Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “I can’t believe she’s digging him,” I say, puzzled.

  “Puhleez.” Aphro hmmphs. “She’s just sprinkling him to show us she can can.”

  Secretly, I wish Ice Très would spread some of his sprinkles around again, like he did during elections. “I wonder what she really put in those sachets,” I repeat, shaking my head as Shalimar continues to babble:

  “The trick is to hang loose and be ready for the signal. Like with musical chairs. Cuz once the hankie is dropped, you’re supposed to stop whatever you’re doing and start posing for points.”

  “She did not say for points,” Aphro blurts out in disbelief. “She is such a shamorama. And always gotta explain everything in such big ‘O’ detail.”

  Leana, the other Fashion Café attendant, starts in: “You lucky I don’t know how to vogue—cuz I’d show y’all how the real heffas shake it!” Cackling loudly, Leana drops a dollop of gooey gumbo on Shalimar’s plate.

  I turn just in time to catch the Last of the Mohicans: Nole Canoli and his crew making their timely entrance. His late arrival signals that the pose-off is about to be on. Dame Leeds looks around the café like an undercover spy, then snags a broom and runs to the door. He slides the broom sideways into the door handles, securing them. Now that the door is barred, absolutely no one will be allowed to enter the Fashion Café until the pose-off is finito.

  “So much for the Teen Style Network,” I say with relief.

  The crowd breaks out into a loud round of claps and piercing yelps. Nole and his crew join Chandelier and Tina at their table, letting it be publicly known where his allegiance stands. After exchanging air kisses, Chandelier cuts her slice of pizza with a plastic fork and knife, like she’s Princess Kryon at a socialite luncheon.

  I’m too excited to sit down, and I can’t afford to take my eyes off Willi Ninja, Jr. None of us can. We’re waiting for our five minutes of fame.

  In true dramatic form, Willi Ninja, Jr., signals the chef to hook him up with the special. “But don’t worry about a napkin, cuz I’m gonna use my hankie! OOPS!” he yells loudly, dropping his white cotton hankie with a flourish on the floor, and falling into a vogue step before his body hits the shiny pink-and-gray linoleum.

  Zeus cranks up the music: bold lyrics delivered in the falsetto voice of a male singer over the spaced beats of hip-hop music.

  “This is house, my house! In my house we work our theme like the Dream Team. The theme of my house is more than a feeling. It’s homage to house maximus à la mode. It’s an attitude I’m taking straight to the bank. Homage to house maximus. Bank on my house. Next to Gucci, they get loosey. Next to Prada, there’s nada. Next to my house there is victory maximus. Homage to house. For real fashionistas. Because that’s what’s up. You must obey the rules in my house, so repeat after me. This is house, my house! And this is my homage maximus. Pose struck!”

  The music vibrates with thunderous bass as all the students in the lunchroom break out in elaborate poses to profess our undying love for fashion. My lungs are filled with pride as I quickly observe that every single student has stepped to the Catwalk challenge. As usual, some of the more dedicated voguers have elevated their posing to a higher level by jumping on top of a lunchroom table. I stay on the floor so that I can meet Willi’s gaze as he challenges each of the other four house leaders—including me. Ninja, Jr., approaches me, utilizing the clean, sharp movements inspired by martial arts that earned his legendary father the moniker he passed on to his adopted son.

  Screams of “Work, supermodel or be worked!” are heard over the hypnotic hip-hop beats.

  I beam at Angora, Aphro, and even Felinez, who is no slouch in the voguing department. She has her own salsafied ways of moving, which I love. Angora moves carefully, but I can tell she is serving her soufflé, as she would say. One day, I know that Angora is gonna break out and vogue like a real supermodel. I know she can.

  I try to quickly take it all in: Willi Ninja, Jr., approaches Chandelier’s camp. Nole is holding Countess Coco and voguing, beaming like a proud fashion papa. Elgamela Sphinx gyrates her hips like a dreamy genie rising from a bottle. I know Elgamela is going to make the fiercest catwalker, and I feel a twinge of sadness that she won’t be in my house. Now I cut my eyes over to Shalimar, who is voguing with Ice Très. Once his eyes meet mine, he slithers toward me and vogues in my face, trying to press his body against mine. I block him with my outstretched arms, pushing him away. Shalimar’s shady eyes rest on me, so I decide to go with Ice Très’s flow just to set her off.

  “Twirl!” Aphro shouts, watching Willi Ninja, Jr., who has just picked up Elgamela. In return, she stretches out her arms with complete abandon. After he puts her down to a round of applause, Willi Ninja, Jr., picks up the hankie and stretches his arms in a final pose, signaling the end of our pose-off.

  Zeus turns off his tasty track, “Homage to House.” Then Dame Leeds removes the broom from the doors to the Fashion Café, but not before we get off another round of victory claps. For one more year, fashionistas have pulled off our private pose-off without prying eyes upon us.

  “Major purr points for Miss Angora,” I say proudly.

  Once the doors are swung open, the Teen Style Network crew waltzes in. Their timing is perfect—for us. Zeus zooms past me with his sound system tucked under his arm, obviously on his way to his locker to hide the evidence. “Did you lace those lyrics yourself?” I shout after him.

  He nods in the affirmative and hustles over quickly. “I’m honored to have been a part of this. I’ve never seen anything so tight before!”

  “Well, you get major purr points for mixing,” I profess. Now that it’s official, I have to lure Zeus into my house. The top cat in the hat could seriously hook up the music for my fashion show.

  As if reading my mind about plucking potential candidates for my house, Zeus offers, “Have you seen Dame Leeds’s portfolio?”

  “No,” I say, wincing. Zeus seems tight with Dame Leeds, but Dame Leeds leads to Nole Canoli, and that fashion trail can only lead to Chandelier Spinelli.

  “You know Dame?” Aphro asks, impressed. She rests her head on my shoulder, still out of breath from posing.

  “For a minute,” Zeus says, fiddling with his hat.

  “He never talks to us,” Aphro says matter-of-factly.

  Dame Leeds’s ears must be buzzing like a yellow-jacket, because he motions for Zeus to come over. Zeus shrugs and humbly says, “I’m glad you dug the track.”

  As Zeus trails off, Aphro yells after him: “I think she digs more than that!”

  I shove Aphro like a harried passenger on the IRT: hard and with no regard.

  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!!

  PUERTO RICAN PRIDE IS MORE THAN A PARADE

  After the nominations for the house leaders were posted yesterday, there were five winners and eight losers. Like in all elections, there were mucho factors at play—such as fashion, foes, and just plain forgery. Sorry, but call me a stickler for creative arithmetic, esta bien? For example, everybody knew Willi Ninja, Jr., was going to be nominated—he was even given the honor of dropping the hankie for our pose-off. If you ask me, that’s not what a real election is supposed to be. I mean, I’m not into hating or anything, but just because someone has inherited his pedigree from a parent who was a voguing legend—even if said legend did model in fashion shows for Claude Montana in Paris—that doesn’t make him qualified to be the best house leader, esta bien? What about candidates like Chintzy Colon or Sarabelia Rodriguez, who couldn’t possibly win because they don’t have the same kind of street cred or, for that matter, enough Latin constituents to shoulder the vote? Does that mean they aren’t qualified to lead a house? Yo pienso que no. I don’t think so. Latin influence on fashion extends way beyond Carmen Miranda wearing fruit baskets on her head, even if that was a pop
ular theme with drag queens like Tropicana and Flotilla de Barge in last year’s Puerto Rican Day Parade. Doesn’t anybody care that in the thirty-five years since the Catwalk competition began, there hasn’t been one Latin house leader elected? Not one? Por que? Doesn’t that go against the multicultural mission that our school’s founding father, William Dresser, had for Fashion International? This is why I’m strongly advising fashionistas with a conscience to use the Teen Style Network coverage this year to voice our pride in all things multicultural. Then maybe next year a Latin candidate will stand a chance of getting elected and being noticed for more than just her tasty chorizos! Must Latin talent always wear bananas on their heads to get noticed? Parate, okay? Stop signs are red for a reason!

  9/25/2008 10:35:44 PM

  Posted by: Cha Cha Heels

  6

  The hallways are buzzing like beehives from the success of our pose-off. Even Ice Très is trying to store honey for the coming winter. “You posed for purr points. I’m digging it, pussycat,” he coos, winking coyly at me as Aphro and I sashay down the hall.

  “Then why don’t you come to my house?” I offer boldly. If Shalimar wants a pillow fight, let the goose feathers fly.

  “You haven’t seen my portfolio, but you want me in your house?” he counters coyly.

  “Rewind. This is prequel to a sequel, hopefully. I said come to my house, not be in my house. And bring your portfolio if you want. We’re having a preinterview strategy meeting,” I explain, then hit him with the time and locale like a professional house leader.

  “Okay, your crib, I got you,” Ice Très says, accenting his nod with another wink.

  I try to pretend that I’m just scouting talent, which I am—sort of.

  Meanwhile, Aphro’s trying to suppress a smile, but Ice Très’s goofiness is even melting her sugar cane shell, not that she’ll admit it. “That’s a lot of winking and blinking, if you ask me,” she says, and hmmphs as we exit the apiary.

  “Who’s asking?” I gently nudge Aphro down the stairs and squeal, “Showgirls!” Last Saturday night we all watched this scandalabrious movie on TV at her place about two competing Las Vegas showgirls prancing around with the most awesome plumage on their heads. Anyhoo, one of them pushes the other down a flight of stairs to secure star status in the show. Sure their ways are wicked. Just like the fashion biz.

  “Well, it could lead to a hoodwink, that’s all I’m saying.” Aphro continues. I ignore Aphro because I’m feeling hyped by the fact that Ice Très accepted my prescreening invite. “Purr points. He’s good.” I giggle, marveling at Ice Très’s dead-on imitation of moi. “M.O. to the I.”

  Aphro and I head to the job board for more cold calls, but after fifteen calls, “chilly” would be a more appropriate word.

  “What a buzz-kill. Don’t they know I’m the leader of the House of Pashmina?” I gripe to Aphro while I force myself to keep dialing for dollars.

  Finally, we get an appointment at Loungewear Lulu, a flagship boutique on West Broadway off Grand, which manufactures its own line of leisure and loungewear—or so explains the nasal person on the other end of the phone.

  “I’ve never heard of this designer before. Have you?” Aphro asks me, twirling one of the feathered ends of the sequined purple lariat artfully wrapped three times around her long graceful neck, setting off the short, chic, sharp lines of her Cleopatra bob.

  “No, I can’t say I’ve seen Lulu riffing about ruffles on the Teen Style Network,” I declare, “but that’s what I dig about the fashion biz—another day, another designer.”

  Chenille walks past us, barreling toward the exit. “Hey, Chenille. Was you at the pose-off?” Aphro asks.

  “No, but I gotta pose my way to a client,” my showoff sister announces proudly.

  “Well, sashay to a payday,” I suggest sharply. Chenille takes my hint and saunters on her merry way. Secretly, I feel a twinge of Gucci Envy that my younger sister is snagging ducats before I do, but I say, “I don’t understand how she plans to get into one of the houses if she can’t even represent at the pose-off.”

  “I know. It’s unbeweavable,” retorts Aphro.

  “Bet this. I won’t be calling on Shrek’s secret assistant to be in my house—and she can take that to Banco Popular,” I sassyfrass.

  My cell phone does a ringy-ding. “It’s my mother calling again.” I assure her that I’ll be home by six o’clock to let Mr. Darius in to fix the toilet. But I protest, “You think he coulda came this morning?”

  “Never mind that. It’s not like there was anybody home who needed to use the toilet,” my mom gripes in the agitated tone she gets when she deals with Mr. Darius.

  “Well, it’s a good thing Fabbie didn’t have company,” I joke, but Mom is not in the mood, so I quickly change my iTune. “Don’t you want to know where I’m going now?” I ask teasingly, then blurt it out before she responds. “I have a job interview in SoHo!”

  I should have known, however, that my mom would take this info to negative town: “Can’t you find something further uptown? I don’t like the idea of you traveling so far, especially at night.”

  I stand still, tapping my foot, listening to my mom as she drones on about the sharp increase in predators on the prowl for pubescent flesh.

  “Well, I guess I’m lucky I’m not wearing my red hoodie today to tempt the hungry wolves,” I retort, anxious to eighty-six this conversation. Instead, I succeed in further pissing off my mother, who drops the latest crime statistics before she releases me from her rant.

  “Bad kitty! I should be declawed,” I grumble after snapping my cell phone shut like a Venus flytrap.

  “What you shouldn’t have to do is deal with Mr. Darius,” counters Aphro.

  I shrug, unfazed. “Frankly, I think Big Daddy Boom should watch a few reruns of Flip This House and pick up pointers. Consider yourself lucky Mrs. Maydell is a homeowner.”

  “Actually, she ain’t, and Mr. Maydell lets us know every time they get into a fight,” Aphro says, and provides a gruff demonstration: “This is my house—I’m the one making the mortgage payments around here so y’all better straighten up and fly right!”

  Mr. Maydell is kinda scary; according to Aphro, he’s always ready to rumble with her younger foster brother, Lennix, for the slightest infractions.

  I feel a breeze by my ear as Chandelier and Dame Leeds whiz by us, chomping on strategy cuds like hype-hungry cows. “I’ve got all the members I need to win. Getting the rest of my team together is going to be easy breezy,” Chandelier brags.

  “I heard that, Miss Thing,” agrees the dramatic hairstylist. “And you know I’m going to work it for points on the Dow Jones. I’m thinking we should feature short hair so we can angle the dangles—chandelier karats!”

  I try not to cringe as I concede that Dame won’t be working his dangle-proof drama for our house.

  “What about you, Miss Pashmina?” Chandelier turns and asks me in her taunting voice. “Who’s down with feline fatale? Meowch!”

  Aphro and I pretend we don’t hear her, so she continues dropping lines from her brag book. “Don’t know why I’m bothering going on this job interview, because I know it’s already mine!” she says with assurance, then pecks Dame on both cheeks like they do in Europe.

  “Snag it, Gucci girl!” shrieks Dame, pecking back before he hurries down the hallowed hallway.

  “Oh, bye, Miss Aphro … scratch, scratch!” Chandelier singsongs before grandly descending down the stairs to the doorway of the main entrance, where the attention deficient can get stroked by the ogle-ready Dalmation techies who linger outside after school.

  “Why she always putting me on blast?” Aphro asks, her eyes blazing.

  “Because she knows you call her Gucci hoochie behind her back.” I giggle as Aphro and I walk toward the less frequented Eighth Avenue exit, for those of us whose own initials are enough, like Bottega Veneta.

  “Chan-dee-le-ay better not be going on the same job interview we are.” Aphro
groans in protest as I fling open the door.

  “Don’t even trip—” I start in, ready to squash her doubts, but squash my riff instead when I spot the Teen Style Network crew crouched right outside the pink wrought-iron gates. By reflex, I adjust the headband plastered to the center of my forehead. The lady hones right in on us like a heat-seeking fashion missile. “Hi, I’m Caterina Tiburon. I’m the field producer for Teen Style Network—assigned to cover the Catwalk competition,” she announces, confidently extending her right hand. Her handshake is firm and forceful in contrast to the soft, rumpled condition of her drab, baggy khakis and pocket-plenty camouflage jacket. Secretly, I wonder if Caterina Tiburon has gone AWOL from the U.S. Army. She isn’t exactly what I expected a producer from the Teen Style Network to look like.

  Before I respond to her courteous introduction, I tug down my mini from the micro end. “Hi, I’m Pashmina Purrstein.”

  “You’re one of the house leaders, right?” she asks rhetorically, her eyes darting around at the other students coming out of the building.

  “Yes,” I say proudly.

  “We knew she would get elected,” Aphro chimes in. “True talent always rises above the din of the sales bin!”

  I keep the Silly Putty smile plastered on my face despite the fact that Aphro sounds like one of the shady fabric merchants on Orchard Street—desperate to move bolts of raw silk that will unravel as soon as you get them home.

  Caterina smiles faintly, then cuts right to her yardage requirements. “I’d like to get you on camera.”

  I freeze, but luckily my lips move. “Abso—um, yeah … of course,” I say, fussing with my headband again.

  “Not now,” Caterina clarifies, excusing herself; then she whispers to Jay and a tall guy crouched next to metal cases of camera equipment. After she finishes, the tall one comes over. “By the way, I’m Boom,” he says, extending his hand. I wonder what they’re up to, but the way Boom cracks a smile puts me at ease.