked my in-box,” I say,
now getting paranoid times squared. I wonder if Willi Ninja, Jr., saw the note from Ms. Lynx. That’s it—he’s probably already peeped the situation!
Willi Ninja, Jr., pivots and turns to get the last word. “Well, all I can say is: one down, three to go….”
It figures the pedigreed poser already assumes he has the Catwalk competition on lockdown, but the battle hasn’t even begun. “Don’t make me snap my clutch purse!” I call back, marching away defiantly. That’s it! I’ve had it with peeps pushing me around. Time to stop tap-dancing gingerly and bring in the noise!
I send a text message to Zeus: “Make it happen.” He’ll know exactly what I mean. Then I march right into the Lynx lair.
Sil Lai looks up from her desk and purses her lips. “You haven’t submitted your team membership forms yet?”
“No. Not yet,” I say, my voice zooming from squeaky to leaky in seconds. “I had a message that Ms. Lynx wants to see me?”
Sil Lai looks at her computer screen, opens a document, then looks at me with that Botox face, which makes it hard for me to read between her lines. “She’s busy. I put you in for fourth period,” Sil Lai informs me.
Fourth period? I’ll have a catiac arrest before then. I look around the office and see Farfalla, stationed in her cubicle. I wish she manned the reception desk, because I could read her like the New York Times style section—backward and forward. But Farfalla doesn’t look up, and as usual, she seems buried in work, like an archaeologist at an excavation site.
“I spoke to Mink,” Sil Lai says, still stone-faced.
I wait for Sil Lai to drop an Altoid (a minty hint), but nada, so I decide to take her probe further.
“I can’t believe she joined my house!” I gush, but realize immediately that I sound like I have no self-esteem—and I’m not talking about the clothing label, either.
Now the phone rings and Sil Lai gives me a look like I’m dismissed. Scurrying out of the office, I pop the collar on my Flower Power burnout sweater to ward off the chilly thought of fashion exile.
Catwalk Page 16
