Zeus nods, his eyes twinkling. Turning to Fifi, he beams. “I can’t wait till we put on the graphics and your hand-painted illustrations. You’re such an artist.”
“Graci-ass,” Fifi says humbly.
“How come you don’t do sketches?” Zeus asks.
“I’m not into sketching designs,” Fifi admits. “I don’t know why, but I’m not.”
“Well, let’s get this rodeo on the road before the Teen Style Network crew comes. They’ll be here pronto soon.”
“Are you stressed about the designs now that Diamond dropped the ball?” Zeus asks candidly.
“Yes. Mostly about those darn shutter-pleated dresses and the pillbox hats, I guess. Fifi, we’re going to make them without sketches, okay?”
Fifi nods like Superwoman and we start sanding down the cart to smooth out the rough edges and remove the splinters. Now it’s my turn to vent: I fill in Fifi about the Diamond drama. “We can’t afford for Diamond to drop out. Ms. Lynx already warned me—any more shenanigans and I can take our fashion show on the road.”
“You caught Chintzy with her hand in the cookie jar—that’s one thing. What was she gonna do—go running to Ms. Lynx’s office to get you disqualified?” explains Zeus. “But Diamond? She starts in with that doe-eyed earnestness about animal rights and even I start questioning what we’re doing this for.”
“Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence,” I balk.
“Hey, come here,” says Zeus. I lean in and Zeus kisses me on the cheek. “You’re doing an amazing job.”
“But we’re still shoeless,” I say, kissing him back. “And there’s no tip-toeing around that.”
“But we’re not without a house,” Zeus chuckles.
I think about Mr. Sunkist and shudder. “Being homeless. That’s my mom’s biggest fear,” I reveal. “She left me and Chenille at Grandma Pritch’s house when we were little. I thought my mom was never going to come back. And when she did come back, two years later, she never told us what happened. Where she was. Not to this day. But I see her worrying all the time about paying the bills. She’s so stressed, I can feel it.”
After I finish my babble, I sigh deeply, relieved that I told Zeus. Fifi already knows this sordid story.
“Now what’s going to happen with Mami if she’s not in the band anymore with Papi?” Fifi asks, fretting.
“Your mom is talented—and in full bloom. With all her flower power, she could get a job singing to tulips,” I say confidently. “People would pay just to see her outfits!”
We continue sanding the wooden cart, smoothing the splintered surface—and my fears of being homeless.
“Now, that’s a nice job,” I say proudly.
We each take a brush and apply a coat of Passion Pink paint to the cart. “Heels on Wheels forever,” I giggle. “I wish I could paint everything pink.”
Zeus is more interested in washing his hands, and goes to the sink. “Well, we can start in on the basement tomorrow if you want,” he challenges me.
I wrap my paint-smeared hands right around his neck. “Oops,” I tease, pulling away.
He taps my nose with his index finger. “Got you back, Pinky.”
“What time is it?” I ask, checking my cell. As if they’re reading my mind, my phone rings and I answer. It’s Boom from the Teen Style Network crew, making sure they’re supposed to descend in the elevator.
“Yup, that’s right—just take it to the tomb level!”
Boom laughs, but once the crew arrives, I can tell Caterina is creeped out by the basement, as if the Candy Man is going to make a cameo with his hooked hand.
“So,” says the pint-sized producer, “what are you doing for your Wild Card Challenge?”
“Well, first I thought you might tell us what the other fabbie four have got up their sleeves?” I heckle.
Caterina smirks. “You’re the first one we’re filming.”
“Yippee!” I say, psyched. “So much for saving the best for last!” And this time I mean it.
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!
WE ALL PLAY THE NAME GAME
At Fashion International, we’re encouraged to adopt monikers for our fashion identities that reflect our respective vision. (Gucci and Pucci and Prada, oh my!) Some of us, however, have taken that mission so far down the yellow-brick road we must have passed out in the poppy fields along the way! What else could explain the soaring rise in identity theft? Today’s Special Event in the Fashion Auditorium bore witness to an extreme example of this name-snatching syndrome, which has become as tacky a trend as two-fisted gizmo users flexing their technology (hence the reason there’s such a long waiting list for Internet addiction counseling!).
Those among us who weren’t summoned to the Fashion Auditorium at high noon today shall remain nameless, but you shouldn’t remain clueless—so allow me to break down exactly what transpired. The special guest was Benny Ninja, aka Benjamin Thomas, the appointed father of the House of Ninja and a fierce posing instructor who has appeared on major television shows such as Keep It Fierce and Rip the Runway. Catwalk director Ms. Fabianna Lynx (aka the Ferocious One) thought it would be a special treat to give this year’s Catwalk contestants the chance to meet one of this year’s judges. And who better to show these competitive contestants how to strike a pose categorically—face poses, hand poses, purse poses, on-the-floor poses, and finale poses—than the revered Benny Ninja?
Little did anyone know that Benjamin Thomas had another agenda: to expose an imposter at our school. It was more PRICELESS than a MasterCard commercial witnessing wannabe Willi Ninja, Jr.’s face—SNAP, CRACKLE, POP, POP, POP!—when he was called out by a real Ninja!! That’s right, Willi Ninja, Jr., is NOT the adopted godson of the late voguing legend Willi Ninja! While dozing off in the poppy fields, the imposter Curtis Clyde must have gotten the confused idea that wanting something desperately enough is the same thing as being entitled to it. (With a clunker of a name like Curtis Clyde, however, can you blame him for perpetrating identity theft? Have some sympathy, fashionistas.)
When Benny Ninja popped Curtis Clyde over his head with a purse pose (“BOP, wake up!”), he snapped out of his trance and got a crash course in street marketing. Take a peek at C. C.’s crib sheets.
LESSON NUMBER ONE: Don’t be bogus and hide behind someone’s brand identity. Just because you’re a fan (or a copycat) doesn’t mean you can legally co-opt yourself into an entity that has already been created, manufactured, and marketed. (You’d think someone majoring in fashion marketing, like C. C. Wannabe, might have gotten a whiff of that during the first semester of his freshman year.)
LESSON NUMBER TWO: Do your homework before you adopt a moniker for your fashion identity. Every rapper knows, if you want to be a part of the Wu-Tang Clan, you have to give them a call first and ask! Or if you’ve come up with your own TAG, then do your legal research and make sure no one else has already claimed that name. Therefore, Curtis Clyde (aka Twirl Happy 1992 on-screen) should twirl—RIGHT NOW—to the copyright office and see if anyone has already trademarked his new moniker—C. C. Samurai—before he finds himself engaged in another stealthy sword fight.
LESSON NUMBER THREE: Build your own brand identity. Contrary to popular belief, the fashion game is NOT all about the faux. Yes, there is plenty of flavor biting going on, and counterfeiting is on the global rise to the tune of six billion dollars annually, but these tawdry tactics give all of us a bad name. Add this rule to your repertorie—and it’s guaranteed to open the doors to the Magic Kingdom: set your sights on becoming an original before you get crushed as a carbon copy.
Posted by Squash the Squabble at 14:66:19
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A week later at our runway training session, Aphro finally spills the refried beans about locking lips with Lupo. “Okay, so we kissed once,” Aphro confesses.
>
“I knew you were feeling the Firenze flavor!” I squeal. “How was it, bella bronzina?”
“His nose kept getting in the way.”
“Ooh, you’re bad. Très mal,” Angora protests.
“I said I like him, but I can’t be seen in public with him. Okay?” balks Aphro.
I look at her, surprised. “Lupo is goospitating over you. And what are you giving in return?”
“The truth, that’s what. Oh, I’m supposed to pretend I don’t notice Lupo’s shorter than me?” Aphro challenges, leveling her Bed-Stuy stare at moi. “You wouldn’t be fawning over Zeus if he wasn’t ‘a tall Tasti D-Lite.’ ” Aphro renders her best kitten imitation of moi.
I throw my Catwalk notebook down on the chair next to me. “You’re the one who told me to ‘stop acting like the Princess of Pink in my Chicken Little Castle and get with Zeus already.’ And that’s a direct quote!” I retort, twirling my finger Aphro style. “Now you’re insinuating that I’m sticking to him like a pesty puffer?”
“You’re always on the dribble-drabble about your agenda. After the competition is over, you should get a talk show on the Teen Style Network and tell the world!”
“The world is not enough,” I giggle.
Angora scavenges for her own reality scraps. “Fifi says you kissed him in the basement when the three of you were decorating the Heels on Wheels cart.”
“That was before the Teen Stylers got there!” I admit, blushing. “I relish—um—the hot dogs we ate. Awright, I could kiss him till the break of dawn.”
“You might get to do that, Sleeping Beauty, if we don’t find some shoes for our fashion show!” warns Aphro.
“Oh. It’s not enough that I brainstormed a Wild Card Challenge guaranteed to earn us purr points? And have been working around the clock on its feline fatale execution?”
“Don’t take all the credit. Zeus and Fifi helped hook it up. And Lupo is the real inspiration behind it!” counters Aphro. Now she stands up for her huomo.
“If I hadn’t gone out with Zeus to the pig trough, I wouldn’t known Mr. Saltimbocca had a shoe factory that donated shoes for every pair they sell! You never told me!” I balk.
Aphro levies a lame retort. “You never asked.”
“Look, you don’t have to huff and puff like the magic dragon,” I insist.
Ruthie Dragon, my fire-breathing assistant, throws me a look like Hold on to your hot sauce there.
“Sorry, Ruthie,” I apologize politely, then turn my attention back to my blustery BFF. “I handed in the one-pager for our Wild Card Challenge to the Catwalk office today.”
“What’d Ms. Lynx say?” Aphro asks, wide-eyed.
“Well, she was standing by Sil Lai’s desk, so I put it in the in-box—I mean, she didn’t say anything, but I saw her glance at it and she looked pleased.”
“Oh,” says Aphro, disappointed.
“Look, I’m on kitten-heel patrol twenty-four seven searching for signs of available soles. Okay? Fifi is even asking the publicity director at Ruff Loner.”
Aphro sucks her teeth. “Ruff Loner wouldn’t loan out a bedtime story to a foster child. Felinez couldn’t get a day off during spring break!”
This is true. Fifi snagged an intern gig at the Ruff Loner showroom, and her boss is ruff around the edges.
“We’re also sending out letters this week to all the showrooms,” I add authoratatively.
“You might as well send out good vibrations to the Travelocity roaming gnome!” Aphro snarls at our efforts.
Fifi flinches at Aphro’s sole attack.
“Awright, I’m gonna shut up.” Aphro backs off in fear of Fifi’s fragile state over her parents’ separation. At least for a segundo. “But that does not mean I’m gonna stop worrying until I see some lizard slingback sandals to go with the chiffon multi-tiered ruffled skirt and bomber jacket, for starters.”
“Lizard. Really?” I glaze blankly at Aphro like Keep hope alive! That is, until I’m hit by good vibrations of the design nature. “OMG—I just got a fashion zap. Fifi, the faux leather we got for the tote bags? We can use it to make a tiered ruffled miniskirt to set off Aphro’s bomber jacket!”
“No way, José!” Fifi says, stomping her foot. “We’re behind in our production schedule already!”
“I know, Fifi—I’m sorry,” I spurt. Now I back off. What was I thinking? But I can’t help it when it comes to my fashion zap attacks.
Neither can Fifi. Her bushy eyebrows rise to high noon. I know what that look means: Fifi loves a texture tease. “I really like that combination,” she admits.
Even Angora goes into fashion reportage mode: “I can see the two different textures glistening under the bright lights. And the colors—yum, yum—black faux leather in contrast with the gunmetal gray satin, sublimely set off by the hot pink tank underneath.”
“Yes, yes, can’t you just taste it—I mean, see it?” I goof, trying to whet my crew’s appetite.
Aphro digs it, too. Even though she acts nonchalant. “Chiffon. Or faux leather. They’ll both set off the lariats wrapped three times around the neck.” Aphro primps like a peacock because she has already finished her allotted task: making the jewelry for our show.
Fifi senses it, too. “You should stop showing off like a factory worker who finished first on the assembly line!”
“Well, I did finish,” Aphro boasts, twirling the purple lariat wrapped around her neck.
Now my stickler assistant wants a bauble breakdown. “So what do we have?” Ruthie Dragon asks. Officiously, she takes out her notebook to record the jewelry sequences even though we’re filling out the “run of show” sheets next week.
“Well, we’ve got the long multicolored seed-bead lariats for the Chic Meets Street segment, dangling crystals for the Belle of the Fur Ball evening wear segment, and the inscribed bangles for the graffiti Urban Gear segment, which opens the show after the junior guest models take their twirl on the runway,” Aphro reports.
“That’s all? Está todo?” attacks Fifi.
At that moment, Zeus and Lupo enter the fashion fray. Lupo’s camera is already hanging around his neck as if he’s ready for action. I wink my left eye twice at Aphro and Fifi—our Catwalk code to zip it. Lupo smiles wildly, like he’s glad to be in the mix so he can click away pronto—and squeeze in a cuddle or two from his bella bronzina, his unofficial nickname for Aphro.
“Hi, Dr. Zeus,” Angora says warmly. “We were just talking about your hatness. When are we going to see our Heels on Wheels charity creation? I can’t wait!”
I refrain from reminding Angora that the mold and other mildew mayhem in the dank dungeon could aggravate her asthma.
Oblivious to Angora’s sensitive nose, Zeus answers, “Come over anytime. Wait till you see the graphics and Felinez’s illustrations. I mean, we hooked it up. Seriously.”
“Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if that spooky basement was reserved for smooching?” quips Aphro.
I jab Aphro in the ribs, but I should have saved it for Nole Canoli. He saunters in out of breath and chirps like a parrot. “When am I gonna see this Heels on Wheels cart? I have to approve it, too!”
Following Zeus’s lead, I crack: “You can come over anytime to my Tomb Raider basement. We’re open twenty-four seven, like any respectable sweatshop.”
Zeus beams at me, curling up the corners of his lips like a court jester.
“Awright, let’s get down to business.” I whip out my Teen Elle magazine so I can babble about Babette Epaulette, a designer on Long Island making audacious shoulder ornaments.
Aphro gazes curiously at the fringes, chains, and feathers that can be harnessed onto the shoulders of jackets. “Now, that’s what I’m squawking about,” she says approvingly.
“Good—because I’m putting them on the bomber jackets! Chic Meets Street. Seriously.”
My trio of BFFs gaze curiously in my direction like they’re watching a drunk sailor about to flotsam and jetsam a ship’s entire cargo overboa
rd by accident.
Nole decides to haze instead of gaze. “Whoa, Miss Purr—enough with the last-minute design choices. I need a minute to digest this—cat appliqués on the back of the jackets, fringes on the shoulders? The only thing you’ll need is two canaries perched on the front pockets!”
I can’t resist returning an uppercut. “Look who’s still sore about his perils with Penelope.”
“I don’t know, I kinda like it. I don’t think it’s too mucho,” Fifi interrupts, raising her eyebrows again in approval.
While I smile victoriously, the seven remaining models and five kiddie guest models pile into the expansive conference room for our first runway training session. Stellina is bouncing off the walls. “I don’t know why you want me to come. I am trained!” Tiara doesn’t even smile. I fret, doubting my decision. Can Aphro really turn Tiara into sashay material?
“I like your outfit,” E.T. says appreciatively.
“Thank you,” I say. “Wait till you see your outfit at the fitting next week. You’re gonna love it.”
E.T. grins like he is genuinely grateful for another golden opportunity to get away from his grandmother Mrs. Paul’s clutches.
I clear my throat to deliver my motivational model mantra. “Awright, everyone, it’s back to the business of the show,” I order. “The time is almost near—for our highly anticipated function at Petticoat Junction.”
“Well, I’m not wearing any petticoats. Let’s clear up that confusion right now!” Fallon mouths off. Lupo lets out a nervous round of laughter. He points his camera and clicks photos of Fallon in her sassy posturing mode. She’s wearing a red leather jacket and leopard leggings covered by a short black Lycra skirt. At a size eighteen, Fallon is representing the higher end of my every-size philosophy, which is essential to my fashion vision. That’s why I ignore the fact that Fallon gives us grief at fittings.
As usual, Angora is the first to reassure. She gently caresses Fallon’s plump arm. “No petticoats pour vous.”
Catwalk Page 52
