Purr-worthy: Passing the standard of feline fatale fabbie-ness.
Quibbles ’n bits: Fighting words flung in heated exchanges, also necessary ingredients for any fair “catfight.”
Sashay, parlay!: Catwalk code for “Work it, supermodel! Do your thing. Strut to success. Shimmy Choo suits you. Work it for purr points on the Dow Jones!”
Scandalabra: A scandal so elaborate it has more branches than a candelabra. “They found a beef tongue studded with straight pins in Central Park today. What a scandalabra!”
Shade boots: A hot mess with shadiness and attitude thrown in. As in “Did you see Shalimar gaspitating over Ice Très in the cafeteria? Shade boots, okay?”
Shimmy Choo to you: Catwalk code for “work the Jimmy Choos”—the favored footwear among fashionistas.
Shopportunity: A combination of favorable circumstances for the purpose of shopping till you drop.
S’il vous plaît: French for “please.” Pronounced “see voo play.” As in “Can we please talk about something else besides Dr. Zeus, aka Mr. Tasti D-Lite, s’il vous plaît!”
Swarovski crystal clear: In 1892, Czech gem-cutter Daniel Swarovski invented a machine that revolutionized the process of crystal-cutting. Three years later, he founded the company Swarovski. Paying homage to the first king of costume jewelry bling, SCC means displaying the highest level of clarity. Therefore, Swarovski crystal clear means “undisputable.” Certainty beyond a shadow of a doubt. As in “The rules of the Catwalk competition are Swarovski crystal clear: get caught in any scandalabrious situation that compromises F.I.’s rep, and you’re out!”
T and crumpets: Gossip. A riff off the word tea. AKA serving T and crumpets. As in “She told you what? Churl, you’re wearing me out with the T and crumpets!”
Take it to the brim: Catwalk code for “bring it on,” “give it your best shot.”
Tasti D-Lite: A fashionista fave: more than one hundred yummy flavors of frozen dairy dessert that is lower in calories, fat, carbohydrates, and sugar than regular ice cream products are. In Catwalk code: a guy with all the flavor and without the extra calories or attitude. As in “Zeus is totally a Tasti D-Lite in my libro!”
Thank gooseness: Catwalk code for, “thank goodness.”
Think outside the sandbox: To break the mold. To be creative and not always rely on the tried and true. To challenge yourself to be daring.
Tiddy: Tidbit. Tasty, juicy morsel of gossip. As in “Call me later so I can drop a real tiddy on you about Shalimar and Ice Très!”
Très tawdry: Sister to scandalabrious.
Tutti capito?: Italian for “Does everyone understand?”
Überfabbie: Uber is a German word for “extra,” “ultra.”
Wigglies: Nervous tension. As in “I got a bad case of the wigglies in my stomach right now, cuz I haven’t started my sketches!”
Work it for points on the Dow Jones: Bring your A game. Do the best you can. Work the runway like a supermodel. Stay in the fashion game—and get paid.
DEBORAH GREGORY
dedication
For my brother Edgar Torres, the real E.T.—and to the real Alyjah Jade, a bona fide gem destined for sparkle town
acknowledgments
I humbly acknowledge those both past and present who’ve labored in this “seamy” world of fashion:
The runway models back in the day who had a colorful impact on the industry: Jerry Hall, Alva Chinn, Billie Blair, Pat Cleveland—and Coco Mitchell and Lisa Garber (my two friends with whom I sashayed in Paris, Milan, Firenze, and New York!).
The designers bursting at the seams with something sashay-worthy: the late Patrick Kelly, who served it with buttons-and-bows bustiers. Stephen Burrows and his slinky Lycra numbers with lettuce-scalloped edges in bold fuchsia, mustard, emerald, and turquoise palettes. Isaiah loved black—poured his silhouettes in it. And Todd Oldham just loved the art of it all—may he find a new generation enamored with his unique design genius. And through it all, the flower-power disciple Betsey Johnson continues to thrive, while neon graffiti guru Stephen Sprouse’s light burned bright for a time turned backward, then forward, until one day it will stand erect with all the style-worthy whose place can never be erased from fashion’s eternal resting place—in the here and now.
Catwalk
Credo
As an officially fierce team member of the House of Pashmina, I fully accept the challenge of competing in the Catwalk competition as well as granting unlimited access to photographers and television crews at any time during the yearlong process. I will also be expected to represent my crew to the max, to obey directions from my team leader, and to honor, respect and uphold the Catwalk Credo.
*Strap yourself in and fasten your Gucci seat belt. By entering this world-famous fashion competition, I acknowledge that I’m in for the roller-coaster ride of my young, style-driven life. Therefore, whenever I feel like screaming my head off or jumping out of my chic caboose, I will resist the urge; instead, I will tighten the belt a notch on my fears like a true fashionista.
*Illustrate your visions, but don’t be sketchy with crew members. My commitment to my House must always come first. Nothing must stand in the way of my Catwalk obligations—nada, nyet, niente, Nietzsche! And when someone or something presents itself as an obstacle, I promise to call upon my crew to summon the strength necessary to cut off the interference like a loose, dangling thread.
*Rulers are for those who rule with purrcision. The true measure of my success will not be how I scale the terrain to fame, but my ability to align my tasks and tantrums with those of my crew. I must always remember that grandiosity could land me in the half-price sale bin like Goliath—who was toppled by a tiny but well-targeted rock!
*Be prepared to endure more pricks than a pincushion. Now that I’ve made the commitment to strive toward a goal shared by many other aspiring fashionistas, I must be prepared for catiac attacks. Therefore, I will honestly share my fears and concerns with my crew so that I can be pricked back to the reality that I am not alone in this not-so-chic and competitive world and will not achieve fabulosity solely on my own merits.
*Become a master tailor of your schedule. I must face the fact that my time has now become a more valuable commodity than Gianni Versace’s gunmetal mesh fabric from the seventies. Despite the complexity of my tasks, I must always find the time to show up for my crew and attend my weekly Catwalk meetings throughout the year. Together we can make our dreams come true, one blind stitch at a time.
*Floss your teeth, not your ego. Now that I’m part of a crew, carrying on about my accomplishments like I’m the Lone Ranger of Liberty prints is not cute; neither is grungy grooming, or having food between my teeth. I will carry tools of my trade with me at all times, including a container of dental floss and hairbrush so that I can be prepared for prime-time purring and on-camera cues that may come at me off the cuff.
*Ruffles don’t always have ridges. While everyone is entitled to an opinion, I will not allow myself to become hemmed in by well-meaning wannabes outside my crew. My individual style is only worthy when it becomes incorporated into the collective vision of my Catwalk crew. I will also resist the temptation to bite anyone else’s flavor to the degree that it constitutes copying, or I will be asked to pack my tape measure and head back to the style sandbox on my own.
*Pay homage and nibble on fromage. As a true fashionista, I must study the creative contributions of those who came before me so that I can become the maker of my own mélange. I will also publicly give the fashionistas who came before me the props they’re due whenever name-dropping is appropriate. Despite my quest for individual development, I must acknowledge that I will always channel influences from the past, present, and future.
*Click out your cat claws to defend your cattitudinal stance. When others turn bitter, bring on the glitter. Competition always brings out the worst in foes—and even friends—because everyone will try to gobble the biggest slice of the fashion pie and no one readily set
tles for crumbs without putting up a fight.
*Always be ready to strike a pose. Even though I may not be a model in the House of Pashmina, I cannot expect to strut the catwalk without getting a leg up on the competition first and saving my best riff for last. When it’s showtime, I will be prepared to do my assigned task to help bring the House of Pashmina to the finish line.
*Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it. I will never let the competition see me sweat. While going through this creative process, I may feel doubts about my direction. Therefore, I will bounce ideas off other crew members, but never reveal sensitive information to anyone else! Not all fashion spies have been sent to Siberia—they hide among us, always ready to undo a dart or a hemline.
*Keep your eyes on the international prize. As a fierce fashionista, I intend to get my global groove on by sampling style and culture around the world. To show my appreciation for the global access that style grants me, I pledge to practice a foreign language for five minutes a day and double up on Saturdays, because we’re going to win the Catwalk competition and stage our fashion at a destination—to be determined—far, far away! Ciao, aurevoir, sayonara!
1
Tonight’s the night. Fashion International High School’s thirty-fifth annual Catwalk competition! Lincoln Center is buzzing like a fashion apiary—and the House of Pashmina fashion show is jumping off inside the hallowed fashion tent.
“Pinch me, purr favor!” I squeal giddily to my BFF since first grade, Felinez “Fifi” Cartera, who is Krazy-Glued to my side. I sneak a peek behind the curtain, watching my other BFFs, Angora Le Bon and Aphro Biggie Bright, rip the runway in front of a standing-room-only audience. The flashbulbs are popping—and the Teen Style Network reality-show crew throngs both sides of the catwalk. The Catwalk judges are seated front and center, including the ringleader, larger-than-life Catwalk director Ms. Fabianna Lynx, and her pudgy bichon frise, Puccini, clad in matching leopard outfits.
Like a heat-seeking missile, I scan the crowd until I set my sights on my major Catwalk rival—Shalimar Jackson. “Tonight’s the night, all right. I’m going to tell her that I know she’s the reason we couldn’t get Tracy Reese shoes for our fashion show!”
While I’m riffing about shoes, a mysterious pair of hands sporting a giganto CZ ring on one finger slide under the curtain and grab the lone pair of pink kitten heels.
“One last beat, Miss Purr!” coos Bobby Beat, our makeup artist.
Angora and Aphro return from the runway and join the huddle while Fallon, our plus-size model, who’s been waiting behind the scrim, sashays onto the runway.
“Our fashion show is the most fabuloso! Even if we don’t win—we did it!” Felinez gushes, tightening the notch on my wide belt.
“I couldn’t be a house leader without you, my catty crew. No matter what, we’re in this together—Absolut forever!” I say, fighting back kitten tears.
The music pipes up over the PA. It’s my mom’s favorite disco song, “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, but with altered lyrics.
“What, what?” I stammer. “Zeus changed the song? Where is he?” Flustered, I search the wings for Zeus, our house’s deejay and male model and my fantasy Tasti D-Lite, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Ice Très, the notorious tagger from Highway 20, who has been trying to “tag” me with his affections all year, floats toward me from the folds of the curtain like an apparition.
“Why you always checking for Zeus? I’m the one who’s always been down for you, boo kitty.”
“What are you doing here, Ice Très?” I hiss impatiently. I can’t believe the so-called graffiti guru who almost got me kicked out of school when he tagged a stairwell with his cuckoo Cupid notions has wheedled his way backstage!
“Pash, focus—your cue is in five seconds!” frets Angora.
Felinez grabs one pair of pink kitten heels and puts them on my feet “Go!”
“Hold up!” I protest, puzzled by the song switcheroo. I have to find Zeus.
Fifi pushes me onto the stage. “Go!”
I steady myself, step out from behind the scrim, and take a few steps onto the runway, but one of my heels collapses and I stumble. Humiliated, I fall—in slow motion. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zeus standing against the back wall next to Shalimar and her underling, Zirconia, who are laughing hysterically. In horror, I realize that the judges are no longer perched in the front row; in their places are cats, holding the House of Pashmina programs in their paws—and hissing at me. As I land headfirst on the runway, one of the cats pounces on my back with a resounding thud.
I wake up startled as my cat, Fabbie Tabbie, pounces on my chest—and meows louder than a truck backfiring on Broadway. “Oy, Fabbie!” I groan, pushing my beloved auburn-haired cat off me. “You almost gave me catiac arrest!” I slide my pink cat eye mask up and rub my aching noggin, or rather, my headful of pink sponge rollers, trying to decide if the ache is real or a figment of my imagination, like the dream.
“That wasn’t real, was it?” I utter, confused.
The alarm on my cat clock goes berserk—eyes bugging, tail wagging—sending me springing into action against my will.
“I wish I was a cat right about now—so I could hide beneath my faux fur like you,” I say, teasing Fabbie Tabbie, whom I love like a feline sister.
Fabbie Tabbie tilts her bushy auburn head and meows.
“Awright, your fur isn’t faux, I’m so sari!” I mumble, sliding off the bed and slithering into my terry-cloth bathrobe—with the raggedy cat’s head appliqué on the back that’s about to explode into ninety nubby pieces—and matching fuzzy slippers. Shuffling out of my bedroom and down the narrow hallway plastered with vintage Josephine Baker and Billie Holiday posters, I start singing the altered lyrics of the Gloria Gaynor song from my dream.
“First I was afraid
I was petriFRIED
Kept thinking I could never live
Without Fabbie Tabbie by my side …
But as long as I know how to pose
I know I’ll stay alive
I will survive! I will survive!”
As I enter the kitchen, screeching to the finish line of Gloria’s anthem for sisterhood, Chenille stares at me, obviously spooked, but for different reasons than I am. “It’s a little early in the morning to be scaring people with your singing, isn’t it?” queries my sarcastic younger sister. The faux music critic is plopped at the small elmwood dining table in the adjacent kitchen alcove, shoveling in a jumbo breakfast that’s fit for a construction worker—just like her drab outfit: long-sleeved beige waffle-weave cotton T-shirt under baggy denim overalls.
“Good morning, Vampira Sisterella,” I mutter to my sister, who is a freshman at F.I.’s Hair Annex. While reaching for my Hello Kitty coffee cup, I gaze up at our old lunch boxes tucked in the corner of the cabinet. I pull one off the shelf and strike a pose like a model on The Price Is Right. “Can I pack you a fashionista lunch today for school—two carrots and a testy tea bag? Oops, sorry, I meant Tetley.”
“Princess Potty Mouth? That was your lunch box,” Chenille says with a smirk, shaking her head. Chenille doesn’t hide the fact that she finds me mildly annoying, and truth is, I feel the same about her, doubly.
“Oh, right,” I say, smiling fondly at the former carrier of my PB&Js and dreams, placing it back on the top shelf where it belongs. Then I pour hot water for my apple cinammon tea.
My mother is also seated in the alcove, talking on the phone in her animated Miss Viv professional manner, which means she’s probably talking to her boss, Roni Strauss. I wait patiently for Mom to get off the phone because I desperately need her intel about handling this Shalimar situation, which obviously has me so stressed I’m dreaming in Technicolor terror.
“You might as well open a catering hall and close the boutique—as many bar mitzvahs you’ve got lined up!” my mom cackles, kibitzing with Roni like a fashion storm trooper. My mom is dressed sharp, as she would say, in a bold emerald-green woo
l blazer, black turtleneck sweater, and black trousers. “I’ll open. I’m on time. Go on. Just bring me back some gefilte fish. You know what I mean. The good stuff on that buffet table! Mazel tov!”
My mom hangs up the phone and I can sense she’s picking up the pace as a result of the convo with her boss. She hurriedly takes a swig from her Belgian blend mocha coffee, which she usually sips with relish. “Roni’s gotta go to Long Island to yet another bar mitzvah, so I gotta open today,” she informs us with the slight Southern lilt that hints at her Georgia roots.
Suddenly, a loud roar emanates from within the wall.
“That sounds like Tony the Tiger. Or me practicing Spanish,” laments Chenille.
Now I catch her sneaky drift—she’s angling for sympathy from our mom about her heavy class load. For some delusional reason, Chenille thought she was going to spend her freshman year waffling hairstyles the same texture as her T-shirt instead of putting in hard time for the fashion crime—studying math, science, and other legit classes.
“That’s probably the boiler in the basement. Mr. Darius has got to replace that relic with one from this century,” my mom complains. “At least Ramon says he’ll fix the bathroom ceiling later.”
“Yippee!” I squeal. Ramon is Mom’s “man friend,” as she refers to him, and a professional handyman.
“And what’s with that face?” my mom asks my sister sternly. “It’s a big deal you got accepted into Fashion International. But you gotta take regular classes like everybody else, because it’s still a regular high school.” Now my mom looks at me to back her up.
“It’s la-bor-iously regular. Felinez can help you with your Spanish homework,” I suggest, offering the services of my übertalented BFF, whom Chenille has known since her kindergarten days.
“So, how are you going to handle the situation with that girl?” my mom asks me, obviously ready to help.
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