Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  9/30/2008 12:45:45 PM

  Posted by: Twirl Happy 1992

  7

  Staring at the sign-in sheet in the reception area of Ms. Lynx’s office, I shriek when I see that Chandelier Spinelli has already booked her time slot for Studio C to conduct interviews for team members. Sure, she may already have Nole and Elgamela in the Gucci bag, but she still has to enlist talent for her house like the rest of us: by any means necessary. Channeling Zorro, I boldly scrawl my name on the sign-in sheet in the slot for Tuesday from four to six p.m. Then I plop down on one of the gilded chairs with the leopard seat cushions to wait for the blank team member forms that I’ll need to submit after I have selected all my house members. But first, Farfalla has to win her battle with the temperamental Xerox machine.

  “Madonna, ancora! Ma, venga!” Farfalla yelps, shoving the paper tray into its compartment. Pressing the Start button to no avail, Ms. Lynx’s dramatic assistant turns to coaxing: “Oh, please, per favore, va bene?”

  I smile at her, embarrassed, then avert my eyes to the spotted plaque hanging on the closed door of Lynx Lair: WEAR FASHION, OR BE WORN.

  Still no Xeroxes, so I scan the wild inhabitants of Catwalk Central: the bobcat heads mounted on the walls, the carved cheetah bookends standing menacingly on their hind legs, and, crouched in the corner, the leopard ceramic statue with the gaping jaw.

  Suddenly, the door to Ms. Fab’s inner sanctum swings open, and out pops another predator. I stare down at the leopard-skin area rug sprawled by my feet as Chandelier’s babble spills into the reception area. “I can’t believe I got the job!” Chandelier squeals, tossing her stiff, spritzed hair that’s like an overtamed lion’s mane. Then, turning toward Farfalla, Chandelier grandly announces: “I got a job at Betsey Johnson!”

  Like a well-trained fashionista, Farfalla feigns bright-eyed interest even though she’s preoccupied with her Xerox crisis. “Bravo!” she chortles.

  At last, Chandelier floats into the hallway on her fashion-job cloud while my mind starts spinning like a dreidel. How did Chandelier snag a position at Betsey Johnson? What was she doing in Ms. Lynx’s office?

  Ms. Lynx steps out of her lair and looks at me quizzically. “Just waiting for forms,” I inform her.

  “Dov’e Sil Lai?” Ms. Lynx shoots to Farfalla.

  “Lei andata in giro per il tuo cappuccino, ma espero che ritorna subito!” frets Farfalla.

  The commanding Catwalk Director continues speaking to Farfalla in Italian. By now, I’m lost in translation, so I sit mesmerized fantasizing about living la dolce vita in Italy for two weeks in July.

  “Ecco, finalmente!” Farfalla says, refueled by the humming sound of Xerox copies ejecting into the tray.

  Finally is right. Now I’m armed with the necessary forms. “Grazie!” I say, then hightail it into the hallway, but not fast enough to avoid Chintzy.

  “Oh, hey, wazzup,” I say, bracing myself.

  “When are you interviewing?” Chintzy asks eagerly.

  “I thought you wanted to be in Shalimar’s House?” Yesterday I watched while Chintzy stood Splendafied by Shalimar as she dangled a hookup with Grubster PR, one of her father’s investment clients. Of course, the conversation went hush until I faded to fuchsia down the hallway.

  “No way, José,” Chintzy responds.

  “My flyer will be up tomorrow, okay?” I say, stalling. “Right now, I gotta hustle and flow to the Fashion Annex to do research for a quiz!”

  As I clomp in my pink classic Swedish wooden clogs down the stairs, I’m so preoccupied with Chintzy’s sudden desire to walk feline that Zeus spots me first.

  “I knew it was you!” Zeus says, his pale blue eyes squinting at me like I’m a magical looking glass.

  “Oh, I guess you heard my herd,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Where you roaming?” Zeus asks, chuckling.

  “To the library to check on zebra migration patterns,” I jest.

  “That’s always interesting.”

  “Nah—actually, another kind of pattern. Tartans for textile science. I still can’t tell the difference between the Barbecue Plaid and the Braveheart!” I reveal.

  “Oh, the last one’s easy—check out Mel’s kilt,” he advises, but realizes by my blankety that I don’t get it. He quickly adds, “In the movie?”

  “Right.” I nod, trying to picture the Scottish plaid in question, but all I can envision are Mel’s bushy calves. “Are you into kilts?”

  “Could be,” he answers.

  I decide it’s time to bite the catnip. “You’d be an asset to my house—whether you bared your legs or not.”

  Zeus breaks into his squinty-eyed grin again.

  “We’re starting our preinterview strategies tonight at my house at six sharpo,” I babble, holding my breath. “Consider yourself in if you can make it.”

  My cheeks start burning. Why did I put him on blast like that? Shrieking inside, I decide to take it back. “You probably have something more important to do, like scrubbing your sneaker collection.”

  “Nope. Consider me in there like swimwear,” he says calmly.

  “Oh, I get it—it’s Posture Like Pashmina Day,” I quip, scribbling my address on a sheet of paper in my Hello Kitty notebook. Then I get embarrassed because I don’t want to spill the refried beans about Ice Très.

  Zeus squints at me like he wants to ask what I meant, but instead he just riffs, “No doubt.”

  I hand him the scribbled-on paper and he breaks out, explaining that he has to head uptown.

  Right after school, Felinez, Aphro, Angora, and I have to head downtown to the Alley Kat Korner on Avenue A to buy some kitschy items for our first close encounter with a camera: pink-frosted cupcakes, paper plates and cups, and pink popcorn. “These kernels will pop for the camera.” I giggle while Angora picks out posies.

  Operation: Kitty Litter is about to jump off at six o’clock tonight at my apartment. That is, if Mr. Darius and the Teen Style Network crew show up. In the meantime, we get busy pinkifying my crib.

  “Does Zeus know about Operation: Kitty Litter?” Angora asks as she places the flowers in the metallic blue floral vases she’s supplied for the occasion. I’m secretly grateful she left her dad’s rabbit vases at home where they belong.

  “Um, no. And hopefully Mr. Hairiest Darius is on his way,” I say.

  “I’m glad you didn’t tell him. As Ms. Ava says, sometimes the truth is just plain inappropriate.”

  “No wonder enrollment in your mother’s etiquette school is so high. Fiberoni coaching along with napkin placement. Quel resistable,” I add, imitating Angora and throwing our prized pink faux fur tablecloth over the scratched wooden dining room table. “Zeus was psyched about coming over.”

  “Angora, the flowers are beautiful. Que bonita!” Felinez says, sniffing the bouquets of pink roses and delicately spotted yellow Peruvian lilies. Angora has arranged bouquets around the living room and left one as a centerpiece on the dining room table.

  “These are my mother’s favorite—the Dreamland Bouquet. I should send her a bunch to christen her new home on Hysteria Lane,” Angora declares, going on to explain the indignities her mother has to endure “living in a smaller house, like less fabbie neighbors. Speaking of Fabbie, where is my little darling?” Angora keeps cooing until Fabbie Tabby hops onto the couch and waits for Angora to come and pet her to death. It’s a ritual they have.

  “Anybody up for a sip and a flip?” I ask, grabbing the jumbo bottle of ginger ale out of the fridge and the Vogue magazine nestled next to it.

  “Hit me, Pink Head,” Aphro says, lunging at the Vogue like it’s the Holy Grail. “Yo, would you buy a magazine if I were on the cover?”

  “Yeah—National Geographic!” I reply, wondering about another model with cover potential. “I can’t figure out if Zeus is on the loose?”

  “Well, he’s gotta be gay, straight, or très taken.” Angora smiles, then shrugs. “My mom was also giving me dating advice last night on the phone
.”

  “From the woman who still thinks spam is canned lunch meat? S’il vous plaît!” I heckle, taking a swig from the bottle of ginger ale, then belching with gusto.

  Felinez grabs the bottle from me and takes a swig. “That is so ghetto!” Aphro squeals.

  “No, it’s not! Ghetto is when three people take swigs from the same bottle—not two!” Felinez counters.

  “Well, then ghetto couture is inviting Ice Très over,” I slide in nonchalantly.

  “I thought you invited Zeus over?” Angora asks, blinking at my boldness.

  “Yeah, well, I like them both—and according to the game of Spades, whoever has the two of clubs wins the kitty!” I giggle, meowching Felinez.

  “Explain?” Angora asks.

  “We gotta teach you Spades,” I reply, making a note to my fashion self. “Once the cards are dealt, whoever has the two of clubs gets to pick up the six cards left on the table, which are called the kitty. Then they can discard any six cards they want,” I explain. “So maybe I’ll be doing the discarding!”

  “Mijas, the real question is, why would a tasty sabor like Zeus wanna join our house?” Felinez interrupts.

  “He digs our theme and our dream—and hopefully me too,” I say wistfully. “That reminds me. Chintzy Colon also wants to join our house.”

  “No way, José!” Felinez objects.

  “She could be an asset,” I counter, because I’m not at all surprised by her reaction.

  “I’m telling you, mija, she’s a sneaky senorita!” Felinez says, taking a bottle of pills out of her purse.

  “Okay,” I snap. “Note to fashion self: shelve this discussion until later. And what is that you’re trying to shove in your blue boca?”

  I grab the bottle out of Felinez’s hand despite her protestation: “Michelette took them—they really work!”

  “ ‘Burn, Baby, Burn’?” I say, scanning the label. “Do you see what that says? ‘These statements have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration.’ ”

  “Maybe they don’t have time to evaluate everything!” Felinez argues.

  Aphro lets out a snort. “You need to stop.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You’re skinny. What about me?” Felinez blurts out.

  She is freaking. “I hope you can keep it locked down in front of the camera crew,” I warn her.

  “Por que no? Why not? You’re gonna show them the leaks in the ceiling! All you wanna do is embarrass Mr. Darius! Why shouldn’t I show them my cracks? Pudgy, pobrecita gordita Felinez! Your best friend—por vida!”

  “Fifi Cartera, I cannot cope right now. Can you please put a baste stitch in your ego until we can mend it properly later?” I beg my best friend.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and I’m so relieved to be off kitty pity duty that I lunge for it. I fling it open only to see my favorite zebra-striped mink hat. Zeus catches the kaflustered expression on my face. “I’m still invited to be a member, right?” he asks, smiling.

  “Abso-freakin’-lutely!” I say, flopping my arms around his carved muscular torso, which is hard as stone, probably from his skateboarding antics out on Monyville, Long Island. I get my blush on—again. The rest of my crew senses my seismic reaction like they’re earthquake experts, so I try to render their reading inaccurate by turning the dial to Lite FM: “How did you get up here without ringing the intercom?”

  “Oh, right,” he says, wondering if he did something wrong. “These two little girls let me in. They ran up to me in the courtyard, and asked if they could feel my hat!”

  It figures. Everybody wants a piece of Zeus for conservation. “Don’t tell me: Stellina and Tiara, right?”

  “Yeah. They’re really hyped,” Zeus says, nodding.

  “They are our resident models-in-training,” I explain, then babble on about my plans to open the House of Pashmina fashion show with trot-ready guest tween models.

  Zeus keeps nodding, then looks at me like he didn’t see me earlier. “I dig this look. It’s different from the other day?”

  “Yeah, this is my Diehard-Dutch-Girl look,” I say, blushing, then patting the front of the cotton flowered kerchief tied on my head.

  “By the way, how’d your interview go at Betsey Johnson?”

  I freeze. So does Aphro. We look at each other like, Where’d he get this tiddy from?

  “Ice Très told me,” Zeus pipes up, sensing static. “I guess Shalimar told him?”

  “What what in the butt?” Aphro blurts.

  Zeus doubles over laughing from Aphro’s outburst.

  “Um, I think what Aphro is trying to say is, we did not have an interview at Betsey Johnson. Chandelier got that job, anyway,” I say, trying to keep the situation static free. Zeus nods, puzzled. Now the intercom rings. I answer it and hear Caterina’s voice. “I’ll be right down,” I inform her chirpily.

  As I walk out the door, Angora comes to close it behind me. “I can’t believe Ice Très isn’t here yet.”

  Angora purses her lips. “He’ll be here.”

  “Handle her,” I whisper, this time nodding toward Felinez. Angora winks and nods. Fifi is definitely stressing. But she’s right about one thing: maybe I am more interested in pulling a prank than taking care of business. Suddenly, I start having second thoughts. Well, they’re here and I have to explain somehow why my building looks like the “before” shot on Extreme Home Makeover while Shalimar’s looks like the “after.”

  My neighbor, Mrs. Paul, walks out of her apartment and joins me at the elevator bank, clutching the faux tortoiseshell handle on her vintage purse like she’s carrying a pitchfork inside. Mrs. Paul never smiles, at least not at me.

  When the elevator comes, Mrs. Paul gets in first. “It’s hot in here. Or is it me?” I ask, flapping my crocheted babydoll tee against my chest for ventilation.

  “Don’t get lippy with me,” Mrs. Paul mumbles.

  “Right,” I say politely, fleeing from the elevator as soon as the door opens to the lobby. I can’t help it; my clunky wooden clogs clop heavily onto the faux marble floor. Stellina and Tiara bolt to the front door and announce to the camera crew, “Pink Head taught us how to vogue! You wanna see?”

  “Who’s Pink Head?” Caterina asks, amused.

  “Me. It’s my nickname,” I explain. “It means a friend of felines who worships at the altar of pinkdom.” Pink Head, Blue Boca. Now the nicknames that Felinez and I annointed ourselves when we were hot totties seem radickio. But Caterina beams, so I stop blushing. She then instructs the camera crew to start filming the tiny fashionistas in action. “How old are you?” she asks Stellina.

  Striking a pose, Stellina bats her lashes and replies, “I don’t give out that information.”

  I shrug, and grin in approval. Some of my neighbors gather around to see what’s going on. “Lord, what they giving away?” Mrs. Watkins asks, rushing over. She works at the supermarket across the street and becomes so excited at the prospect of a freebie that she almost drops one of the three grocery bags she’s juggling.

  “We’re primping for prime time,” Tiara explains matter-of-factly.

  Mrs. Watkins beams with pride. “Shoot, I ain’t too old to be a model. Y’all should have me in the competition. I would tell them people at Piggly to get Wiggly cuz I’m gone!”

  After a few minutes of clicks and more cackling, Caterina motions for the crew to head to the elevator. Mrs. Watkins follows us. “Heard someone in Queens won sixty-three million yesterday,” she announces to anyone who’ll listen. Mrs. Watkins is referring to the New York Mega Millions lottery. She buys tickets every week. “How come nobody in Harlem ever win?” No one answers her. Meanwhile, Boom the cameraman pans the lens across the graffiti-lined walls. “Oh,” I say nonchalantly, “we’ve been trying to get that cleaned up forever, but our landlord, Mr. Darius, won’t do anything.”

  Caterina quickly changes the subject. “Of all the supermodels, who do you like?” she asks, shoving the microphone in my face.
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br />   “The ones who personify feline fatale,” I quip.

  “What about Tidy Plume?” Caterina asks, which makes me realize she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  “Um, no, she’s more like couture confection.”

  Caterina goes blankety.

  “A Barbie doll. Too perfect,” I explain, sounding calm, but I’m sweating profusely and worried my underarms may start venting despite the extra applications of Arrid Extra Dry that I glommed on for this uncertain occasion.

  “Um, I think that Tyra Banks or Moona—” I start in, but I can tell Caterina’s gone blankety again.

  “She’s the model from Somalia, the SNAPS cosmetics spokesperson? I think she has feline fatale appeal,” I continue, realizing that my teacher Ms. London is right. Black models don’t get the hype that white models do, or Caterina would be up on Moona, too.

  The silence is thick in the elevator, but I’m grateful for the small things at the moment. “Thank gooseness it’s working, because yesterday it wasn’t,” I say, smiling apologetically. When the elevator door opens onto my floor, I shut my mouth like a Venus flytrap at the sight of Chenille. True to her stoic nature, she ignores the camera crew and glumly announces, “I’m going down to Reesy’s.”

  I nod approvingly like a good older sister and quickly usher the film crew inside: Chenille can make her coins, but she is not stealing my camera cues.

  Once inside, I secretly hope that Ice Très has beamed himself up to my apartment like Scotty in Star Trek while I was gone. One look at Angora, however, tells me that’s not the case, so I go into my Catwalk house leader mode, initiating introductions all around. Then I hesitantly inform everyone. “We’re having a few, um, technical difficulties but hopefully Mr. Darius, the landlord, will keep his appointment to remedy the bathroom situation soon,” I say emphatically into the camera.