Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “To whom?” I counter. “Note to fashion self: shower with sheep in my sleep instead. It’ll be safer!”

  Right now, I hope Felinez also knows how to remedy my ruination. I was psyched about debuting my Power-to-the-Prairie outfit today, from the brown faux suede fringed miniskirt to the beaded ceremony necklace. “All this in the hopes of snagging a pow wow in Zeus’s tepee,” I moan, stroking the embroidered succotash headband I tied around my forehead after I tamed my frizzy hair with Elasta QP Glaze, which is Miracle Whip for girls like me who are knotty by nature. Trust, it’s the only way I’m able to work my native plaits.

  “I knew you liked him!” Felinez squeals.

  “Oy, wait till he sees me. He’s gonna call me Dances in Toilet Water!” I predict.

  “Don’t worry, I got the Nu-Hide cleaner from leather class in my locker. I can fix it,” Felinez assures me.

  “Thank gooseness my best friend is such a GENIUS!” I quip in my goofy voice. “Let’s go by your locker, then hit the job board before the zoo lets out.”

  Speaking of animals, Chandelier barges into the bathroom with Tina the Hyena. Chandelier, however, is acting more like an anxious antelope. She gallops to the sink and stands so closely to me that the blast from her breath opens my pores. “Who needs Bioré strips when you’re around,” I mumble under my breath. Instead of apologizing, she stares at me wide-eyed like her pupils are adjusting to the reality of competing in the food chain.

  “I thought of you,” she says, rubbing lipstick from her teeth, “when I was getting a root canal yesterday.”

  “Silly me. I thought having capped teeth made excavation a moot point,” I counter.

  Chandelier stares down at the ring around my footsies, then cuts to her Gucci loafers, then to Tina, like she’s doing a Woodbury Common outlet commercial. “Exclusive edition,” she declares to Tina.

  “Puhleez. They grind those out like Parks sausages!” I retort angrily. Felinez snickers loudly as we flee the Fashion Lounge. “God, she’s such a primping predator.”

  After we zap the water stains, we dash for a ducat alert at the job board. I send a text message to Aphro and Angora to meet us outside the Fashion Café later for the “showdown at the okie-dokie.”

  Meanwhile, Felinez is fretting about her Italian homework. “Io sono malata,” Felinez says, reading from her notebook. “ ‘Malata’ means ‘sick’ and not ‘mulatto’?”

  “Mos def.”

  “How do you say ‘mulatto,’ then?”

  “I don’t know, but I bet you in Italian they say something less slavery-oriented,” I shoot back. Every Black History Month, my mom makes us watch Roots together, and inevitably she blurts out, “I hate that word, ‘mulatto.’ ” Probably because that’s what I am, even though she never told me.

  “God, I can’t wait till we go to Italy,” Felinez says, psyched, then cringes. “If we win, I mean.”

  “We’d better,” I retort, echoing our Catwalk Code: Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it.

  Felinez smiles assuredly.

  “Let’s sashay by Ms. Fab’s office,” I whisper to Felinez, in an effort to quelch my own anxiety.

  “Por que? What for?”

  “Maybe we’ll get first whiff of the It List,” I say sneakily. Creeping closer, we get a whiff, all right—of a conversation not meant for our ears. “That’s a good idea for reaction shots,” advises Ms. Lynx, her voice of authority trailing into the hallway. “But you should stick around the Fashion Café afterward—and do try today’s special, jambalaya gumbo. I hear it’s divine.”

  “Any reason why?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

  “There’s nothing like Cajun peppers to put blush back in your cheeks. Oh—you mean—well, you’ll see,” Ms. Fab adds emphatically.

  We stand still like undercover fashion spies trying to decipher Ms. Lynx’s cryptic instructions.

  Seconds later, four scruffy-looking men and one petite woman pop out of Ms. Fab’s office. I freeze when I see the familiar logo on their equipment bags: TEEN STYLE NETWORK. I quickly examine my ceremony necklace like I’m searching for hidden hieroglyphics. Luckily, the crew seems too distracted to notice us. The lady has a pixie haircut and is dressed in grungy sneakers, jeans, and a green camouflage jacket. She points at one of the neon signs in the hallway: LEAVE YOUR CORNS ON THE COB. NO BARE FEET, PLEASE.

  “Jay, get a shot of that,” she orders, motioning to one of the guys hoisting a camera bag.

  Jay hops to the task.

  “Omigod! Ay, dios mio!” Felinez shrieks, once we’re out of earshot. “Do you think Ms. Lynx is on the jinx?”

  Instinctively, I know what Felinez is referring to. For the past twenty years it’s been a secret tradition at FI to kick off the Catwalk competitions with a quickie voguing battle known as a pose-off once the leaders have been chosen.

  “Don’t be radickio. If she knew about our pose-off, we’d all be banned to Style Siberia,” I shoot back, but my shuddering shoulders aren’t so convinced. See, end-of-season markdowns aren’t the only thing fashionistas can count on: disobey any of Fashion International’s cardinal rules—like “no voguing in hallways”—and suspension is imminent. The loophole that fashionistas have hidden behind for twenty years, however, is this: nobody said anything about voguing in the Fashion Café. People who already have props wouldn’t understand why we would risk suspension for something that seems so silly, but they don’t understand. See, we can’t control the outcome of the Catwalk competition, but at least we decide how we’re gonna set it off.

  As we approach the job board, another thing becomes Swarovski crystal clear: we also can’t control the competition for all the job postings. “This is a mob scene. We might as well be standing in a line for a fashion show at Bryant Park!” I huff.

  “I know, mija. You’d think they were giving away swag!” Felinez groans, trying to jockey for space in the huddling masses. I reach into my purse to retrieve my pink pen and jab Diamond Tyler in the chest. Turning swiftly to meet her gaze, I’m relieved that her Victoria’s Secret push-up padded bra with revolutionary patentpending technology obviously softened the impact of my intruding elbow. (During gym period, I saw her in the cute scallop-edged “Secret” in the locker room.)

  “I voted for you!” Diamond blurts out.

  “Now, that’s what’s up,” I respond gratefully, but I can’t help but notice that Diamond has a serious case of ring around the eyes.

  “Is everything cool?” I ask her.

  “I was up all night with Crutches,” she says, and seems relieved someone noticed. Crutches is Diamond’s cat, who was born with weak legs and has trouble walking.

  “I’ve been taking her to swimming lessons, and the muscles in her back legs are getting stronger, but she was moaning all night cuz I pushed too hard,” confides Diamond.

  “Yeah—but it’ll be worth it. Crutches’ll be sashaying in no time!” I chuckle.

  “That sounds more like Fabbie,” Diamond offers shyly, a troubled look clouding her misty green eyes. “God, I never have any luck with these jobs. I think I’m gonna try the animal shelters.”

  “Really? You mean volunteering?” I ask. What I really want to ask her is, doesn’t she need the seven dollars an hour like we do?

  “Mija, this one looks good,” Felinez says, interrupting the currency exchange. She points to a posting for the Betsey Johnson boutique.

  “Omigod, I would do a kitty mambo in my bloomers just to work there,” I concur. Diamond grins at me like she wishes she had my gusto. Little does she know that it comes from having nothing to lose but my hopefulness. Felinez continues to scan the postings for an assistant schlep job in any designer showroom, which would be primo for her.

  “Oooh, this one,” I say, pointing to a posting for Ruff Loner showroom assistant. “No ducats, but internship credit.”

  “No way, José. I don’t care if I have to fold the same pashmina scarf fifty times as long as we work together!” Felinez testifies like a pre
acher.

  “Stick to a showroom,” I protest, pulling out my cell phone. “It’s time you put your pattern-making skills to a test.”

  “If I can’t work with you, then I’d rather spend all my time making the accessories for our fashion show,” Felinez declares defiantly. “At least that freebie means a chance at flying the Friendly Skies—for free!”

  “Hold up, Tonto. Let’s wait and see if there will be a House of Pashmina, then I’ll demand you devote your every waking minuto,” I advise her, positioning myself in a corner for privacy so I can get a leg up on the competition. Just to make sure, I suck in my stomach.

  “You think they’re gonna see your flat stomach on the phone?” Felinez asks, whacking me in the midsection.

  Shooing her away, I speak in my professional voice. “Um, hello, I’m calling from Fashion International.” Meanwhile, the girl on the other end informs me in her brittle British accent, “We’re not taking any more applicants at the moment. Not from Fashion International.”

  Humiliated, I hang up. “Do you think she could tell on the phone I’m black?” I ponder out loud because I can hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ears. She got played back in the day trying to snag A-list jobs. And even when she did get hired at two-star boutiques, she was constantly reminded that the cocoa color of her skin stood in the way of a payday or promotions.

  Felinez, however, snaps me back to reality—literally. “No, Pocahontas, I don’t think so!” she says, yanking one of my braids to make her punto.

  “Well, Miss Prickly Pennyweather didn’t know how fabulous we are!” I gripe, writing down more job postings in my notebook, but I decide to wait until later to resume cold calling so I can put on my cheerful voice.

  Despite our layover at the job board, we arrive outside the Fashion Café before the Catwalk announcement is posted. Some of the usual suspects are posed in place.

  “Wazzup, pussycat!” yelps Ice Très. He has a chartreuse messenger bag slung over his shoulder. It’s tagged with his wannabe brand, FASHION THUG in silver metallic letters. I gaze at his sly smile and realize that he may not be as tasty as a Toll House, but he is definitely crunchy. Maybe it’s time to yank Shalimar’s silver spoon. That’s what up, until Zeus rolls up on us. Today, he’s carrying his sweet sound system with a purpose known only to us. “I’m ready to crank it up,” he confesses, crossing paws with Ice Très.

  I stand with a hand on my hip, checking them out while they start riffing about an assignment in Illustration, then switch to the subject of sneakers. Suddenly, Zeus realizes that I’m being left out of the mix. “We’re serious sneakerheads, ya dig?” he explains.

  Meanwhile, Shalimar must also be digging Ice Très, because she rolls right up. “I thought you were waiting outside biology for me?” she asks him boldly. I marvel at her sudden switch in taste sensations: obviously Zeus is no longer the cherry on top of her “opulent” fashion sundae.

  “Oh, I thought you said chemistry,” shrieks Ice Très, guffawing like Roger Rabbit on helium.

  Speaking of infectious laughs, Angora and Aphro finally arrive on the fashion scene, too. Aphro lets out a signature snort to release her anticipation. “It’s time to flip it like burgers, baby, ayiight!” she yelps.

  “No doubt,” adds Ice Très, getting his flirt on, until Shalimar puts his moves into deep freeze.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks him in her best Mrs. Softee voice, pulling him aside.

  Ice Très shrinks inside his hoodie, smiling coyly as he’s dragged to the sidelines.

  “What’s up with that?” Aphro asks me.

  “Shalimar is obviously hoodwinked,” I say offhandedly, trying to keep the situation Lite FM.

  “I wonder what she put in those sachets? Maybe we should have taken a whiff,” adds Felinez.

  “Probably some of that Frankenstein stuff,” Aphro says with conviction.

  “Frankincense,” Angora says.

  “Whatever.” Aphro snorts again, becoming fascinated with the burnished metal symbol on my ceremony necklace. “Oooh, what’s up with this?” asks Aphro. She loves symbolic trinkets from around the world.

  “I think it stands for ‘unity’ in the Iroquois tribe,” I say, trying to remember. I got it last year at Ooophelia’s, but I haven’t worn it yet because I wanted to work it with the right cultural theme, like I always do.

  At last, Ms. Fab’s assistants, Farfalla and Sil Lai, approach with the important papers in their hands.

  “And the winner is!” Aphro says, jumping up and down. Everybody giggles. Except for Shalimar. She stands with Ice Très at her side like she’s a presidential shoe-in. Now Aphro squirms her way up front while I stand pondering whether Ice Très is feeling Shalimar over me.

  “No way, José,” Felinez says out loud, resting her paw on my forearm to balance herself as she stands on her tippy-toes to no avail. “Can you see?”

  “Not a whiff,” I reply as Sil Lai posts the It List on the pink velvet board.

  “Chérie, I can’t see either,” Angora adds, squinting.

  Chandelier Spinelli squeals. “Guess Miss Piggy can see,” I observe, clutching Felinez’s sweaty paw. By now, Aphro has managed to elbow her way to the front of the fashionmongers and yells out loudly to us, “Pashmina Purrstein, that’s what I’m talking about! We’re in the house. We’re in the house. Omigod. Omigod!!”

  “Yes!” I scream, raising my cupped hand in the air.

  “No!” someone screams through their cupped hands like they’re maneuvering a bullhorn.

  “Oh, snap!” yells someone else amid a round of hyena heckles. I don’t turn to glare at the source of the dis. Instead, I let Felinez envelop me in a bear hug. Then I close my eyes and press my head down against her fuzzy hair.

  “We did it, mija!” Felinez says, gurgling against my chest, clutching me tighter. I inhale the sweet scent of Fanta orange soda that always clings to Felinez’s clothes. Sometimes I fiend for Fanta because of Felinez, but I’ve only seen those delicious orange cans in one place: “Uptown, baby, where they sip it down, baby!” I sing in my goofy voice.

  Felinez giggles, then says, “Stop, mija. You’re giving me cramps!”

  I let go quickly. “Oy, I can’t take two floods in one day!”

  Felinez doubles over in laughter or pain; I’m not sure which, so I shut up for a segundo. Now Felinez’s face turns red.

  “I’m just playing!” I say, hugging her again. “Seriously, I can’t do anything without you—not since I’m six.” This time when I open my eyes, Chintzy Colon is standing nearby, staring at me, her eyes wet from fresh tears like she’s a newly crowned beauty pageant contestant.

  “Congratulations,” I coo, over Felinez’s shoulder.

  “I didn’t get it,” Chintzy says, wincing. Then she hides quickly behind her Snap-On Smile. “I’m happy you won, though. You deserve it, Pashmina.”

  Now I feel janky about snapping on her. Chintzy can be cool, even if she’s fortified by artificial sweeteners.

  “I hope you’ll choose me to be in your house,” Chintzy says.

  Felinez grabs my hand, so I slither away without responding, and we make our way to Aphro. I make sure, however, that we end up right near Zeus just in case he wants to beam me up.

  “See, told you I voted for you!” Zeus says enthusiastically, then motions with his index finger to the lunchroom. “I’ma check you inside.”

  I grin like I’m flattered even though I was hoping he would drop a few more corn niblets in my direction. Felinez senses my longing and pulls my sleeve like a ventriloquist so I’ll gush on cue instead and not miss my five minutes of fashion fame. “God, I feel like Miss America!” I say.

  “Don’t say that, mija. You’ll jinx yourself—cuz they always get caught in scandals!” Felinez warns me.

  “Well, maybe I’m taking notes for my own scandal!” I declare joyously, staring at my name, the third on the list, before I make an observation that causes my smile to crumble like blue cheese. “
Why is Shalimar’s name first?”

  Shalimar Jackson

  Willi Ninja, Jr.

  Pashmina Purrstein

  Anna Rex

  Chandelier Spinelli

  “Because it’s in alphabetical order, Miss Paranoid!” Angora says, wrapping her arms around me.

  “Oh, right!” I respond, just in time to spot another sore loser: Moet Major who has cleverly folded her black satin baseball jacket emblazoned with HOUSE OF MOET over her arm.

  “That’s what they have sample sales for,” Aphro says, referring to the sales where designers discard their surplus stock to make way for the next season.

  “Yeah, I guess she let the cork out of the bottle big-time,” I reply. Nonetheless, I feel bad for her, because that could have been me, so we hustle inside the Fashion Café and step to the counter.

  “How’s the shrimp?” Felinez asks chirpily.

  “So fresh, it’ll crawl on your plate by itself,” Velma, the crabby food attendant, shoots back.

  Felinez takes a plate, then advises me to try the crab salad—so she can taste it, of course.

  “No thanks, it sounds too itchy.” Instead, I turn around to scratch my deep desire: to see Zeus, who is perched at a table with his sound system on top of it. He beams at me from across the room. “He’s braving the fashion frontier!” I say excitedly.

  While I’m busy ogling Zeus, all eyes are on Willi Ninja, Jr., who has just pranced into the Fashion Café, grinning from ear to ear, with his crew in tow. Doting Dulce stands to his side, meting out her Spadey sense. She clutches her red patent tote like she’s a fashion victor.

  Suddenly, I overhear Shalimar explaining our private pose-off to Ice Très in a voice louder than a boom box: “We never know when the pose-off is happening until a few hours before. I’m telling you, it’s kept more top-secret than the designs for Barbie dolls, which are kept locked in the Mattel corporate vault!” she shrieks.

  “I wish someone would lock her up in a vault—on time delay—and eat the key!” I grumble at my gumbo.

  “Would you listen to Miss I Wanna Be Down? She’d better get that bourgie tone back in her voice before her parents cash in her stock options,” Aphro observes accurately.