Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Diamond picks up her precious sketch pad and stares at it without answering.

  I gain eye contact with Zeus and say thank you with my eyes. He winks in acknowledgment.

  “Well, can we see the evening gown sketches, at least?” asks Nole.

  Diamond hands him the pad without saying a word.

  I look over Nole’s shoulder and can’t believe my eyes. “These are Grecian?” I ask, surprised, staring at the sketches for a draped one-shoulder gown and a strapless one.

  “That’s what you said you wanted,” Diamond says, bursting at the seams.

  “No it isn’t,” I say, remaining calm. “This is clearly goddess inspiration—not feline fatale.”

  “Okay, no worries—we’ll start over,” offers Nole.

  “We’re supposed to have ruffles and flirty cascading hemlines for the gowns—for the pink Lurex,” I reiterate. Now I’m freaked out by Diamond’s obvious meltdown, which has been coming for months.

  “The draping works with the Lurex, too,” protests Diamond.

  “Yes, I know, but it’s not feline fatale—that’s all I’m saying,” I reiterate. But I can see Swarovski crystal clear that Diamond doesn’t agree.

  “Okay, okay. Diamond, redo the sketches. By Friday. Now, let’s talk about the kids’ outfits,” Nole says forcefully.

  “We should open full throttle with our color theme—pink and black—the boys wearing graffiti tees with our slogans and the girls wearing tiered sundresses so they can twirl to the maximus,” I say.

  “Furbulous,” says Nole. “Let’s start on that this weekend—and we’re good to go?”

  “Oh. I got it—how about matching umbrellas edged in ruffles, with slogans on them, and the girls open them while they’re twirling?” I say, excited.

  “Genius!” coos Angora.

  Everyone nods in agreement. Meeting over.

  “I can’t believe we got through a Catwalk meeting without you-know-who barging in,” Nole quips, relieved. I know he’s referring to the Teen Style Network crew.

  “Hard to believe,” I second, trying to take the rough edges off the Diamond disaster. “Ah, my masterful draper—what a ride. You know I couldn’t do this without you.” I smile at Nole. He waddles over to give me a hug.

  Diamond shoots a furtive glance at our exchange. She was supposed to be my masterful illustrator—but I can clearly see I’m going to have to draw the line with this drama queen.

  “Runway training begins next week, which means the time has come for the Pet Pose Off. Who’s it gonna be, Penelope or Fabbie Tabbie? Time to put their paws to the test,” I remind Nole. Penelope is Nole’s prized cat.

  “Now you’re talking. Let’s set it up so Penelope can wipe the floor with your dishrag—oops, I mean tabby cat,” he snaps.

  “I already signed up for a session to use the catwalk ramp tomorrow in the auditorium,” I say. The catwalk ramp is put up in the Fashion Auditorium for Special Events.

  “What is the Special Event?” Ruthie Dragon asks.

  “Who knows. We’ll find out tomorrow,” I respond. “Good thing is, they’re putting the ramp up.” Whenever the catwalk ramp is assembled in the auditorium, students can schedule sessions for their own use before it’s taken down and put in the storage area backstage.

  “Sounds good,” Nole says confidently. “Diamond, this is right up your alley. Why don’t you come to the Tabbie-Penelope Pose Off—or I should say, battle—and be a judge? That way, you can bring the evening gown sketches, too.” Nole isn’t so much asking Diamond as ordering her.

  For a segundo, Diamond registers approval and nods, but then she darts out the door like a mad matador. “I’ll deal with her drama later,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  Now it’s time to end the meeting, so we stand in a circle, holding hands, while I read part of the Catwalk Credo. My crew say their good-byes and start streaming out the door.

  “What is up with Diamond’s claws-and-paws attitude?” Aphro asks me.

  “I have no idea,” I sigh wearily.

  Aphro deciphers my message ASAP and snarls impatiently, “Awright, you coming?”

  “In a minute,” I say, gathering my papers. No point in cutting off any Zeus interaction sooner than I have to. I always find myself lingering in his presence.

  Nole lingers, too. “Don’t worry, we’re gonna fix the sketches,” he assures me.

  “I know,” I sigh, frustrated that I can’t do the sketches myself, but illustration is not one of my strengths. Neither is draping, even though I’m an expert seamstress and got my first sewing machine on my eleventh birthday. My gift is a clear vision. Felinez thinks I should improvise and major in design anyway, but I’m old-school—like the haute couture masters.

  Now Dame Leeds tries to step in, but I’m definitely not in the mood for his March madness, so I inch over in Zeus’s direction. Blathering, I ask, “So, you’re going to start the fashion show mix?”

  “I’ve already started it,” he says. “I’ll just do a Gaynor mix—and I was gonna have our first round ready for the runway training.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” I say, like I’m recalling music strategy discussed at our last meeting. Not.

  My phone vibrates from a text message, so I pull it out to check if it’s an emergency from my mom. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense that Dame Leeds is getting my message—and stepping off. Even if Chris Midgett isn’t. The text is from him: “Sorry you didn’t talk to me this morning. Can you call me? Don’t want to bother you. Now it’s your move.”

  “Not,” I mumble, turning off my phone.

  Zeus’s next move, however, is the one I don’t see coming. “Listen, you wanna go get something? I wanted to swing by the Barbiecue Hut before I head home.”

  “Really?” I ask. “I’m up for some Twizzlers.”

  Zeus chuckles. Aphro not so much. Once we’re outside the Studio, I can tell from her face that she’d like to shove mine into a piping hot pizza pie. I know I told her I would go over to her house, but we’ve got plenty of time to formulate our runway moves before the next Catwalk meeting. I figure she can go hang with Lupo instead and get the attention she craves, since that’s what she is really looking for right now—and Lupo lays it on thick like mozzarella made in his native Firenze.

  “Come on, cara. I’ll take you to your favorite place,” Lupo coos to Aphro, sensing her distress.

  She begrudgingly accepts Lupo’s invitation to hang out at the Naughty Luna Café, which is near her house.

  “That’s so sweet, you’re gonna trek all the way to Brooklyn,” I encourage Lupo.

  “Do or die, Bed-Stuy!” he giggles, turning on his supergoofy charm.

  I’m secretly relieved that Lupo didn’t ask to come with Zeus and me. Or maybe those two planned it that way from Jump Street.

  “Bonsoir, chérie,” salutes Angora, kissing me goodnight. Felinez and Angora both seem confused by the change in plans, but they’re happy for me.

  “Be good!” Felinez whispers as she hugs me.

  “I will,” I whisper back.

  But what I really want to do is scream from the fashion rooftop: Someone pinch me, purr favor!

  6

  “There is only one thing that would make me miss my mother’s cooking—the Barbiecue Hut’s Mango Tango Ribs,” says Zeus, his elbows propped on the restaurant’s picnic-style wooden-plank table as he scans the huge laminated menu with the pink heads of adorable Ultra-Lashed piglets winking in each corner.

  I shift my weight on the hard wooden bench, trying to decide if I want to get greasy in his presence.

  Zeus senses my hesitation. “My bad. You’re probably a vegetarian?”

  “Are you kidding?” I reply heartily. “Aphro is always putting me on blast for sucking bone marrow out of turkey bones. Why’d ya think I was a veganista?”

  Zeus hesitates before he spurts, “None of the models at school are into getting down and dirty.”

  I find myself blushing against my will at his imm
odest description of F.I.’s diet-obsessed fashionistas.

  Zeus cleans up his act. “You know what I mean?”

  “I do. Every day after lunch, Anna Rex rotates between the five stalls in the Fashion Lounge, coughing up carrots,” I giggle. “I just—I dig that you’re such a fly communicator—and not just on Fridays.”

  “You’re messing with me,” Zeus says, flashing his big, perfect teeth, his incisors resembling adorable fangs. Zeus places the palm of his hand on his massive chest like he’s trying to put his laugh box on pause.

  “And thank you for feeding me,” I giggle.

  Zeus taps his chest again over the words DON’T FEED THE MODELS before he gets my jab and chuckles. “Oh, right, the T-shirt. My mom got this for me at SeaWorld.”

  “Ha, ha.” By the time the tall, wiry waiter with the electroshock-therapy bleached-blond hair comes over with our drinks, Zeus and I are both caught up in a gigglefest and I have to repress the urge to confess Please forgive moi, but Zeus brings out my kooky side! Instead, I clear my throat and dictate my order: “Mango Tango Ribs, please.” No use worrying about squirting sticky sauce on my face at this late juncture. I’ve already embarrassed myself mucho today.

  “Ma’am, you get two sides,” says the waiter.

  “Oh, right. Collard greens and mac and cheese, purr—um—I mean, please,” I say, giggling.

  “Two times on that,” Zeus tells the waiter, like he’s working on his mixes.

  The waiter stares blankly at Zeus.

  “I’d like the same sides as the señor—the kitten—I mean the lady—” Zeus explains, but now he can’t even finish his sentence before he breaks out laughing again.

  The waiter nods and scribbles on his pad before he leaves in such a hurry that he walks into the restaurant’s mascot—Miss Barbiecue, the pink pig wearing a red and white gingham apron, perched prominently in the entrance to the dining room.

  We snicker at his collision, checking out the ambience. “This place is cool, isn’t it?” Zeus asks me.

  “Yeah, downright freezing,” I say, shuddering at the early onset of air-conditioning. “And it’s not even spring yet—officially.”

  We go for another round of giggles, prompting me to needle Zeus. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you put some sassy-fras in my pink lemonade.”

  “Ma’am, I could say the same thing to you. Think I didn’t notice the foam in my root beer fizzling mighty quickly?” counters Zeus. “By the way, I’m emailing you the Hold the Date notice I designed for our show. I think you’ll dig it.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I say, pleased as punch that Zeus is doing triple-threat duty in my house. Not only is he the deejay and a model, he is also designing all our graphics. I decide to play a game with him. “Awright, tell me something about you that nobody knows.”

  Zeus ponders this tiddy before he responds: “My sister, Olivia, and I have this shark club.”

  “What?” I respond, balking.

  “Serious. We went to the Long Island Aquarium when we were little and we got hooked,” he explains. “Now she bakes cookies in the shape of a shark. Cuts out sponges. I got a rubber shark collection. I even made her a shark dress for her school play last year.”

  “That’s a good one. I didn’t take you for the shark type.” I smile. “Or realize that you’re a designer.”

  “Isn’t everybody these days a wannabe something?” he comments. “Awright, what about you?”

  I blink hard, deciding if I should throw him just a tiddy or some live bait. Against my better judgment, I do the latter. “Um, I don’t know who my father is,” I confess. There, I said it. I pat my fishnet skullcap. Twirl the curls on the end. “My mother won’t tell me who he is. And sometimes I wonder what he looks like and if he knows that I exist. Or if I’m just a creature-feature from another planet.” I decide not to tell him that I also think my father is white. I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one day.

  Suddenly, Zeus reaches across the table and rubs my cheek with his knuckle. “You’re so sparkly and cute, it has to come from inside—not anywhere else.”

  The room stands still. Gets quiet, too—despite all the chatter and clatter around us. I’ve waited so long for Zeus to give me a sign—a smoke signal, a communiqué with invisible ink, or a message in a bottle—that he likes me. But, maybe I’m hallucinating? Does he really like me—like that? The thump-along in my chest says he does. Or maybe that’s heartburn, from chugging too fast? My mom says I imbibe my beverages like lightning is coming my way. Before I hit the panic button, I blurt out: “Okay, two questions, to go with the two sides. Um—”

  “No, keep the babble flow going,” Zeus says, coaxing me to continue.

  I giggle again because I love how Zeus flips the switch to Catwalk code, which he’s been privy to by hanging with our crew for the last six months. “What I’m suggesting is the following. Ahem, ahem,” I continue, fumbling for phrasing. “How about we each get to ask one question and the other person has to answer it. No back-downs. No excuses.”

  “Cool. I can do that,” Zeus agrees, smiling slyly, the corners of his mouth curling up like they do right before he breaks into his soon-to-be-a-supermodel smile. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I can’t stop smiling with you. Okay, hit me with the question. Felines first—go!”

  My breathing quickens. I back down from what I really want to ask him, which is Do you have a girlfriend? Instead, I switch to a more neutral probe. “What kind of felines does the Mad Hatter fancy?”

  “Oh, that’s a good one,” Zeus laughs. “I thought you were going to ask me if I’m gay. I’m so sick of people calling me out like that at school.”

  I blush again. Unbeknownst to him—or maybe he does know—I was one of those people. The first time I laid eyes on Zeus last fall, he was coming out of voguing class in his signature mink zebra hat. I asked anyone who would listen if they knew if Zeus was on the loose, but nobody at school had reliable intel on the latest zebra sighting. He was freshly transferred from greener pastures in Long Island, specifically, Benjie Bratt High School.

  Deflecting attention from my embarrassment, I shoot, “Well, you know what they say—straight male models in this business are as rare as Komodo dragons in Indonesia!”

  “Very funny,” Zeus says, shaking his head, then he rattles off all the male models who are as straight as peg-legged pants.

  I concede to his impressive rundown by smiling demurely and tilting my head.

  “Okay, well, to answer your question—I like ferocious felines like you,” Zeus says, blushing.

  I blush, too. Bingo!

  “Okay, my turn to ask a question?” Zeus informs me teasingly.

  “Bring it.”

  “Who texted you before when we were in the Catwalk meeting—and caused you to make that killer kitty face?” Zeus asks.

  “Oh, right,” I sigh, stalling for a segundo to formulate my response. “When I got the computer virus—which I know Shalimar and Chintzy orchestrated—anyway, I was desperate for help, right?”

  “Oh, I remember that,” Zeus says, nodding.

  “So, this Dalmation Tech guy, Chris ‘Panda’ Midgett—you may have seen him hanging outside on the steps with the D.T. dogs?” I inquire.

  “I’ve seen the dogs, yes, can’t miss ’em—but can’t say I was checking for that, um, specific species you just mentioned,” chuckles Zeus.

  Trying not to laugh, I continue, “Well, Panda—that’s his nickname—came to my cyber rescue and I was so grateful about it—I think that’s why—I did go out on one date with him—to Googies Diner.”

  Zeus picks up his napkin again and breaks out laughing.

  “You laugh—but the foot-long hot dogs there will make you wanna slap your mother!” I heckle.

  “Oh, I doubt that—I love my mother,” counters Zeus, “but go ahead.”

  The waiter interrupts, balancing piping hot plates of ribs in both hands. “Excuse me.”

  “Hit us with it, partner,
” Zeus goofs, looking directly up at the waiter’s face.

  Finally Zeus’s charm has warmed even the waiter; he breaks out a tiny smile, setting the plates down in front of Zeus and me.

  Zeus looks at the plate of ribs, then right back at me, signaling me to continue. I find it so diggable how he always looks at me when I’m talking—and when I’m not.

  “So Chris wants to go out with me and keeps texting me, but I don’t want to go out with him. And I feel guilty because I can’t get with his program on any other format besides his cyber skills, if you follow me,” I spill in candid fashion. “So, long story short—that’s why I turned off my phone in the Catwalk meeting.”

  “Okay, I follow. So you’re saying he’s a little corny for your taste, like most of the D.T. dogs?” Zeus asks, like he’s enjoying making me squirm.

  “Yup—and a little too short,” I add for good measure.

  “I get it. Short like Lupo.”

  I almost bite my tongue from embarrassment instead of the pork rib. “I’m sorry—I really like Lupo. He’s an amazing photographer, too.”

  “He’s really flipping for Aphro.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, did you know his father runs the largest shoe factory in Italy? All the Italian shoe manufacturers subcontract his factory’s services. And for every pair they sell, they give away a pair to the homeless in Third World countries,” explains Zeus proudly. “He’s a seriously righteous man. I mean, a CEO who treats his employees and consumers with respect.”

  “Really,” I say, amazed. While I’m wondering why Aphro never told me that tiddy, I’m spooked by the dream again—me falling flat on my face on the runway because my kitten heel gives out—kaboom!

  Zeus’s gaze zaps my frightmare like Kryptonite. “Come here,” he whispers. He leans over to kiss me.

  I obey. Mesmerized, I move in closer. I feel the watchful eyes of patrons at nearby tables, but I don’t care. “Um, you’re not going to bite me, are you?” I ask, smirking.

  Zeus doesn’t answer. He moves in like a shark on a mission. I relent like a willing victim, meeting Zeus’s dreamy lips for my first real kiss. With Mango Tango sauce. We keep kissing, sliding down the rabbit hole like we’re the only two people left in the restaurant, besides Miss Barbiecue herself, congealed into a lifeless ceramic statue, winking at us. I imagine Miss Barbie whisking us with a checkered napkin in her pudgy paws through a portal at the bottom of the rabbit hole that leads into a secret, silent passageway. And when Zeus’s tongue touches mine, we’re finally alone—the only two people left anywhere on the planet, period. Alone in paradise lost.