Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “No way, you’ve got pink brushes, too!” Fifi squeals.

  “Girls, where have you been? Obviously not at the Sephora counters lately—exclusive home of the Tarina Tarantino collection and the one and only purveyor of pink makeup brushes!”

  Before I can even open my mouth to ask, Bobby Beat retorts, “Fifty-nine dollars for a five-brush set. Now, if we win this lunch money today, children, I can purchase sets for everyone.”

  “We’re going to hold you to that,” swears Fallon, arriving with the rest of the models, right on time for rehearsal and to indulge in the pure pandemonium of preshow jitters. “Ooh, I was so nervous getting here. I was going down the subway stairs and this group of rowdy sailors running up the stairs almost knocked me over. I held on to that banister real tight going down, praying, ‘Please, God, don’t let me fall. Don’t let lightning strike twice on the IRT’!”

  Of course, we all know Fallon is referring to the subway line taken by Liza Flake—but we’re all too superstitious to comment, except Aphro, who blurts out, “It is Freaky Friday.”

  17

  Chenille arrives backstage with a duffel bag slung over her left shoulder and Fabbie Tabbie in a carrier. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was an army recruit reporting for duty, by the looks of her attire: drab green khaki pants to match the duffel bag and a dark green cotton hoodie over a tank. The only thing missing: dog tags dangling on a chain around her neck.

  “Aww, the star has arrived,” coos Angora.

  “Yes, she has,” I reply, beaming at Chenille. Then I motion to Fifi to harness the junior models—and watch them like a hawk, as it’s time to address my troops. “We’re doing two run-throughs. Also, junior models, you’re only appearing on the runway once; then you will walk out at the end in a procession with all the models.”

  The junior models nod. Stellina grins wildly. “We know that!”

  “For the rest of my models—each time you come back from the runway, stand backstage with your dresser, who will tell you when it’s your turn to go out,” I explain. “And after you have walked on the runway in your third outfit, keep it on. Remember, the Teen Style Network is out there—so give it all you’ve got! See you on the runway!”

  “See ya, supermodel!” shouts Stellina.

  Sure enough, Caterina and the rest of the Teen Style Network are already stationed by the ramp, ready to shoot. I stand by the ramp with Nole and Fifi. Lupo is in position, too, snapping away with his trusty Nikon camera.

  We wait for Zeus to turn up the lights to begin the run-through. First up, two of my junior models—E.T. and Stellina. They sashay to the end of the runway, then veer off, one to the left side and the other to the right. Stellina stands for her single pose, then turns.

  I motion to her, making the gesture for the umbrella. “You open the umbrella, twirl!”

  “Oh, sorry!” she shouts.

  “Don’t worry—we’re doing two run-throughs.”

  Caterina motions to me. I tell Nole and Fifi to take over while I go chat with her.

  “The Heels on Wheels cart looks amazing,” Caterina congratulates me. “I think I was your first donation. I donated a pair of Vivienne Westwoods with platform heels.” She chuckles like a disco queen. “Do you really think guests will bring shoes to donate?”

  “Well, we sent out five hundred invites to our friends and families—hopefully they plan on helping.”

  “You think you’ll win the Wild Card Challenge?”

  “Excuse me,” I say, distracted. I want to give further instruction to my crew. “Benny’s supposed to drop his barrel tote when he gets to the end of the runway,” I shout.

  “He knows—mind your business!” Nole shouts back.

  I dart my eyes back to Caterina. “Yes, the House of Pashmina will win the Wild Card Challenge. I think so.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Caterina probes.

  I resist the temptation to reveal my intel, or my source, who is stationed on the fashion front.

  “Have you already gotten reports from Diamond Tyler? She ran from me after the Moet Major fashion show,” Caterina informs me. “Isn’t it against regulations for team members to stray from their designated area?”

  Buckling, I don’t attempt to brave a fib-eroni. Instead, I blast through my sound bite. “I’m going to win the Wild Card Challenge because everybody likes the givers and not the takers.”

  “Pashmina!” yells Sally G. I look back and she’s holding my cell phone.

  “Are we done?” I ask Caterina, desperate to escape.

  “For now,” she replies. “Can you tell Dame Leeds I’ll need five minutes?”

  “Oh, okay,” I shriek, then toddle away.

  When Sally G. hands me the phone, I bark at her. “You can’t leave your station now—you’ve got to make sure your models come out in order!”

  “I know, Pash, but it’s Diamond. She says she’s gotta speak to you,” Sally G. says, miffed.

  “Awright, I got it,” I say apologetically. “Yes, Diamond?” I answer, anxious.

  “Shalimar’s show was amazing,” she reports.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, the Wild Card Challenge was executed very well. She divided the show into the Seven Principles of Style Success. And on each guest’s chair was the faux book.”

  “What book? Wait, hang on.” I motion to Dame Leeds. “Caterina needs five with you.”

  Dame doesn’t jump to my command, so I glare at his back until he does. He saunters out of the dressing room.

  I put my ear back to the phone and Diamond breaks it down. “Well, it was a booklet called The Seven Principles of Style Success. I couldn’t get my hands on one since they were on the guests’ chairs and I was hiding in the back, but it was really the show’s program.”

  Suddenly, I remember Shalimar telling me the reason I wasn’t on the fast track was because I hadn’t read The Seven Secrets to Success. “Bingo, I know where she got that from—from the book her father read,” I recall.

  Diamond continues, “The first model in each segment came out and held up a sign with an element from Shalimar’s must-have list, like ‘Military Enlistment. Dress with disciplined purpose.’ That segment had a red wool three-quarter-sleeve peacoat with eco-friendly wool faux-fur lining. Another model had on an anorak and slouch pants. And the models marched, by the way.”

  “Did Shalimar model in the show?”

  “Yes, she came out in the Eco-Friendly segment. ‘The hunt is over for the hue of choice. Go hunter green.’ ”

  “So was her show packed?” I ask, succumbing to my own shade of green—envy.

  “Yes, to the rafters,” Diamond rattles on, but I’m distracted by the commotion at the hair and makeup station. Bobby Beat is under the counter, fooling around with outlets.

  “Oh. Did you see C. C. to tell him I’m not the one who leaked his Wild Card Challenge?” I ask, fretting.

  “Pashmina, I’ve already had a close call with Caterina—she almost caught me on camera!” objects Diamond.

  “I know, stay below the radar—we’re almost in the homestretch. Call me back,” I plead with her. I’m so distracted I can’t even listen to any more of Diamond’s report from the fashion front.

  “Ciao, meow,” Diamond signs off.

  “Wow, she really does have a sense of humor underneath all that faux fur,” I mumble to Bobby and Mini Mo, then recount the blow-by-blow from the House of Shalimar show.

  “Why is it so dark in here?” I ask, noticing that the makeup and hair station is dark.

  “We’ve been trying to turn on the makeup lights at the counter to prepare for the stampede of models coming our way!” Bobby Beat explains, exasperated.

  “The switches aren’t working,” seconds Mini Mo.

  “And someone needs to get that taken care of before I plug in the hot comb to no avail,” Chenille chimes in.

  The run-through is finished and I fret to Fifi and Angora, who return backstage. “What’s wrong with
the outlets? Please, somebody help me!”

  Now even Zeus, who has also returned backstage, tries to get into the outlet action, but he comes up short. “The lights went out on the runway, too. I don’t know—all the lights seem to be out.”

  I get down on my knees and plug the hot combs into different sockets, but nada, nothing happens. No lights, no camera, no action. “Oh, come on, don’t get shady with me now!”

  “Omigod, mija, what are we going to do?” Fifi screams, hysterical.

  “We should get Farfalla,” orders Aphro.

  “No way. I need Ice Très,” I snap.

  “But he can’t come back here,” frets Angora.

  “Where’s Diamond? She can find Farfalla,” suggests Aphro.

  “No. You don’t move. We can’t afford to have any more members MIA!” I shout. I pull out my phone and send Ice Très a Code Pink text: “I need you NOW.”

  “Do you think he’ll come?” asks Dame, who has returned to the fashion fray. “Or maybe we should just send an SOS and pray to be rescued from Gilligan’s Island.”

  “Not to worry. Ice Très always manages to find a way to get to me,” I say, my heart pounding.

  “I’m gonna call my dad,” frets Angora. Her father is an animation whiz, but mostly when it comes to Funny Bunny rabbits. “Maybe he can talk us through it.”

  “Well, the clock is ticking and tocking—Angora, let me start with you,” frets Bobby Beat. He pats the back of his makeup chair like a mad scientist.

  “Not now, s’il vous plaît,” she says anxiously.

  “Just as well—I can’t see what I’m doing, so unless we’re going for the Big Apple Circus look, I might as well surrender my brushes,” Bobby Beat says, frustrated.

  “That was not necessary,” I snap.

  “Well, we are under the same tent—I thought it was fitting,” he says, flicking his hair out of his face.

  Suddenly, Ice Très appears backstage just like in my dream. “How did you get past the security guards?”

  “I told you I’d be here for you. So, what’s the Code Blue?” he says, customizing the Catwalk emergency code to a shade he prefers.

  “Help me, please,” I say, breathing heavily. “We can’t figure out what’s wrong with the outlets!”

  “I got it,” Ice Très says confidently.

  He takes the melton cloth holding his tools from his messenger bag and opens up the circuit board.

  “Wow—forget the fashion emergency kit. We gotta start rolling like that?” Aphro blurts out, amazed.

  “Get dressed!” I command her.

  “What? In the dark?” she counters.

  “All right—I got this situation under control,” Ice Très shouts from behind the panel.

  Suddenly, the lights on the makeup bureau pop on.

  “Oh, thank gooseness!” I squeal.

  Ice Très checks the lights behind the runway scrim. A few minutes later, he comes backstage and gives me a hug. “Look, I’m not Con Edison, but I’ll tell you this—that short-circuit situation didn’t happen by itself. Somebody intentionally rerouted those wires.”

  I fall backward. Angora tries to catch me. “Omigod, the dream—I think I know what it was trying to tell me,” I realize, like I’m having a vision. “It’s not that I’m going to fall on my face. My shoes were rigged in the dream.”

  Angora, Aphro, and Fifi stare at me, and just like a crew who are as tight as we are, we utter the dreaded word in unison: “SHALIMAR!”

  “That’s what the dream was trying to tell me—not to fall for any of her tricks!” I say triumphantly. “She’s been out to get us from day one!”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you that,” blurts out Fifi. “I was right! She found another way to sabotage us—and it almost worked!”

  “Yeah, it almost did,” I realize, calmed by the revelation in the eye of the fashion storm. Now I turn and squarely face Zeus as another revelation sinks in. “And I’m not going to fall for your tricks, either. That’s why you weren’t backstage in my dream. You changed the tune—and deserted me because you can’t be trusted!”

  Zeus gives me the evil eyeball. “Yeah, well, I can leave now if that’s how you feel.”

  “Hold up,” Ice Très says, calming us all down. “We—I mean, you guys have a fashion show to put on. You’ve worked all year for this. Keep your eye on the prize. You’re a team. Don’t fall apart now—then Shalimar will have won.”

  We stand around silently, soaking in the objective advice. Even Dame suspends his hairbrush in midair. “He’s right—let’s get to work! We got a show to put on.”

  Ice Très hugs me tight. “You’re going to win this,” he whispers in my ear.

  “I’ve already won—because I’ve got you,” I whisper back, tears in my eyes.

  Ice Très gives me a long kiss until Bobby Beat insists that I succumb to his powder brush.

  “Good luck, boo kitties!” Ice Très shouts as he sneaks back out.

  After another hour of preparation, the five child models and ten adult models line up to get ready for the first procession.

  Stellina is bouncing off the walls. “Pinch me, Miss Purr, please. Pinch me.”

  I almost oblige to keep her still, but Dame is yanking my hair. “Your sister is good, I must say,” he confesses.

  “I know,” I admit, beaming at Chenille proudly, but she is still no-nonsense, as usual. She’s sitting in her hairdresser slot waiting for the second procession, when we will put up the ponytails into chignons.

  “Not too much pink!” I squeal. “I’m watching you, too.”

  “Yeah, well, our eyes are watching God,” Dame says, motioning upward.

  “Good idea,” says Fifi. “I would have brought my Love candle to burn back here, but it’s missing from my room.”

  “Really?” I ask. I’m sure I saw a whole roomful of candles at Fifi’s house two weeks ago.

  “I think Papi took it since he can’t be with me,” Fifi says, holding back her tears.

  Diamond enters the backstage area.

  “I knew you’d be back,” shouts Nole. His pudgy cheeks fill out with pride.

  “Yes, I wanted to tell you that Ruthie Dragon is not happy about manning the Heels on Wheels cart, but it looks like it’s filling up!” Diamond reports, her eyes beaming, full of charity.

  “You mean there are people out there already?” shrieks Angora.

  “Yeah. Just waiting in the lobby! Oh. I saw this guy bringing like two shopping bags—no, I mean they were Hefty bags—filled with shoes,” adds Diamond.

  “Wow—we need a few more guests like him, huh?” I say, getting unbelievably hyped.

  “Anyway, he gave me a card to give to Felinez,” Diamond continues.

  Felinez grabs the envelope and opens it. She reads the card, and tears stream down her cheeks. “Papi is here!”

  “Really?” I shriek, my eyes tearing up, too. “Read it so we can hear!”

  “It’s in Spanish, but I’ll translate,” Fifi says, choking back the tears. “ ‘My precious daughter, I would not miss this day for anything in the world. I will be coming back home because I cannot live without you and my family. When you were born I prayed that you would have all your fingers and toes, but God gave me so much more in you. You are so talented in so many ways, and the best daughter I could have wished for. Love, Papi.’ ”

  I look around at all my crew—even the models are trying not to cry. “You two—stop crying!” I shout at Angora and Aphro, who are on the verge of ruining their makeup. Even Bobby Beat has gotten teary-eyed.

  “Who could live without you? I can’t.” I kiss my BFF on both cheeks; then we hug.

  Diamond is moved, too. “I didn’t know that was your father,” she says, touched that she was the messenger. “He just asked Ruthie if he could give her the card to give to you, and Ruthie said no, she couldn’t leave the cart. He looked so helpless. I told him I would do it.”

  “Did he look okay?” Fifi asks, concerned.

&n
bsp; “Oh, he looks really nice—he’s wearing a black suit and tie,” Diamond reports.

  “No, I mean does he look okay?”

  “Oh, yes, he looks happy. And he shaved,” adds Diamond, wondering if she’s said the desired words yet.

  Obviously she has, because Fifi snaps out of her Kodak moment, reignited with a passionate purpose, and squeaks: “Okay, we gotta get ready!”

  “Yes, let’s get in position, fashionistas. It’s almost showtime!” I shout for good measure.

  “Yeah, well, you—in position in my chair!” Bobby Beat orders me. “It’s time.”

  “Oh, you look so beautiful,” I coo at my junior models, who are all dressed and ready to rip the runway. They are standing in order. Waiting.

  After fifteen minutes, my makeup is done and it’s time for my hair. Nole has steamed my pink satin bustier and skirt. “This is a showstopper.” He gets Fabbie Tabbie’s wedding gown ready. “Should I dress her now?”

  “Yup, let’s all get into play.”

  As I’m getting trussed up in my bustier, the models for the Urban Gear sequence are ready and waiting. Elgamela and Fallon are also ready for their bathing suit sequence. Fallon even looks happy to be wearing her bathing suit. “You know, I could wear this to the beach. I would even take off the cover-up,” she whoo-hoos.

  Now we can hear the crowd swelling outside the runway scrim. “Is it crowded?” I ask, hyperventilating.

  “We can’t look, how do we know?” barks Nole. He is fretting with Fabbie Tabbie, making sure she looks perfect. “Omigod, I feel like she’s my own,” he says nervously.

  Farfalla comes backstage. “Everybody ready?”

  “Yes, we’re ready!” I shout.

  “You start in five. Buona fortuna!” she says with glee.

  “Buona, buona!” Bobby Beat shouts back.

  Zeus activates the music tracks, then takes his place in line.

  “You look hot,” Nole says, eyeing the Mad Hatter.

  I want to kick him, but I’m afraid to lift up my evening skirt or move too suddenly. Fifi brings over my kitten heels. “You’re sure they’re not rigged?” I ask her.