Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Sure enough, Laretha says, “Oh, I don’t know that store.”

  I decide to tell Laretha about my plans to open a retail chain called Purr Unlimited.

  “You know, unlimited—as opposed to all the limits everybody places on women’s sizes?” I add for good measure.

  Now Laretha looks at me with newfound respect. I take a deep breath, waiting and hoping she’ll offer me a job. Despite our shady difference, I would still like to work for her. Aphro takes the words right out of my mouth.

  “You know you should give Miss Pashmina a job,” blurts out Aphro, swinging the ends of her lariat as if to punctuate her point.

  “I know that’s right,” Laretha chuckles.

  Suddenly, the crashing sound of a paint can falling off the ladder in the back interrupts our exchange.

  “Now you did it!” yelps one of the construction workers.

  Laretha hurries to the back of the store to survey the situation. While we wait, Aphro stares inside the empty display case. “I wonder what kind of jewelry she’s gonna have.”

  “Obviously yours,” I say with pride.

  “I hope so,” Aphro says.

  Seconds later, Laretha rushes to the front of the store, sweating. “We have a real crisis. The construction worker knocked over the varnish and that is definitely going to set us back a few hours.”

  “Well, thank you for taking the time to see me,” I say, nervously.

  “Pashmina, it was truly a pleasure. And Miss Aphro, we are definitely going to have your jewelry up in here,” she says, politely.

  “Oh, trust, I will definitely be making my way uptown more often now that you’re here!” Aphro says, excitedly.

  Once we’re outside, Aphro declares, “You definitely got the job. Don’t sweat it.”

  “I hope you’re right, Miss Aphro Biggie Bright,” I say, walking her to the subway.

  Aphro seems less stressed, but still preoccupied about something. Still, I decide to flip the switch to my own drama.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if my computer isn’t working. I have to print out the hookup list,” I say, thinking out loud. For the past month, all my team members have handed in every connection they have that could be useful for our Catwalk fashion show committee purposes. Now I have to compile them into a master list and make photocopies to hand out at our Catwalk meeting tomorrow after school. Aphro flinches but then reassures me: “Why you sweating? There’s probably nothing wrong with your computer.” Before she descends the downtown stairwell of the subway, she turns around and declares, “I know you like to put me on blast, but you know we’re tight, right?”

  “I know,” I say, truthfully.

  “We’ll be ruling the runways—for real,” she says, regaining her usual cocky composure.

  “I know,” I say, matching her energy level. “But right now I’d be happy if I could control my computer!”

  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!

  DING, DING, ROUND’S NOT OVER …

  Just because I’m down with hip-hop style doesn’t mean I don’t understand things on the traditional tip—like politics. For example, right now in American history class, we’ve been breaking down a leader who I can relate to: former president Richard Nixon. Here he was, vice president under Dwight D. Eisenhower, then ran for president and lost by a very close margin to John F. Kennedy in 1960. Then he came back swinging and ran for governor of California in 1962. Sure, this second loss made our future leader bitterly announce that he was leaving politics and “you won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore.” But the visionaries knew Tricky Dick was just getting started when he reemerged as a presidential candidate in 1968 against Hubert Humphrey, screeching by on a victory in one of the closest elections in our country’s history. Then he ran for reelection in 1972 against George McGovern. This one was a landslide victory, with 60 percent of the popular vote. That’s because people realized Nixon was a true contender. Now, I don’t want to get into that other stuff about the break-ins and Watergate, cuz if you wasn’t sleeping in history class, you should be up on that well-documented shady situation. But the man at least had the dignity to step down after he realized they had him on audiotape and stuff (which today would be like getting peeped on YouTube).

  Another historical point I can relate to: after Nixon resigned as president, Vice President Gerald R. Ford succeeded him. Now, just because G wasn’t nominated in the first place doesn’t mean he wasn’t legit enough to be head of state. Which brings me to a present situation that will soon be recognized as official fashion history: I may have become house leader by default—a first in the Catwalk competition’s 35-year history—but I’m an authentic leader, nonetheless, and I’m definitely “too legit to quit.” So I want to commence the record with the following guarantee: there ain’t gonna be any smoking guns while I’m in office. No audiotapes, downloads, or newspaper articles about someone in my family up to some shadiness—cuz there are no bones in the closets (no disrespect to my predecessor, whose father got caught up in an alleged but true skeleton scandal). My aunt, whom I live with, is visually impaired but she keeps everything in check in our “White House.” Trust, come next June, there is just gonna be a lot of smoke when I come out blazing at the Catwalk competition. Believe that.

  Posted by Black Satin at 11:17:20

  3

  Aphro isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to go home. What else could explain why I’m slouching my shoulders and dragging my feet instead of “representing” in the courtyard of my building complex? We live in the Amsterdam Gardens, on West 114th Street, which I’ve nicknamed Chicken Little Central because it seems like the ceiling is always on the verge of collapsing. All it takes, however, to snap me back into Catwalk sashay mode is a shrill salutation from the rear. “Hey there, supermodel!” shouts Mrs. Watkins, one of my neighbors. Everybody in Building C knows that I’m going to be a model, so they’re always calling me out.

  Turning around, I straighten my shoulders and flash the on-camera smile that I learned in Modeling 101. Ms. London’s instruction still echoes in my ear: Widen your eyes and stretch the corners of your mouth, but not too far like the Joker!

  “Hi, Mrs. Watkins,” I say, cheerfully.

  “The jackpot is up to seventy-three million today. Yes indeed!” she exclaims. Mrs. Watkins buys a Lotto ticket every week—and by the way she talks about it, she makes you feel this could be her lucky day, or yours.

  “Well, I hope you hit the big time,” I say, secretly wishing the same for myself. Then I share an international tidbit that Felinez told me: “The El Gordo lottery in Madrid is three billion dollars!”

  “I wish I lived in Spain, but I’d better be winning something here. Shoot—been buying these tickets for twenty years. My number’s gotta come up sometime,” she professes, tightening her grip on the shopping bags she’s hoisting in both hands. Mrs. Watkins works across the street at Piggly Wiggly supermarket and is always loaded with bags brimming with bulky items. I open the door for Mrs. Watkins, and she walks into the lobby.

  “I sure hope we have heat up in here,” she says, wishfully.

  “I know,” I second, looking around for our landlord, Mr. Darius.

  “He better had done something, cuz that trifling boiler has been fixed more times than the New York State lotto!”

  Nodding in agreement, I follow Mrs. Watkins inside, but turn to see if anybody else is coming so I can hold the door. Alas, I spot Mrs. Paul, another neighbor, who lives across the hall from me. I wish Mrs. Paul would play the Lotto, because maybe she’d feel lucky enough to smile sometime. I wait patiently while she barrels toward me like a bulldog, with a cute, curly-haired boy wearing a dingy green plaid shirt and high-water brown tweed pants.

  As if reading my mind, Mrs. Watkins says in a hushed voice, “Heard her daughter went back to
Georgia. Left her son up here. What on earth she got him wearing? Poor child.”

  I nod but keep my eye on Mrs. Paul, who finally barges through the door. I smile, but experience has taught me not to be too chirpy or she’ll give me the evil eyeball.

  Sure enough, Mrs. Paul glares at me, swinging her vintage black vinyl purse like she’s about to whack me.

  “Hi,” I say quietly to the boy as he whisks by.

  The dimples set in his face as he beams at me.

  “Come on, Eramus,” commands Mrs. Paul.

  “Eramus. What a cool name,” I say, involuntarily. He beams at me again as we walk toward the elevator bank.

  “So who is that you got there?” asks Mrs. Watkins, even though she obviously knows that Eramus is Mrs. Paul’s grandson.

  “Never mind all that,” Mrs. Paul shoots back at Mrs. Watkins.

  “Well, hold on to your hot sauce. She actually spoke to those less worthy,” Mrs. Watkins mumbles under her breath. “Today must be my lucky day, indeed.”

  I feel a giggle come on, but I instinctively squelch it, since Mrs. Paul is not above tattling to my mother. Last summer, she scolded my mother for letting me wear Juicy sweatpants. She thought the Juicy logo plastered on my butt was “false advertising.” (We’re still not sure if she meant that the word was too suggestive or that my butt is too skinny to be considered “juicy.”) The four of us crowd into the empty elevator and Eramus stares up at me again, his big brown eyes twinkling.

  “How old are you?” I ask him.

  “Eight,” he answers.

  The elevator opens onto Mrs. Watkins’s floor. “Good night, all,” she says, making a point of brushing her big shopping bags against Mrs. Paul’s nubby wool vintage black coat.

  Mrs. Paul bristles at the contact, but Eramus and I say, “Good night!” in unison. Then we giggle.

  When we get to my floor, Mrs. Paul marches down the hall to her apartment with Eramus. He turns and stares at me, and I’d swear his eyes are pleading, “Help me!”

  Shaking my head, I go inside my apartment. Ramon is sitting at the dining room table, reading a Home Depot catalog, which is like his Bible. I wish Ramon was equally obsessed with computers, but no such luck. “She’s in the bedroom,” he says, his eyes darting in that direction. The dim spotlight above the dining alcove reflects off Ramon’s skin, which resembles undercooked bacon. My mother does not refer to Ramon as her boyfriend but I guess you could say he is. They broke up over the summer, but two weeks ago he resurfaced and hopefully so will the dilapidated bathroom, if you catch my drift.

  “Okeydokey,” I say, then duck into my room quickly, because I’ve got to get the hookup list ready pronto. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough to avoid my sister, Chenille. She waddles down the hallway with a frosted blond wig on a white Styrofoam head in her hand. “Is that Mom’s?” I ask in disbelief. I know that the Beverly Johnson shag wig is the jewel of her wig collection.

  “Yup. Gotta get it ready for wig class tomorrow. No point in using one of their ratty ones when I can do Mom’s,” Chenille says, showing off. It’s bad enough my younger sister is already clocking ducats aplenty from her burgeoning press-and-curl clientele in our building complex, but now even my own mother has succumbed to her styling shadiness.

  “Geez, now I’ve seen it all,” I mutter out loud.

  “No, you haven’t seen it all,” counters Chenille with that stupid smirk on her face.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “Well, let’s just say I saw more in the hair annex today than wig heads. These heads were attached to bodies—and they were whispering about the House of Pashmina!”

  “Why would I listen to someone—over the age of five—who hoards Halloween candy under their mattress?” I say, realizing that Chenille is probably pulling a “Psych!” We do it to each other all the time, but she’s just not as good at it as I am.

  “You’d better stay out of my room,” warns Chenille, trying to mask her blushing cheeks.

  “Puhleez. I was looking for my flat iron—cuz I know you stole it!”

  “You’re lucky I’m not holding it in my hand right now,” Chenille says, glaring at me.

  “It figures that would be your weapon of choice!” I say, sneering all the way to my room.

  Slamming my bedroom door shut, I turn on my computer and stare at the screen, waiting patiently for it to turn that beautiful shade of sky blue that Angora adores. Please, Cyber God, crank it up!

  As I wait, I decide to try Angora again. Luckily, she picks up the phone.

  “Bonsoir!” she coos.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask.

  “Oh, Je’Taime’s here,” she says, apologetically. Angora lives on the Upper West Side with her father. Je’Taime is her dad’s psychic from Baton Rouge. I can just see the head-wrapped high priestess with the long false eyelashes and acrylic tips on her fingernails coddling Angora and her dad with her crystal ball predictions and motherly gumbo. Angora adores Je’Taime as much as she despises her mom, the manners maven behind Ms. Ava’s Etiquette and Charm School in Baton Rouge.

  “She called today to tell me that she is now to be referred to as an international protocol consultant,” Angora says, exasperated. Angora never refers to Ms. Ava as her mom.

  “That sounds very Inspector Chérie,” I giggle in my French accent.

  “I know she was really checking up on us. She should just stick her fingers in her garden in Hysteria Lane instead of my business. I mean, it’s not like she really cares about me.”

  “You sure she doesn’t care about you?” I ask in disbelief.

  “The only thing Ava Le Bon cares about is money—and manners, in that order,” claims Angora. “And I sure don’t want her money, or manners like hers, merci.”

  While Angora is talking, my manners abruptly go AWOL. I can’t hear a word of her angst, because I’m too busy pondering the tiddy Chenille just dropped on me like a think bomb. “Have you heard anything—about me?” I ask, interrupting her family flow with my paranoia, and repeating Chenille’s foreboding verbatim. “Aphro is spooking me and suddenly Chenille is peeping intel about, um, my organization?”

  “I’m not sure what is going on with Aphro, I noticed it, too, but I think Chenille just wants your attention. That’s why she provokes you,” Angora advises me. “If you would just see her potential. I mean she really is talented, Pash.”

  “Okay, that’s a wrap and a falafel on that style-free subject,” I say, curtly.

  But now Angora is like a dog with a bone: she just won’t leave it alone. “You should be an only child and see what it feels like.”

  “Sign me up—pronto!” I insist.

  “C’est la vie. Can I hear about your visit to the Lynx Lair, s’il vous plaît?” pleads Angora.

  “Oh, right,” I say, remembering she is hyped to hear about the Design Challenge. I break it down. “Benjamin beckons.”

  “Absolument. Things you see every day?” repeats Angora, mulling over the challenge. “That would be all the rabbits overrunning my apartment!”

  “Oh, no!” I counter. “We’re not featuring the animal kingdom on the runway, okay? Please think feline, chérie. Feline! Not lions and tigers and rabbits, oh, my!”

  “Okay, you don’t have to get testy,” Angora says. She gets so easily offended by my Boogie Down bluster. I try to tone it down for her, but I guess I’m always bringing my Bronx ways. “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Okay, chérie,” Angora says, back to her peaceful blue aura. Then she hops on another Funny Bunny alert. “Dad is waiting for his first net profit statement, which means the royalties are gonna make us like royalty!” she squeals in her bouncy Baton Rouge accent. “That means he’s gonna give me money for our fashion show supplies!”

  I feel a twinge of jealousy, but I let it go like disco and focus on the finance. “So what is a net profit statement?” I ask. I learned about licensing agreements in my fashion merchandising class. Basically, a Big Willie fash
ion designer or a celebrity slaps their name and design philosophy on a product that they don’t really make. In exchange, the designer gets a percentage of the action from the company that is manufacturing and distributing the product to consumers.

  “Well, in Hollywood they do things differently than the fashion biz. The person who created the idea gets a percentage of what’s left over after the film studio’s expenses, so that’s what ‘net’ means, as opposed to ‘gross’—which is before expenses.”

  “Well, that sounds ‘gross’ to me. I mean, who’s to say what the studio’s expenses are? The sky could be the limit, no?” I counter.

  “We’ll see when it comes,” Angora says, sighing. “So speaking about expenses—how much did we get for the Catwalk budget?”

  “Enough to buy fabrics as soon as we get the sketches in,” I reply, excitedly.

  “Oh, I’m definitely in the Mood to go shopping,” squeals Angora. Mood Fabrics is the place to be. After every season, all the major design houses, from Versace to Betsey Johnson, sell their fabric remnants to Mood, the premier designer outlet, located on Fortieth Street. Mind you, these remnants are not run-of-the-mill. They’re sublime fabrics that were designed exclusively for the designer by a prestigious textile mill in Europe or the Far East. “And how was the job interview, chérie?”

  I sense a tinge of embarrassment in Angora’s voice. I know she feels guilty because she doesn’t have to look for a part-time job, thanks to the Funny Bunny gravy train that is about to spill over.

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly what I expected, but I think I got it,” I say, trying to convince myself.

  “I bet you did,” Angora says, reassuringly.

  While talking to Angora, I press the Documents icon on my desktop, but it doesn’t budge. Angora senses that something is wrong. “I can’t believe it,” I say, freezing, just like my computer screen. “I hate this. The last thing I need right now is to have to buy a new computer!”