Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “Right,” Shalimar says, shaking her head and looking annoyed.

  “So, you got a hot date later?” he probes.

  “Yes, I do,” says Shalimar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better make a call. Otherwise I might be standing here forever.”

  Diamond is still freaked out, but she waves goodbye sweetly as Shalimar whips out her cell phone to call a car service.

  “Must be nice to have it like that,” I utter.

  “You should have told her you had a hot date later, too,” Angora says, propping me up. “I bet you she’d be jealous if she knew you’re going out with Ice Très.”

  “It’s true, mija. She likes him—even if he did get suspended,” claims Felinez.

  “Honey, her family would probably have a fit. You know she’d better bring home Mr. Brooks Brothers, or bust,” predicts Nole. Shalimar’s family is part of New York’s black bourgeois. “And he’d better come with a high-yield money market account!”

  Diamond finally giggles and I’m glad.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t try to save her fur collar!” I tease her.

  “I thought about it, but right now I’m thinking about Snickers the Sea Dog,” quips Diamond.

  “Is that your hot date?” chuckles Felinez.

  “No. He’s this cocker spaniel who got rescued by a cruise ship after being stranded on Kiribati island in the Pacific for four months! Somebody sent out an SOS, cuz they were going to kill all the orphaned animals on the island—so some workers on the Norwegian Cruise Line came and rescued him and this macaw parrot named Maxie.”

  “Where’d they take him?”

  “To Oahu—Hawaii,” explains Diamond. “Just Snickers, though, not Maxie.”

  “I wish someone took me to Hawaii. They could leave me stranded there, too,” pines Felinez. She loves to travel. That’s why the thought of winning a trip abroad means so much to us. We also plan on traveling all over the world when our business, Purr Unlimited, is a slamming success—like Betsey Johnson’s fashion empire.

  Diamond babbles on about Maxie’s macabre experience—exacerbated by the fact that most ports don’t accept exotic birds like her, so she’s still stranded on the cruise till they find her a home.

  When the elevator opens onto the tenth-floor entrance of Mood Fabrics, Nole drops his interest in Gulliver’s travels and vies for velvets instead. He strokes a bolt of cerise pink burn-out floral velvet like he’s spreading butter on a freshly baked croissant. “What do you think?” he asks, salivating.

  “I can already see corsets with matching tattersall skirts sashaying down the runway. Très feline fatale,” I advise.

  Angora eyes the fabric like a true reporter. “Wow, how do they do this?” she utters.

  “Sulfuric acid mixed right into the print paste so the chemical eats away the fiber and creates a hole in the printed design. Voilà,” sighs Nole. “Wish I could put some on my stomach to eat away at my pouch.” He sighs again, then sucks in his gut.

  “That’s disgusting,” snarls Felinez, who is usually fascinated by fat-burning formulas, before walking away. She starts scanning the aisles, on her mission to find materials for her totes, which will now be billed as billboard borsas on the House of Pashmina program. “Ay, Dios mio!” Felinez squeals. I rush over to her to see the source of her glee. Felinez is standing in front of a bolt of see-through pink vinyl. “I can’t believe it!” she breathes to the salesclerk—a pencil-thin fashionista with crimped hair the color of Cheez Doodles.

  “Wow, good work,” I note. Felinez hugs me proudly. “I’m gonna make the totes really big—muy grande—like a L.A.M.B.” Fifi isn’t referring to the farm animal, but to the gargantuan L.A.M.B. tote bag big enough to hide a body. Everybody from Beyoncé to Lindsay Lohan has been seen carrying one.

  “I haven’t seen you this happy since you busted the piñata at your sixth birthday party,” I chuckle, hugging her back.

  Over her cuddly shoulder, I spot a Kasha twill in a neon pink that makes my heart stop. “Oh, me, oh, my, Miss Honey, don’t you hear me calling you!” I swoon. “Strapless bustiers and matching bustle skirts!”

  “It looks expensive,” warns Felinez.

  “Yeah, well, watch me bargain it down,” I reply.

  Diamond strolls over and examines the neon weave, carefully reading the label. “This one is made from vicuna?” she asks in disbelief.

  Miss Cheez Doodles dashes over, putting on her red glasses attached to a silver chain around her neck. “Yes, I guess it is. This must be a leftover from the Jean Paul Gaultier collection we secured a few seasons ago.”

  “You know that vicuna is considered an endangered species now,” Diamond informs the clerk. “PC Kasha twills should be made from cashmere blends or a fine wool.”

  “Nothing holds the garment better, though,” the saleslady snaps.

  “A few seasons ago, huh?” I say in a somber tone, setting the foundation for my price-slashing strategy. Bargaining is the one thing I learned from all those afternoons hanging out at the store where my mother worked when I was younger. She couldn’t afford a babysitter, so the store manager used to let Chenille and me come there and wait till my mom finished work. The customers would inevitably comment on how adorable and well-behaved we were, so as long as we did our homework and kept quiet, everything was furbulous for my mom.

  “Yes,” says the saleslady.

  “It’s starting to pile, though,” I say, pointing to some imaginary nubs on the fabric.

  Flustered, the saleslady examines the bolt before she delivers her verdict: “I don’t see anything.”

  “Oh, it must have been a shadow. Um, is it forty-five or fifty-four inches wide?” I ask, trying another tactic. Sometimes if you hesitate long enough, it wears down the salesperson’s resolve to stick to the price.

  “It’s forty-five,” she says, sensing my hesitation.

  “Too bad it’s not black,” I say, pretending that pink isn’t my first color choice. It’s always easier to get a discount on colors that could be clocked as out-of-style by next season. Little does the salesperson know that pink is always in vogue in my mundo.

  “Look, I can give it to you for ten dollars a yard—if that helps,” the saleslady says, feigning ignorance of my tawdry tactics.

  “Oh, that would,” I say, like it was her idea.

  Nole comes over and almost busts my charade with his oohs and aahs at the vixenish vicuna, but I nudge him, prompting him to stop in mid-aah. Too much enthusiasm could spoil the price reduction—and it’s still a long way to the cash register.

  When Nole meets my eye, I give him a wink, and he catches on quickly.

  “Are you a model?” the saleslady asks me.

  “I’m the leader for the House of Pashmina in the Catwalk competition, and yes, I’ll be modeling in the fashion show, too,” I tell her so she gets my priorities straight: leadership first, modeling second—the fabbie focus of any true modelpreneur. Just as I thought, the saleslady is hip to the Catwalk competition. Probably from dealing with F.I. fashionistas for years.

  “Yes, you’re the second one to come in today,” she informs me.

  “Someone was here before us?” shrieks Nole.

  The saleslady can’t seem to decide whether she should spill the refried beans, or let them simmer.

  “Just tell me, was she wearing a tiger on her back?” I ask, teasing her. I’m still not convinced Shalimar hadn’t already made her haul here and stashed the bags.

  The saleslady just keeps smiling as she hoists the bolt to a counter to cut. “How many yards?” she asks.

  “I bet you it was Anna Rex—cuz I just noticed a black hole in aisle five!” snorts Nole.

  “What black hole?” asks Ruthie Dragon.

  “Never mind that. Just write down that we need neon pink seam binding,” instructs Nole.

  “I think we should edge the bustiers in black,” I say, in a nod to my favorite contrast—hot pink and black.

  “Good call,” say
s Nole.

  Diamond nods enthusiastically in agreement.

  Reluctantly, Ruthie also writes down black binding on Nole’s notion list.

  “How many yards?” the saleslady asks again.

  “Five,” I shoot, apologetically, getting back on the fabric track.

  “Listen, I saw some iridescent nylon for the padded vest and tiered skirt,” says Diamond, motioning across the aisle.

  “What color?” I ask.

  “Gunmetal gray, celadon green?” queries Diamond, hesitantly.

  “No pink?” I counter.

  “No pink,” confesses Diamond.

  “No need to point out that sore sighting,” I blurt out.

  Diamond winces.

  “Agreed,” says Nole, backing me up.

  “But the vest doesn’t have to be in the same exact fabric as the tiered skirt. I mean, it’s street gear combined with flirty, right?” I say, rethinking the contrast.

  “That’s true,” pipes up Felinez.

  “Okay, let’s look,” I say, giving in. I realize that Diamond doesn’t have enough rough edges to take my jabs and keep moving. She’s so sensitive.

  I examine the smooth sheen of the nylon and decide that a gray padded down vest would set off the pink tiered skirt. “The skirt should be pink chiffon—urban meets überfabbie.”

  “I dig it,” says Nole.

  “Add heavy-duty gold zippers and down feathers to the list,” I say to Ruthie.

  “I already have that,” she says, testily.

  One more fire-breathing glare from Nole’s assistant and I will have to refrain from using the bolt of nylon fabric I have tucked under my arm as a lethal weapon. Just one sideway swipe would topple this Dragon. For all I know, she’s the spy in our midst. I make a note to my fashion self to share this new insight with two people who still believe in my pink paranoia: Angora and Felinez.

  “We should do one vest in celadon, too,” I say, deciding that Ruthie deserves one accidental sideways swipe after all. Sure enough, after I do the deed, Ruthie is knocked a few centimeters off her smug Uggs.

  “Oops, my bad,” I giggle. “Two vests coming up.”

  “Easy for you to say—me and Diamond will be sweating all weekend!” gripes Nole.

  “I got it,” says Diamond, cheerfully grabbing the second bolt out of the bin.

  “Catsuits coming up,” says Nole, smirking. He knows that this is my favorite—and not just because I’m going to be modeling one of them.

  “Come on—we have to do one black one!” insists Nole.

  “One black one coming up—Phallon will be relieved—but trust, I’m wearing the pink one!” I warn him.

  Next up, we find stretchy knits for our hoodies and sweatpants and hot pants, which will be logo’d up with slogans to meet our Design Challenge.

  “What about purple?” Diamond says, reminding me.

  “The color purple,” I repeat, remembering our outfit that will be tagged with the title inspired by the Alice Walker literary classic.

  “I like the lilac one,” I say, pointing to a cotton knit.

  “You would—cuz it’s purple mixed with pink,” points out Felinez.

  “Thank you for that color theory moment,” I say, teasing her. Color theory was one of Felinez’s favorite classes.

  I look nervously at my Naughty Kitty Lolita watch to check the time.

  “Don’t worry—you’re not going to miss your hot date with the Ice Homme,” sighs Angora.

  I shrug like I’m not stressing, even though I am. “I think I’m down with the Thug Nation after all,” I say, getting giddy.

  “Urban Thug,” Angora says, correcting me on the moniker for Ice Très’s clothing line.

  After I pay for our fabbie fabric finds, we each grab a plastic bag, then head two blocks down to Steinlauf and Stoller for notion supplies.

  Diamond grabs two bags of down feathers for the zippered vests. “Whoa, we only need one,” I order. “I always advise, add but don’t pad!”

  “No, you don’t,” pipes up Angora.

  “Now I do,” I quip back.

  Nole hassles the salesclerk about the shady selection in threads. “You don’t have neon pink?” he demands.

  “No, we don’t,” says the blasé salesclerk.

  “I bet if Gianni came out of his tomb and demanded it, you’d stock it like it’s haute!” snaps Nole, referring to his design idol, the late Gianni Versace.

  “I think the cerise shade would contrast cutely,” I point out, hoping to squelch Nole’s divo designer tantrum.

  “No, it won’t!” Nole says, stomping his foot. Now even Countess Coco has been shocked out of her stupor. Her ears perk up and her eyes bulge in distress. I pat Countess’s head to assure her that I’ve got this sticky situation handled.

  “It’ll work—trust me,” I say. Examining the cone of thread, I read the label and realize its polyester. “We need cotton,” I instruct the salesclerk.

  “Cotton,” he mumbles.

  “Yes, long-staple, mercerized, forty-weight, hundred-percent-cotton thread, please,” I say.

  Now Nole smiles. “That’s my girl—count on her to get testier than me.”

  The salesclerk hops to it. “I’ll bring it up.”

  “He’d better,” huffs Nole. “He’s out of stock and must be out of his mind if he thinks I’m working with Polly and Esther!”

  “Ruthie, go get us some snaps and closures while we’re waiting,” I order, sending his reluctant assistant for some reinforcements for the bustier and corset panels.

  “I don’t trust her,” I confess to Nole.

  “Well, I do, Inspector Clouseau—so close the case!” he giggles.

  “I can’t wait till Garo Sparo sees our corsets,” Diamond says, satisfied. Garo Sparo is a downtown designer who specializes in corsets. “I can’t believe you turned down an internship to volunteer in the animal shelter instead,” I groan.

  “I felt the animals need me right now,” counters Diamond, defending her decision.

  “Just remember we need you more,” Nole warns his second-in-command.

  Then, armed with everything from interface to muslin, we decide to call it a day.

  “Thank God it’s Friday!” shouts Nole, strutting down Seventh Avenue.

  “Not so fast,” I interject, needing one more quick huddle to make sure we’re on the same production page.

  “I’m going over to your house on Sunday and Diamond’s house next week,” I explain to Nole.

  “When am I going to see you?” protests Felinez.

  I didn’t think I had to hover over her to get the bags done; she’s such a pro I know I can trust her to turn out billboard borsas and belts faster than a factory in China.

  “Okay, well, I can after I finish at Nole’s?” I ask, fondling Fifi’s forearm.

  “Okay, squeeze me in,” she sighs.

  “Fifi?” I query, like come on, work with me. I realize that we’d better talk. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

  She nods like I’m kicking her to the curb.

  Right now, I realize that I have to get ready if I’m going to head down to Native by seven o’clock for my date with Ice Très.

  “Time to get Native,” I giggle. Everybody, of course, follows my dating drift.

  “Work the Ice Man for points on the Dow Jones, Miss Pashmina,” advises Nole.

  “Abso-freakin’,” I say, nodding.

  8

  Standing in front of Mrs. Paul’s apartment, I ponder whether I should indeed knock on her door. But then I’m swayed by the image of Eramus held hostage in a checked shirt and high-water tweed pants for two days running. This prompts my hand to move like it’s being controlled by a Ouija board. I rap softly on the hollow steel door and, on the spot, conjure up my fashion game plan: I’ll butter her up first, then ask.

  Luckily, Eramus answers the door—or rather flings it open with glee.

  “Hi, E.T.,” I say, officially anointing him with a new nickname. H
e must like that, because he beams, but my heart sinks at the sight of him standing there in his overcoat with a stack of pamphlets in his hands. I know this means he’s going out with Mrs. Paul to play a not-so-fun game of “knock, knock” on people’s doors. In other words, his glum grandmother has already enlisted him to pound the pavement in the name of Jehovah’s Witnesses, handing out The Watchtower.

  “You want one?” Eramus asks, his doe eyes widening with fear.

  “Um—” I stop myself and then say, “Sure, I’ll take one.”

  Mrs. Paul marches down the hallway, purse and pamphlets clutched tightly in her fist. “I told you not to open the door,” she scolds him, looking at me suspiciously. I want to blurt out, Hello. I’m your neighbor, but I know the drill. She hates us. See, one early Sunday morning she made the mistake of knocking on our door to bestow us with a pamphlet—and received a verbal thrashing from my sleepyhead mother.

  “You look nice,” I lie to Mrs. Paul, then blurt out my business. “Um, you know about the Catwalk competition I’m doing. I was wondering if you would consider letting Eramus audition to be one of the junior models in our fashion show.”

  Mrs. Paul looks at me like I’m a just-released juvvie. “Really?” squeals Eramus, excitedly, his eyes widening like pool balls.

  “Come on, now,” orders Mrs. Paul, walking toward the door, which is my cue to scram. Eramus looks at me, appearing frightened, like he’s going out to meet the boogeyman on a Friday night and wants me to rescue him.

  “Um, maybe you wanna come over tomorrow—and I’ll show you some sketches for my fashion show?” I query.

  “No, we’re going out shopping tomorrow—over to Benny’s,” Mrs. Paul informs me.

  Benny runs the thrift shop, Second Time Around, where Mrs. Paul does most of her shopping. Eramus looks sad that my pleas for his fashion advancement have been torpedoed.

  “Okay, well, another time,” I say, cheerfully, trying not to act defeated. God, that went over worse than the Maxi Coat and Hot Pants Ball at Club Vinyl. Not one ticket sold.

  Inside my own apartment, I’m greeted by another tense scenario: this one between my mother and Ramon. Mom is all dressed up in a bronze scoop-neck minidress, shimmering from a bounty of iridescent paillettes. “You promised we would go dancing! And do something I wanna do for a change,” my mom moans.