Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Fifi giggles. “I won’t if you’re happy with your outfit.”

  “Delirious,” snaps Fallon.

  “Awright, you’re up, supermodel,” I coo to Aphro. “I have to fit you for the faux-leather skirt. I’m so excited. When others said I would fail, I went faux and pulled it off!”

  Fifi shoots me a look.

  “I didn’t mean you, Fifi—I meant Nole!”

  “Oooh, don’t y’all get me caught up in any catfight,” warns Aphro as she slips into the skirt.

  “We won’t, trust,” I assure her, ogling my handiwork. The skirt fits Aphro like a glove. “I admit the brainstorm was a late entry—but the faux-leather miniskirts instead of chiffon ones was a good call, no?”

  “But I love the chiffon,” says Angora, the Southern belle.

  “Yes, for the evening skirts—but we don’t have to OD on the flimsy, do we?” I ask.

  “Nor the flimflam,” points out Aphro.

  Fifi darts her eyes over at us—again. Every sound bite spreads suspicion about her parents’ separation. I feel for her. Everyone in her five-story building is buzzing about it—thanks to the clothes flying out the window.

  Left to Fallon, the chiffon ball skirts could fall by the wayside, too. “This doesn’t make my hips holla?”

  Now Fifi frets. She examines the waist like a forensic scientist. “We could take out some of the gathering.”

  “No, I like it—it’s very Marie Antoinette,” I say with conviction.

  “Who is that?” asks Fallon bluntly. “And why don’t you let her wear it?”

  I refrain from filling Fallon in about the former queen of France and focus on the ball skirt. “Fallon, can you trust me—the poufiness is really flattering.”

  Flustered, Fallon rolls her eyes. Now Mink and Angora step into their chiffon ball skirts. Fallon eyes her slimmer counterparts slipping into the same silhouette. Surprisingly, she likes what she sees. “Oh, it is cute, kinda princessy,” she relents.

  “And wait till people see the three of you swooshing down the runway in a princess procession,” I add quickly.

  “We love princesses!” giggles Mink.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Angora says, excited. She’s referring to the feline fatale ensemble I’m wearing for my one memorable turn on the runway with Fabbie Tabbie—the furbulous finale. I’m determined to cast aspersions on Dame Leeds’s doubts. “This has to be the ultimate sendoff.”

  Aphro agrees with me. “Trust—you are saving the best for last.”

  “You’re not jealous, I hope,” I query seriously.

  “Get over yourself. Just because you’re going to the Lipstick Lounge …,” swipes Aphro.

  “You are?” Elgamela asks, excited.

  “Thanks for letting the cat out of the bag.”

  “Spill the refried beans, already!” coaxes Elgamela.

  “Ice Très invited me to the Lipstick Lounge to hear this singer, Alyjah Jade, perform,” I say, smiling.

  “Wow, I so want to go to that place!” coos Mink Yong. “Sil Lai told me all about it! She’s going!”

  “Oh, right,” I say, like I didn’t remember that Sil Lai and Mink Yong are friendly—and part of the Asian clique at our school. “Um, I thought Sil Lai said she still had classes left at Barbizon and can’t go?”

  “Oh, right,” Mink Yong says, like she forgot that tiddy. “She’s not sure yet.”

  “What does Sil Lai go to Barbizon for?”

  “She’s training to become a Barbizon model instructor. She wanted to be a model really badly, but she’s too short. So if you can’t be one, you can teach them,” Mink explains matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, right,” I say, finally grasping the reason why Sil Lai shows me shades of Gucci Envy.

  Bluntly, Aphro voices what I’m thinking. “So she’s just another shortie in the model haterade convention?”

  My cell phone rings. I pull it out of my purse to answer it. “It’s Diamond Tyler,” I mouth to Aphro and Angora. The rest of the models remain quiet while I speak to the touchy animal activist. I tell her about our evening-gown fitting and she calmly replies: “See, I knew you could pull this off without me.”

  “I need a favor from you, Diamond,” I admit, desperate to contain this situation. “I need for you to keep this drama between us—can you do that and not let on to the Catwalk office?”

  “Yes,” says Diamond. “I’ll be at the fashion show—I’ll help as a dresser.”

  “Well, I was thinking—I have a far more important task for you and your design talents.”

  “I told you, I can’t handle the designing stuff,” she balks.

  “I know, I know. That’s not it. Would you mind attending the other fashion shows and reporting back to us at the run-through what you saw? We’re not going to get to attend the other four fashion shows, but we at least want to know what they’re doing,” I stress, appealing to Diamond’s SOS sensibility. “Please, come to our rescue?”

  “Oh, I would love to do that,” Diamond says humbly. “But I thought Ruthie Dragon wanted to?”

  “She does, but I want you to be my eyes and ears at the other fashion shows because you’re a designer at heart,” I say, selling it hard. “Ruthie is better suited for manning the Heels on Wheels cart in the lobby instead.” Of course, what I haven’t told Diamond is that my fiery assistant doesn’t know about her Wild Card assignment.

  “Oh, okay, I’ll do it,” Diamond says, like she’s trying her best to be agreeable since she has us caught in her crosshairs.

  “Purrfecto,” I sigh, super relieved. “I knew we could find a mutually agreeable task. We’re a team. And I want it to stay that way. If word of another defection got out, the House of Pashmina would be fried, finished, and flotsamed!”

  I hold my breath for a second, secretly hoping Diamond will just jump back into the fashion fray, but after a few more seconds of steely silence I realize we’ve passed that stop at Petticoat Junction.

  “You’re so funny, Pashmina. I’ll be at the fashion shows, then come to the run-through. I promise,” she says, referring to the term used for those precious few and highly frenetic hours in which we rehearse before the actual show.

  “I thank you in the name of the rumba, the mambo, and the cha-cha-cha,” I say, relieved.

  Diamond chuckles. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s the highest order of thank-you from the Fritanga dynasty,” I jest.

  “What do you think Ruthie Dragon is gonna say when she finds out you dumped her for Diamond?” Aphro asks.

  I balk. “Do you know what an honor it is to man the Heels on Wheels cart?”

  Leave it to Aphro to squash my schemes and dreams. “Well, I sure hope she thinks so.”

  “Never mind,” says Fifi, who is anxious for me to try on my purrlicious pink creation for my fitting. After washing her hands, she pins me into the fuchsia tattersall skirt with matching bustier.

  Stellina’s eyes pop. “I wish I could wear that.”

  “You are definitely the Princess of Pink now,” confesses Aphro.

  Everyone beams at me while Fifi pins me in all the right places into my pinkness. I stare back at my reflection in Fifi’s living room mirror. “The Princess of Pink. I could get used to that title!”

  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!

  DON’T CALL IT A COMEBACK

  The invited few didn’t know why they were being beckoned to the Fashion Auditorium for a Special Event. Like an ermine caught in a mink trap, I got caught up in the unscripted turn of dramatic events. Of course, the Teen Style Network thought they were living in a field of ratings dreams when the Benny Ninja vs. pseudo Willi Ninja, Jr., battle was staged right before their nosy lens. Frankly, all the catty students at Fashion International should send me thank-you notes in origami shurikens for providing an ex
tra helping of drama to their boring lives—and giving them something JUICY to run home and tell their friends and families about besides the Spinelli chop-shop trial.

  But it’s time to set the record straight. I may have changed my moniker to C. C. Samurai, but my agenda is still the same: to win the Catwalk Competition. Only difference is, I won’t be attempting to accomplish this task by any means necessary—unlike certain tawdry, ambitchous others who shall remain nameless. See, due to my recent drama I learned a valuable lesson: I don’t have to play dirty to get what I want—and rightly deserve. I can stay on my game AND be true to my vision—and mine always was, and always will be, to be serving men’s style without traditional boundaries. My vision was not a lie. I know I adopted a false moniker out of deep admiration for what Willi Ninja stood for—so keep basking in that admission of guilt until you get caught in one of your own. But don’t call it a comeback, okay, because I never left the game. And please don’t believe your own hype: everybody has their own shades of truth, so keep coloring with Crayolas. I’m just here to publicly tell you that I’ve put my Crayola box of fictitious crayons away and don’t need to draw with them anymore to get what I want. I’m not saying I don’t love the drama—if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be attending a school that could rightly be named Drama Central—but I’ve discovered that I like winning better. And I have what it takes to be a real contender in this game of fashion, whether the haters like it or not. So I want to publicly thank the revered Benny Ninja, father of the House of Ninja, formed by the fierce late Willi Ninja, for pulling the sleeve on my warrior outfit. And like a certain Catwalk contender told me the other day: may the best house win!

  Posted by Twirl Happy 1992 at 21:43:17

  14

  I definitely dig SoHo, the artistic downtown section south of Houston Street in New York City, where the most feline fatale designers in the galaxy, like Anna Sui, Tarina Tarantino, and Betsey Johnson, have their flagship boutiques. Within these five square blocks of prime Manny Hanny real estate lies a veritable design mecca where I hope the flagship boutique for my dream retail chain, PURR UNLIMITED, will also be in the mix one day. I can dream, can’t I?

  The grooviest restaurants and clubs are also in SoHo, and right now I’m headed to the tartiest new addition: The Lipstick Lounge on Broome Street. Even though it’s coming down to the wire for my Catwalk team and our fashion show, I had to put this on my checklist so I can make things right with Ice Très. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But with Diamond Tyler acting skittish, like a sheep with a USDA clip hanging on her ear; shady Shalimar setting her sights on a serious sabotage mission; and cuckoo Chintzy Colon on the loose like a rogue CIA agent, I can’t risk any more negative energy ricocheting around the House of Pashmina until the winner of the Catwalk competition is chosen and goes home with a Big Willie trophy.

  Speaking of negative energy, the Shrek-sized bouncer manning the door of the Lipstick Lounge has it in Kate Spades. “Are you on the guest list?” he asks like a professional bully.

  Ice Très didn’t mention anything about a guest list. I hide my flustered reaction and smear on the charm like moisturizing lipstick in the shade Please Let Me In. “Um, I’m a friend of Abraham’s?” I pull a five-dollar bill from my pink leopard-print denim shoulder bag and wave it like a white flag, the internationally recognized truce symbol.

  With a military poker face, the seven-foot-tall giant looks at me like I’m a freshly minted cuckoo and orders: “He’s definitely not on the list. Step aside, please.”

  Switching gears pronto, I stutter: “I’m sorry—um—I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here—Ice Très Walker?”

  The bouncer doesn’t say a word or crack a smile, but I’ve obviously said the magic password, because he parts the Red Sea—aka the velvet rope—and nods for me to enter paradise.

  “Thank you!” I say, relieved.

  Once inside, I scan the hypervamped room with its decor straight out of a Lady Gaga video: feathered red lampshades plopped on end tables with carved legs and glistening disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Searching for signs of Ice Très and coming up empty, I plop down in the nearest vacant red velvet love seat, which is as enticing as a lush poppy field. Nervously, I pull out my cell phone to see if Ice Très has sent another text, but he hasn’t. Still unsettled, I reread the last text he sent me to make sure I didn’t miss an important message in the bottle: “Boo kitty. On my way. Can’t wait to see you!” Ressured that I’m on the right kitty trail, I decide to sit tight, taking a deep breath and sinking into the plush velvet cushions. Adjusting my eyes to the dim, moody atmosphere, I turn and gaze at the empty stage, slowly focusing on the shadowy figure of a girl with long, sparkling ruby locks peeking from behind the folds of opulent red velvet drapes in the left corner. Now the girl with the ruby locks emerges a few more inches from behind the fold in the drapes and the profile of her haughty aquiline nose emerges. I watch her, fascinated, wondering if it’s Alyjah Jade, the singer who’s performing tonight. Tall and slender, she’s dressed in a tight black minidress with over-the-knee black boots, and is having an animated conversation with someone who still remains behind the drapes. She tilts back her head, laughing—all pale ivory skin, ruby red lips, and blazing bordeaux hair with iridescent glints galore. As I ponder whether the singer’s waist-length hair is courtesy of Mother Nature or Adorable Hair extensions, the person with whom she is kanoodling also emerges from behind the curtains and embraces her in a tight hug. My mouth drops at the zebra sighting—the mink hat that belongs to none other than Zeus Artemides! I freeze inside, wondering why Zeus didn’t tell me he was migrating to the Lipstick Lounge tonight. Then I remember that I never mentioned to him that I was coming, either, or even more salacious—that I have a date with Ice Très! Furiously, I calibrate the plausibility of my explanation: It was a last-minute thing. I didn’t even know I was going before six o’clock.

  Seeing them locked in their embrace, I wonder if Alyjah Jade is one of Zeus’s childhood friends, or a friend from his old high school, Benjie Bratt. Zeus is superaffectionate, so I try not to trip about how up-close and personal he is with the redheaded Goldilocks. He gets touchy-feely with Elgamela Sphinx, too, which used to make me think they were dating until I found out for sure that they aren’t. I sit frozen like a pink statue, wondering if there’s an escape clause or a secret trapdoor into which I can vanish. As I contemplate how to handle the situation, I’m distracted by a familiar voice streaming from my left.

  “Hey, boo kitty, sorry I’m late!” says Ice Très, bending over to kiss me on the cheek before he slithers next to me on the sofa.

  I don’t know how Ice Très always manages to sneak up on me, and this time I blurt out this observation.

  “That’s because no one ever pays attention to graffiti messengers—we just sort of blend into the background, along with the plight of urban decay,” he says, like the last street poet.

  “I see,” I respond, slowly digesting Ice Très’s gift for dropping knowledge.

  Prattling on, Ice Très reveals the holdup. “My uncle Ray-Ray gave me a ride, but somebody ran over a skunk on the FDR and things definitely got a little hairy.”

  “And here I thought you were skateboarding to SoHo,” I respond nervously, trying not to look in Zeus’s direction.

  Ice Très grins, setting off his goofy smile with dimples to match—positively infectious.

  “How do you know it was a skunk that got run over? You saw it?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the Zeus sighting.

  “Nah, but I smelled it—and so did half of Manhattan,” Ice Très says, scrunching his nose in disgust.

  “I don’t know—this gory story sounds like a Diamond Tyler tale,” I tease, while watching Zeus and the girl with the ruby hair out of the corner of my eye on the sly.

  “Come on now, you think Diamond’s the only one with close encounters of the animal kind? It’s a jungle out there, boo kitty. You know that,” jokes Ice Très.

&nb
sp; “Actually, I do,” I concede. “Speaking of, how did you get a hookup on the guest list here?”

  “Oh D-Man at the door lives in my building,” Ice Très says proudly, focusing on the unique design of my pants. “Wow, I dig those pants—did you make them?”

  “Yeah, I did—I’m really into unconstructed edges and puzzle-piece design these days. You know how it is as an artist, you’re always on to the next new thing,” I say, riffing.

  Zeus suddenly spots us in our cozy corner like he’s looking for the next new thing. Now I’m try to decipher the pieces of the puzzled expression on his face as he walks toward us.

  “Hey, what are you two doing here?” asks Zeus, his eyes darting from Ice Très to guilty moi.

  “Same thing you are, I guess,” quips Ice Très. “Checking out the new establishment.”

  I wait for Zeus to offer his explanation, but he doesn’t. He stands there, looking slightly distressed. I squirm on the velvet love seat, wracking my brain trying to think of something to smooth things over like Velveeta cheese. “Um, I heard about this singer from Sil Lai,” I pipe up feebly. “Do you know her?”

  “Um, yeah, I do,” says Zeus.

  “Oh, is that her? The girl with the ruby locks?” I muse, just checking to make sure she is Alyjah Jade, although the possibility of two girls in the same room with long sparkling ruby—not red, mind you—hair is about as low as two wearing my unique puzzle-piece hot-pink pants.

  “Um, yeah, that’s her,” Zeus confirms. But he still doesn’t elaborate.

  I’m dying to ask Zeus how he knows Alyjah Jade, but I’m too busy wondering if he’s upset with me because I’m here with Ice Très. Zeus fidgets with his brim, confirming my suspicions. Obviously he is thrown off his Mad Hatter axis by this unexpected scenario.

  Unaware that he has been dropped into the Bermuda Triangle, Ice Très keeps the frothy flow going. “I hear she’s an amazing songwriter, too,” he offers. “My cousin goes to the same high school she does—Ocean County Vocational Tech.”