Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “I said I didn’t hear anything else, but I saw who was talking,” Chenille says, folding her arms across her chest again, triumphantly.

  “Who was it? Díganos, tell us!” orders Felinez, impatiently.

  “It was Shalimar and Chintzy.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, stunned.

  “She’s sure!” hisses Felinez.

  “Duh—I do know who they are, okay? I’m not stupid,” seconds Chenille, agitated by me as usual.

  “Omigod, I can’t believe it. In legal terms, this is what they would call corroborating evidence to nail a suspect,” I mutter, ignoring Chenille as I still try to absorb the shock. “She’s a double agent? I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, next time, you’ll listen to me. I told you she was a sneaky señorita!” Felinez yells, emphatically. “They probably leaked our whole lineup to the Russians by now!”

  “Can I go now?” Chenille asks, back to her petulant self.

  “Yes, you can,” I snarl, but then I quickly add, “Wait. Thank you. You did me a solid.”

  “Yeah, well, now you really owe me,” squeals Chenille, putting me on notice that the prized hobo is only the first handout.

  “I guess I do,” I concede, my head whirring.

  “Chintzy’s in textile science class next period,” Felinez informs me.

  “I know,” I say, trying to map out my get-even game plan. “This is very Twilight Zone–ish.

  Snapping out of my shock, I freak out. What am I gonna do about Ms. Lynx? This could get me disqualified!” I yelp, yanking a clump of my hair and twirling it furiously. If the Catwalk Committee considers the deletion of a team member to be an infraction, it can lead to expulsion of the house leader, which means another member of the team can be voted as the new house leader. And no way can I risk this before the winner of the Design Challenge is announced.

  “Phase Two of Operation: Kitty Litter should take care of that,” proposes Felinez.

  I pause, pondering the option. “Awright, let’s get Elga, Nole, and Angora in on this and see what we can whip up like a soufflé,” I say, nervously, sending an urgent text message to all three, then pat Felinez on the back. “Unlike Ice Très, thank gooseness, we haven’t forgotten the value of an old-fashioned SOS—or a tight crew.”

  After school, we have to drag Angora out of Toys “R” Us before she gets arrested for battery and assault. In a fit of rage, Angora took one of the Funny Bunny rabbits and beat his head against the nearby Barbie doll rack until his motorized speech wouldn’t stop yapping. We should have know when she suggested going there to wait until the coast was clear at her house that something was, well, funny. What fashionista would opt for Toys “R” Us over nearby Filene’s Basement?

  “I can’t believe you would jeopardize our future with a juvvie charge,” declares Aphro.

  Angora’s face remains blanched as we head to her house, which we’ve decided to make our central base for the second phase of Operation: Kitty Litter. Angora also wants us to spruce up the Le Bons’ elaborate Christmas decorations.

  “I may not be here after New Year’s, but this is the least I can do for Daddy so we can have a real New York Christmas,” she confesses.

  When we arrive, the scents of Bayou Basil and Choctaw Cayenne Pepper greet our nostrils. Je’Taime is in the kitchen preparing dinner, which hopefully doesn’t contain any of the ingredients for her infamous voodoo brew. “It’s Five-Alarm Gumbo,” Angora assures us.

  Her father has fled to the performing arts library in Lincoln Center to do extensive research on the spiderweb of Hollywood accounting, explains Angora.

  “Well, at least it sounds like he’s got a plan and isn’t sitting around being a basket case any longer,” I assure her.

  “Speaking of a plan, how was your date with Panda? You haven’t told us,” Elgamela says.

  “Well, as you know, you were right—I was meant to be there for a reason—but I don’t think for Cupid’s chores,” I giggle. “Every time I looked at him, I just wanted to squeeze him like he was a stuffed animal.”

  “Or do you mean whack him? Because that’s the only thing I want to do with stuffed animals these days—especially rabbits,” sighs Angora.

  “Well, I don’t think—”

  “Just say it, mija—he’s too short and not cute enough!” blurts out Felinez.

  “Yes, Fifi—that’s right—I’m superficial and thank you for pointing that out, but I had a really good time. The food at Googies is meowverlous. As a matter of facto, I could live in that place,” I say, pining for my leftovers, which are waiting for me at home.

  “Well, I wish I could, too, because we’re still being evicted,” Angora states, woefully.

  “I know,” I say, turning my attention to Angora and her plight as we pile into her bedroom to man the phone.

  “We’re sick about it,” admits Felinez.

  “So sick we can’t think about it,” I admit.

  “I know,” Angora says, sweetly.

  “I think there is a solution. It will come,” advises Elgamela.

  “Yes, I’m sure it will—and I hope it does before the sheriff does,” admits Angora.

  “Okay, it’s showtime,” I say, jittery as I prepare to slip into the disguised voice of one of my alter egos.

  “Do Mrs. Fartworthy,” instructs Felinez with a giggle.

  “Good choice. She’s got the right professional parlance,” I coo. I pull out the folder with the script in it and study it quickly. “Get me a can of ginger ale to gulp down so I can do it authentically!”

  “And not the diet one, either!” orders Felinez with a giggle.

  “Ah, you soothe my kitty soul,” coos Elgamela to plump Rouge, whom she has coaxed to come onto the bed and cuddle with her.

  When Angora returns with a tall glass of soda on a rabbit saucer, I gracefully gulp down the prescribed bubbly, then start dialing until I’ve connected to my appointed prank victim—the human resources department at Grubster Public Relations. “Good afternoon. This is Mrs. Fartworthy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I’m calling in reference to an employee by the name of Chintzy Colon, who reports to Adam Saunders in event marketing. Yes, she would be a part-time intern. Yes, that’s correct,” I say in my professional tone, then belch. “Excuse me there. Well, Miss Colon recently visited our emergency outreach center with concerns about possibly contracting chikungunya fever from her father, Eduardo Colon, who had recently returned from a visit in Malaysia.”

  Felinez distracts me by falling on the floor laughing, so I put my patter on pause and remove the receiver from my ear before I burst out laughing, too. In a few seconds, I resume: “Excuse me there. Sorry about that interruption—another urgent case is coming in. I wanted to let you know that Miss Colon’s concern about contracting the virus has been validated, and although she has exceeded the incubation period for possible quarantine, we must insist that— Excuse me? Oh, she drank from the watercooler yesterday? Well, I don’t think you should be worried— Well, the incubation period for chikungunya can be two to twelve days. Have you been experiencing any sudden fever, chills, headache—yes? Ah. Ah-ha. Well, that sounds like it could be more the end result of an annoying coworker,” I chortle, then belch loudly. “Excuse me there. What about nausea, vomiting, lower-back pain? Okay, well, since there is no specific drug treatment for the disease, we are required by law to merely record certain incidents,” I say, sighing defeatedly.

  “What is your name? Yes, well, Mr. Kandor, I’ve completed the required outbreak notice and suggest that your, and the company’s employees’, contact with the contaminated individual be kept to a minimum. Yes, no contact at all would be best. Well, I don’t think there is any need to be so direct. Perhaps you can merely convey to the employee in question that the company has been issued certain cutback and downsizing mandates. With this economic climate, there would be no cause for alarm if you follow. Yes, I would agree. No, no, that won’t be necessary. The Centers for Disease
Control and Prevention are merely here to serve the community and greater good,” I say, very politely, belching again for good measure. “Excuse me there. All right, Mr. Kandor, I’ve completed the survey. And, sir, perhaps you may want to limit contact with that coworker in question—for your mental health, that is,” I say, chuckling, belching for the last time. “Excuse me there. You’re welcome, Mr. Kandor, and enjoy the rest of your day!”

  I hang up the Princess phone receiver triumphantly and let out a real belch. “Ooops, excuse me.”

  Aphro, Elgamela, Felinez, and Angora laugh uncontrollably. Even Rouge looks like she’s getting a few fur balls in her throat from my prank.

  “Mija, what did he say?” asks Felinez, impatiently.

  “It’s what he didn’t say. Let’s just say Operation: Kitty Litter was, um, infectious and Chintzy Colon can count down her glory days as a Grubby employee, because they have reached extermination,” I announce, victoriously.

  We cross paws all around. “Now it’s time to deal with the dubious double agent herself. By the time we get finished with her, she better go get a job working for Castro, okay,” Aphro says, itching for a battle. The plan I put into action: arranging for Chintzy to meet us at Angora’s at four o’clock for an “emergency impromptu Catwalk meeting.” Naturally, the Splenda-fied señorita agreed as usual, being the helpful assistant that she has been from day one.

  “Three-forty-five. Let’s untie the white frosted tree!” Angora says, gleefully.

  “I’m nervous,” I admit as we all pile into the living room to mount the glistening centerpiece of the Le Bons’ Christmas spectacle.

  “I’m not,” insists Aphro. “She had y’all tripping all this time—thinking it was me. No, we are about to set it off up in here today, that’s all I’m saying.”

  Elgamela stares up at the six-foot-tall Christmas tree. “Well, let’s try not to hurt this beautiful creation.”

  “We won’t,” I assure her, observing how perfect it is. “I hate those towering infernos of terror,” I explain, “not that I’ve ever seen one in our house. A shrub rejected by Santa himself is more like it.”

  We hold the tree while Aphro fastens the tree stand onto it. “You know, they have electronic stands now that can be computerized,” she informs us.

  “I don’t think the rusty rabbit ornaments care one way or the other,” states Angora, dusting off the tall stack of ornaments that have been in the Le Bon family for generations.

  “I brought you a special one,” Felinez says, excitedly, pulling out a package wrapped in red tissue paper. “I wanted to tell you all day.”

  “Oh, chérie, what is it?” Angora says, her blue eyes gleaming, because she loves presents, even more than we do. Oohing and aahing, Angora holds up the colorful stuffed dolls wearing salsa outfits.

  “Since you’re not going to be at the Cali Fair in Colombia for Christmas, I thought you’d like a salsa band hanging from your tree.”

  “You made these,” Angora says, in awe.

  “You know Fifi—if it’s not handmade, she wouldn’t put it in your hand,” I say, proudly, eyeing the delicate little costumes the three ornament figurines are wearing.

  The doorbell rings and Angora drops an ornament. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous,” Angora whispers as Je’Taime sails out of the kitchen to open the door. “I hate confrontations.”

  “I hate being disqualified even more!” I hiss to quiet her down. We all line up on the couch like we’re the Christmas decorating committee taking a gingerbread break.

  At last, the unsuspecting spy is in our midst. Chintzy looks curiously at Je’Taime when she sails into the apartment. Fifi, who is sitting next to me, says under her breath, “I guess one bruja recognizes another.” I elbow Fifi to put a lid on her witch hunt. We all have to maintain a certain poker-face position to get this rodeo on the road.

  Smiling sweetly, Chintzy toddles on her beloved Michael Kors high-heeled lace-up butterscotch leather boots to the couch, where we’re sitting. “Hola, Pashmina,” she says, quietly.

  “Hi, Chintzy,” I say, warmly. “This won’t take long, because I hate to cut into your nursing schedule. By the way, how is your father?”

  Chintzy looks puzzled; then her eyes light up. “Oh, he’s much better. I, um, he didn’t come there. I mean, he’s not at my house anymore.”

  “What a pity the two of you didn’t have more bonding time, with him having been in Malaysia and all. How long was he there?” I query.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Chintzy says, squirming. “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Well, I hope he has recovered fully from his virus. Was it a contagious one?”

  “I don’t know,” Chintzy says, blushing big-time. As if on cue, Chintzy’s eyes well up in tears, and she puts her hand to her face as if she’s about to lose it.

  “It must be very upsetting,” suggests Elgamela, winding up Chintzy for a three-hankie crying jag.

  “It is,” Chintzy says, sitting down in the armchair directly across from us, her big brown Kewpie doll eyes widening on cuckoo cue. “I love him so much even though he was never there for us when I was little. It was so hard for my mother working and raising us by herself—four children with no help from him. That’s why I’m always trying to help everyone.”

  “Yes, you’re very helpful,” I say, buttering up Chintzy’s traitor toast. “That’s why we wanted to see you—so you could help us with a mystery we can’t seem to solve.”

  “What is it?” Chintzy asks eagerly, wiping away her crocodile tears.

  Je’Taime walks into the living room with a serving tray and asks Chintzy, “Tea, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, please. If it’s okay?”

  “Of course,” I second. “You like two packets of Splenda, right?”

  “How did you know that?” Chintzy asks, looking impressed.

  “Oh, I remember freshman year in the Fashion Café they didn’t have it and you pulled out a packet from your purse,” I recall. What I refrain from telling her is that that was when I first came up with her Splenda-fied smile moniker.

  “I’m going down to the laundry room,” announces Je’Taime.

  Chintzy smiles at her and says thank you, then gingerly balances the teacup and places the saucer on the coffee table like she is glad we invited her.

  “Um, like I was saying, we can’t seem to figure out how Shalimar and Zirconia are so fully informed about our entire Design Challenge plans and even the theme for our fashion show,” I start, trying Angora’s sweet approach first. “Do you have any idea?”

  “No, I don’t,” Chintzy says, sounding newly concerned. “How do you know they know?”

  “We had an incident in the hallway—that was completely taped by the Teen Style Network, as a matter of fact. It was interesting how Shalimar and Zirconia knew exactly what time to tell the network to be there. She even invited Ice Très and Willi Ninja, Jr., to join in the frenzy—at three-fifteen, the exact same time you knew we would be handing in our Design Challenge to the Catwalk office. Do you think that is a coincidence?” I ask, curiously.

  “It has to be, Pashmina. I don’t think anyone knew I was going to meet you there at that time. Unless someone has been eavesdropping on me. Omigod, I didn’t even think of that! I forget how jealous people are of us—I mean, you,” she coos.

  Now I can tell she’s fluffing my whiskers. “But all the stuff about our ideas for the Design Challenge and our fashion show lineup—you didn’t discuss that with anyone?” I ask.

  “No, why would you ask me that? I would never tell anyone about our plans. I know how important it is to keep everything discussed confidential,” Chintzy says, convincingly. “All I care about is that we win this competition. I didn’t want to say anything before but I think someone has been leaking information—and obviously Shalimar found out!”

  “Do you have any idea who that person could be?” Angora asks, sweetly.

  Chintzy looks over in Aphro’s direction and answers, “I wish I kne
w, because I would tell you. If you want, I can try to find out.”

  “I know you didn’t just look at me like that, did you?” blurts out Aphro, challenging Chintzy.

  “No!” says Chintzy, sounding frightened. “I didn’t mean to look at you like that.”

  “So you don’t talk to Shalimar at all?” I ask, trying to regain our upper hand.

  “No, she never talks to me,” Chintzy insists. “Why would she?”

  “And you don’t know anything about who sent me that computer virus that almost destroyed my life,” I say, getting edgy.

  “A virus. Omigod—I’m so scared of getting one of those I never download attachments from anybody!” swears Chintzy, emphatically. “Listen, I don’t know why you’re attacking me like this, but somebody has obviously been telling you lies!”

  “Lies? Chenille heard you in the activator room with Shalimar, talking about how you could get your friend Victor to send a computer virus! Mentirosa!” shouts Felinez like she can’t wait to knock Chintzy harder than her birthday piñata.

  Chintzy’s lip trembles as she fights back tears. “You’re the liar, not me!” she snarls at Felinez. “And I’m not going to listen to your lies anymore, Felinez!” She dramatically turns to march out. Felinez lunges at her, yanking her ponytail from behind to drag her away from the door. Chintzy screams. “Get off me, loquita, you’re crazy!” Felinez won’t budge. She yanks Chintzy’s ponytail so ferociously that it comes off in her hand, causing Felinez to fall backward hard onto the carpet.

  “You all right?” cries Elgamela, rushing to Felinez’s side.

  Aphro rushes to the site of the fakeness: “Omigod, your hair is fake—just like you!” she shouts, then jumps on Chintzy and pins her to the floor. “We know you’re a double agent. Your cover is blown like this ponytail, so you’d better start talking!”

  “You’re crazy! Get off me, or I’m calling the police!” screams Chintzy.

  “You may want to call Mr. Kandor in the human resources department at Grubster PR first. You do work there—and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who got you the hookup!” I shout, finally playing the trump card.