Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  After sociology, Zeus is hovering on the horizon to give me the heads-up. “Definitely getting used to buzzwords involving body parts,” I say, smiling. I stare longingly at his beautiful long dark eyelashes and wonder what his girlfriend is like. Probably a model too.

  “It’s on—lunchtime at Petsey Betsey,” he informs me proudly.

  “I knew you’d come through,” I say softly. What I really want to say is, Flotsam and jetsam the girlfriend, because I know you’re tickled pink over moi. M. O. to the I.

  “You heard? Moet Major has been nominated by proxy vote as the replacement house leader. She’s forming her own team, though. Chandelier is definitely out on a limb,” adds Zeus, snapping me back to my challenging reality.

  “Let’s pray I’m not next,” I say, shuddering, then spill the refried beans about my current concerns.

  He gets a troubled look in his eyes.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nah. Nothing.” Zeus shakes it off.

  I send a text message to Diamond, Aphro, Felinez, and Angora: “Operation: Kitty Litter is in full effect.”

  Although Diamond Tyler doesn’t bring Crutches to school, it should have come as no surprise to me that she is a frequent visitor at the Petsey Betsey annex. “How’s Crutches coming along?” the attendant, Bubba Barbieri, asks her. Diamond gives him a detailed update, then segues into her current cause: rescuing Sheepish Sally who was desperately trying to save herself from the chopping block by saying baaah-bye to the wicked city.

  When the rest of my crew arrives, Bubba grants us access to the waiting area after administering a warning: “You’re not allowed in the pet playground.”

  Zeus gingerly folds his six-foot frame into one of the bright orange wooden chairs with the giraffe-shaped backs.

  “These were hand painted by Garo Sparo and donated to the school,” Diamond informs us. “He’s one of my favorite designers.”

  “That’s a cool name—is he into birds or something?” Zeus asks.

  “No, it’s spelled S-P-A-R-O. But he does volunteer at the animal shelter. That’s how I got my job. He’s an amazing designer. He does a lot of corsetry work—evoking style from the Victorian era,” Diamond explains, babbling. It’s clear she’s nervous—and truth is, so am I. “He’s gonna let me intern at his studio,” she continues. “I mean, so he says. Maybe later in the year.”

  “We’re not interested in interning,” Aphro blurts out, like she’s not impressed. “We need jobs paying some real paper, okay.”

  I smile warmly at Diamond to make up for Aphro’s aversion to “freebies,” which is what she calls internships.

  “Have you found anything yet?” Diamond asks, concerned. But she only manages to irritate Aphro—again.

  “You make it sound like we’re lost,” she says, then gives one of her signature snorts.

  Zeus spurts out a laugh. He can’t help himself because he’s still not used to the Babe squeals that emanate from Aphro’s smoocher.

  Right now, I’d like to stick Aphro Biggie’s head in a trough to cool her off.

  At last, Nole and most of his entourage—Dame Leeds, Elgamela Sphinx, and Kimono Harris—enter the Annex. Nole kisses Countess Coco on her nose, then hands her over to Bubba, cozily tucked in her black Prada carrier.

  “Okay, Countess, no funny business today with the biscuits. Even Your Highness has to share,” Bubba warns the fiery-haired Pomeranian.

  Meanwhile, Diamond is fixated on Elgamela’s bandage dress in juicy orange, which looks very similar to the French designer Hervé Léger’s hand-sewn numbers, favored by Beyoncé. It’s probably just a knock-knock, even though Elgamela is so fierce she could wear a dress made out of real Band-Aids and still earn purr points.

  “Omigod, Nole, did you make that?” Diamond coos, pointing to Elgamela’s mummy-tight curve hugger.

  Diamond is obviously wearing on Nole’s nerves, because he winces and shoots back, “Don’t disrespect Hervé like that. And why would I steal his trademark?”

  The delicate designer’s face cracks like a cubic zirconia. So much for Operation: Kitty Litter. Maybe sticking my head in the odor-absorbing clay would have been a better idea.

  “Today’s my birthday. My dad got it from the designer consignment shop near where we live,” Elgamela coos humbly. “He just got so tired of hearing me whine about it that he bought it for me!”

  Nervously, I clear my throat before I speak to ensure that no squeaky sounds emanate against my will. “Wow, that’s nothing like the reject consignment shop near my house,” I babble, then repeat the motto plastered in the dingy window of Second Time Around: “Why go to JCPenney when you can save at Secondhand Benny’s!”

  “That’s hysterical,” Elgamela squeals back, her exotic accent lilting on the words. Elgamela quickly tells us all about Cherry Hill, New Jersey, where she grew up; it is apparently chock-full of designer-obsessed housewives. “My father owns Chirpin’ Chicken on Second Avenue. I work there after school,” she goes on. “That’s why I smell like chicken half the time. Can’t get it out of my pores.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” Felinez says, surprised.

  “What—that you can’t get the smell of chicken grease off your skin?” Elgamela asks, amused.

  “No!” Felinez tries quickly to divert any more drama. “That you worked, um, as a chicken. I mean, that your father was rich. You know what I mean!”

  We all laugh hysterically.

  “It’s right off Sixty-second Street,” Elgamela explains. “Come by any time after school—wings are on me. I’ll even throw in a breast and a leg!”

  “Awright—as long as you chop it up Benihana-style,” laughs Zeus, crossing paws with Nole. Suddenly, I realize that maybe Elgamela is Zeus’s girlfriend. Duh!

  Just then, Elgamela breaks into her dimpled smile, beaming at him. There was definitely no riddle to her rave reviews: she is charmed and dangerous. All of a sudden, Ruthie Dragon, who is out of breath, comes running into the reception area. I refrain from blurting out, Look what the cat dragged in—a dragon. Good thing too, because as soon as the traitor catches her breath, she blurts out to Nole, “Sorry I’m late!”

  Nole introduces us, but I gently inform him that we already know each other—unfortunately. What I want to ask is why she’s here: the haters’ corner is in the other annex.

  “Okay, so you know why we’re here. Dr. Zeus said you wanted to see me,” Nole says, wrapping his arm around Elgamela’s slender waist.

  “We want you in our house,” I say, opting for the direct approach, because sometimes the truth is plain appropriate.

  “Yeah, well, I want Ed McMahon to knock on my door and tell me that I’ve won a million dollars. I might actually have a shot at that,” Nole retorts, staring intently at me.

  Despite the barking in the background, the room gets so quiet you could hear a dog biscuit drop.

  “Well, have you interviewed with any of the other houses yet?” I ask, stalling for time so I can put on my fashion game face.

  “Like whose—Anna Rex’s?” Nole asks, challenging me. “Why do you think she wears black all the time? Olives in a jar have more color coordination sense than she does. At least they made sure to get stuck with red pimentos!”

  “Puhleez. After she loses, she can always get a job working at Vera Wang,” Dame Leeds snarls, leaning his shoulder against the safari mural on the wall, right on the large rhinoceros’s behind.

  “Why there?” Diamond asks innocently.

  “Black is de rigueur for all Wang employees,” Angora says. God, Diamond is definitely not earning any karats today.

  Dame looks at Angora, impressed, then adds, “Churl, I knew one of the showroom sales assistants. Miss Thing showed up to work one day in pink—and Vera gave her a pink slip to go with her outfit!”

  “Speaking of pink …” Nole pauses, then pulls a tube of hand cream out of his black leather briefcase. “Do you always wear it?”

  He carefully opens the tube of K
iehl’s hand cream and moisturizes while waiting for my response. Now I’m afraid to answer because I don’t want to blow my shot at snagging the infamous Holy Canoli, as he’s been aptly nicknamed by Dame Leeds. I try to conjure up an image of the designing drama queen helping his semiinvalid mother out of her Hoveround. It works.

  “When I’m not, I’m thinking pink,” I answer, then take my honesty to another level. “I dug what you had to say,” I stammer, referring to Nole’s much-buzzed-about blog entry. “My mother raises us by herself. Me and my sister. I’ve got to win that prize money and snag a modeling contract because I can’t take the Payless situation much longer.”

  Now Nole shifts gears. He sits down carefully, like he’s afraid the chair is going to break. This is the first time I’ve ever noticed that he’s insecure about his pudgy figure. “Please. Every time we have to buy five cans of cat food, my mother starts her Poorvarotti aria!” he admits. I’d heard that Nole’s mother is Italian and his father is black, although I don’t get the impression his dad is in the family photo album, if you catch my drift.

  “You have cats?” I ask, surprised.

  “Why do you think I’m here? You think my Gucci loafers are my most prized possessions? No, it’s my Persian cats, Penelope and Napoleon. And of course, Countess,” explains Nole, dropping more catty details. “They’re both snooty by nature, and Penelope has already had two nose jobs. I mean, she did have collapsed nostrils.”

  Of course, Diamond backpedals again to talk about Crutches.

  Nole nods but interrupts to praise me. “I like your all-size philosophy. I want to design a line like that too.”

  “What’s your line called?” Aphro asks.

  “Nole Canoli,” he responds, like What else? “I’m over people associating me with a deep-fried tube of pastry filled with ricotta cheese. It’s time ‘Canoli’ is associated with chicness.”

  “I heard that,” Aphro seconds, who jumps at the chance to explain the philosophy behind her funky jewelry collection, Aphro Puffs.

  “And all this time, I thought your name was spelled like the Afro pick!” Nole snickers. “I was gonna call my company Chic Canoli—and make my logo two Cs like Chanel’s—but I didn’t want the fashion police coming for me with trademark trauma, okay?”

  “Speaking of trauma—have you heard from Chandelier?” I boldly ask.

  “You know I have,” Nole retorts. “She’s down for the body count. What can I say? And all she was trying to do was win the competition so she could get that corporate mentorship at Betsey Johnson, then take over the fashion business to help her brothers and sisters.”

  Now I feel guilty for bad-mouthing Chandelier. We had more in common than I ever realized.

  “It’s hard when you’re fierce,” Nole says knowingly, stroking together his freshly moisturized hands. “Night after night I fantasized about becoming famous, lying there in my bed on sheets with a thread count so low I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

  “Puhleez—how do you spell Maxicale without counting to a hundred, hello? I’d sure like to forget,” blurts out Dame Leeds.

  “So, pink purrlicious one. Does everything match?” Nole asks teasingly.

  At first, I don’t comprehend, but the image of Hello Kitty watching my butt promptly brings Nole’s probe into sharp focus.

  “Well, take a guess,” I say playfully.

  “My guess is you always wear pink ones,” Nole says, smirking, then turns to Dame. “What do you think?”

  “Sometimes they’re purple,” quips Dame. “Let’s make a bet. Loser buys all of us the first round of gelato in Firenze.”

  Suddenly, I realize that Nole is baiting me. “So do we have a deal?”

  “About the gelato?” teases Nole.

  “No, about you joining my house as lead designer,” I say firmly. “Do we have a deal?”

  “In principle,” Nole stalls. “I have certain conditions.”

  “Shoot.”

  Nole turns to Diamond. “I’m the lead designer and I get star billing?”

  A look of relief washes over Diamond’s face. “Please. I was the one who suggested you in the first place. I’d be honored to work with you.”

  “Male fashions make up at least thirty percent of our Catwalk collection,” Nole tells me, continuing the negotiations.

  “Done,” I say.

  “My crew is in: Dame is lead hairstylist, Liza Flake is second. Kimono assists Bobby Beat. Elgamela, of course, is star model. And Ruthie Dragon will be me and Diamond’s assistant,” Nole says. “And my cat closes the show in the bridal gown.”

  I hesitate for a second, because I would like to slay Ruthie Dragon instead of having her join my house now, but I guess fashion beggars can’t be choosers. I have also dreamed about Fabbie Tabby walking down the runway in the Catwalk competition for as long as I’ve wanted to win it. The truth, though: as long as my show closes with a feline, my vision remains intact, so I find myself saying with a sigh, “Done and done.” Immediately I can’t help but wonder if I have indeed sold my soul for a shot at stardom. I take some blank team membership forms out of my Hello Kitty tote bag and hand one each to Nole, Kimono, Elgamela, Dame Leeds, and Ruthie.

  I think Nole secretly wonders the same thing: I can tell by the way he fingers the blank form, then puts it down on the empty chair next to him and rubs his hands in despair. “Again.” He sighs as if he is exhaling the disappointment of the Chandelier drama. But somehow I don’t think he wants to admit that to us, not yet. Instead, he switches to his signature smirkiness: “I hate those little cuts I get on my hands from cutting fabric. Sooo not chic.”

  We all laugh. Even Aphro. I take off my game face and watch with glee as the pets romp around in the playground where Countess Coco is holding court. Five minutes later, I’m clutching the last signed membership forms that I need to fulfill my first official task as a house leader. Now I feel fortified to face whatever drama awaits me in the Lynx lair. One down, one to go. I sigh. Then I make the one announcement I’ve been dying to make: “The House of Pashmina will have its first official team meeting tommorrow at three-thirty sharp. All team members are required to attend.”

  Sil Lai still doesn’t crack a smile when I hand her my membership forms, but now I don’t care. The door to the inner sanctum of the Lynx lair is opened, and Sil Lai motions for me to enter. Puccini, who is resting in his leopard bed, looks up at me loopy-eyed, like he’s been daydreaming but I’ve brought him back to some reality. Ms. Lynx is scribbling furiously with a leopard-patterned pen, so I let my eyes roam over her office walls. It’s true what I’ve heard: all the walls are plastered with photos and magazine tear sheets of her back in her modeling days. I’m not at all shocked at how thin she is in the photos because I’d already heard that she was obviously a much smaller size than her present “diva size” 22.

  Now Ms. Lynx looks squarely at me, and her intense dark eyes activate another round of stomach fritters. “Do you always wear pink?” she asks, finally smiling.

  I break into a grin but refrain from revealing why I’m so amused: two people have asked me the same question in one day. I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ear, When something’s not broke, don’t fix it. “Well, when I’m not, I’m thinking pink,” I say, smiling warmly.

  “Well, that’s why I wanted to see you,” Ms. Lynx starts in, causing my stomach to flip-flop. “What I mean is, because you are a house leader, I’m going to need you to be discreet about certain events that have occurred recently. That means on camera and off, if you follow the bouncing ball?”

  “I follow it,” I say, my voice squeaking. I’m frozen inside. I wonder who told her that I was bad-mouthing Chandelier. Or is she referring to Ice Très and his misfired Cupid’s arrow? Neither of which is going to earn me any purr points—forget about my final tally!

  “In any case, gossiping is not encouraged, but now, with the Teen Style Network being granted full access to the faculty and student body, I find it imperative to encourage every
one to take a proactive approach,” continues Ms. Lynx in her commanding voice.

  Now I feel dizzy because I’m not sure if Ms. Lynx is reprimanding me or is merely on spin patrol.

  “Yes, I feel—I mean, I hear you, Ms. Lynx,” I say, nodding cooperatively.

  I’m so relieved that I’m obviously still in the fashion game that I take a segundo to decompress on the spot. “Um, I just handed in my team membership forms,” I announce, like a proud mother who just delivered a big litter of kittens.

  “Good. I knew you would,” Ms. Lynx says sharply. “Now, I’ve referred you for a sales position. It’s for a new boutique that will be opening in Harlem. The owner is an old friend, and the two of you certainly share a shade in common.”

  “Wow,” I say, gingerly taking the piece of paper from her hand. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. She’s quite a handful, but as I always say, if you can’t handle a designer’s roar, you’ll never survive in the fashion jungle.”

  I nod furiously like an obedient lion tamer while the words from Gloria Gaynor’s disco hit rush to my brain: Oh, no, not I! I will survive!

  “Make sure you get your budget forms in to me on time,” Ms. Lynx says politely.

  I assure her I will, then run to the bathroom to deal with the flood under my arms. Now I know what the expression “dodging a bullet” means, because I feel like I just dodged a fashion missile big enough to topple the Eiffel Tower in gay Paree!

  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!!

  THEY SHOOT BLACK MODELS, DON’T THEY?

  Like most girls blessed with five feet ten inches of fierceness, I have fantasized about becoming a supermodel since I can remember. And I do remember exactly when my fantasy began: I was in kindergarten and stole one of Taynasia’s blond Barbie dolls. She was this bourgie girl who lived down the block and I knew she wouldn’t miss it, so I took it, and I was right—she didn’t miss it. So there I was, sitting cross-legged in front of the television set in the living room, stroking the hair on this stolen blond Barbie doll. All of a sudden, this beautiful brown girl who looked like the Queen of Sheba—or what I thought the Queen of Sheba should look like—came walking out on TV in front of all these people, wearing a skimpy outfit that reminded me of Jane from Tarzan. Behind the Queen of Sheba were all these other pretty girls wearing similar skimpy feathered outfits. Then a guy came out and they all started kissing him and everybody in the audience was clapping. My foster mother happened to come out of the kitchen at the time and asked me, “What on earth are you looking at?” I pointed at the screen to the black girl standing there, smiling like I had discovered the Holy Grail. “Lord!” my foster mother said. “Those girls look like they escaped from a bikini chain gang!” I laughed so hard that my foster mother started laughing too. So you see, that day really stood out in my mind for two important reasons: First, I saw a girl who looked like me and everybody loved her. Second, I found out that I had a very unusual laugh that some compare to Babe the Pig, and it made people laugh. It was years later that I realized the model was the infamous Naomi Campbell and that she was strutting in a Todd Oldham fashion show for his summer collection. I happened to see the same exact footage in the video archives last year in FI’s fashion library while I was researching a term paper on the history of black models for Model Appreciation. And thanks to the black supermodels—who, I discovered during my research, reigned on the runway back in the day—from Pat Cleveland, Billie Blair, Beverly Johnson, and Iman to Veronica Webb, Tyra Banks, and Naomi Campbell, I have grown up with the opportunity to do more than sit on the sidelines watching fashion shows on a television screen. And little brown-skinned girls growing up now don’t have to steal blond Barbie dolls anymore. We can steal brown ones. (I’m just messing with you. Hopefully, you’ll be able to at least ask your mother to buy you one.) Next June, my dream is finally going to come true when I model in my first televised fashion show. It will be shown on the Teen Style Network as part of the Catwalk competition. I also happen to believe that I am the proud member of the house that is destined to win in more ways than one. Well, what I’m trying to say is, brown-skinned girls like me can become a part of fashion history. So next June: LET THE STRUTTING BEGIN!!