Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Bobby Beat takes the glasses off the top of his head and puts them on to read the credo. “Truly fabulous!” he agrees. I exhale, satisfied that I have at least channeled some of my agitation into something constructive for our cause. And I also managed to snag a bona fide makeup artist for our house. “Okay, I’ve got to twirl,” Bobby says excitedly. “After the shows, I have to get to work.”

  “When do you work?” I ask, my ears perking up at the mention of a job.

  “Honey, I work twenty-four-seven,” Bobby says evasively.

  “Yes, I should have known, Superman—the glasses were a clue,” I coo.

  Bobby air-kisses each of us on each cheek, including Angora, who blushes. “Mademoiselle Blue Beret, that’s how they do it in Europe—so get used to it!” he advises.

  I’m relieved that the static between them was squashed. I would have felt fried if we didn’t snag Bobby Beat for our house. When he sails away, Felinez says, “See, not everything is bad. I really like him.”

  “Yeah, I do too. Let’s perch in our catty corner,” I say, feeling inspired by Bobby Beat’s effusive energy. “If he beats like he talks, then he’s the second Rembrandt.”

  “C’est vrai! That’s the truth,” Angora agrees.

  We always sit four tables back from the entrance of the café, which affords us a panoramic view of the floor show, as we call lunchtime antics.

  Zeus and Lupo burst through the door, looking wild-eyed—like everyone is today—obviously searching for clues of intelligent life in fashion land. They spot us and sit down to cross paws. “I just wanna give you a heads-up. Ice Très is in Mr. Confardi’s office.”

  “Why do I get the feeling the other platform shoe is about to drop,” I moan, mortified that Zeus knows about my situation. I’ve even given up hope that he’s ready to tango with me. Why would he want to? I’m the object of affection of a magic marker gone haywire.

  “Pashmina?” Zeus repeats, and I realize he has been trying to bend my ear some more. “I just saw the camera crew coming out of Ms. Fab’s office, too.”

  “You don’t think—?” I freeze, wondering if I’m gonna be the source of more shame for my house.

  “Nah, nah,” Zeus says, waving his hand like a freestyle paw.

  I start coughing wildly.

  “You all right? Va bene?” asks Lupo.

  I cough and nod at the same time, then sip some water till I regain use of my larynx. I try to resume eating. That’s when I notice a long dark hair resting on my pasta.

  “Not mine,” Zeus says, running his fingers through his wild wavy hair. “Want me to take it back?”

  “Yeah, get Velma to handle this, cuz I don’t think that’s a hair from an angel,” I explain, handing him my plate of capellini.

  My cell phone rings and I shriek because I forgot to turn it off. Even a fashion toad would know that today is definitely not the day to break any more Fashion International rules like the one clearly posted on the wall of the Fashion Café: EAT YOUR JELLY, BUT NIX THE CELLY.

  Angora covers me while I discreetly grab the phone out of my purse and see that the number belongs to exactly the person I’d like to avoid right now, the prying Teen Style producer, Caterina Tiburon.

  “Tales from the Crypt, part two?” I moan, getting paranoid.

  “Answer it!” Angora orders me.

  “Hello, Kaflamma Central,” I answer in the voice of my chirpy alter ego.

  Caterina doesn’t miss a beat. Obviously in her line of work she’s seen more than her share of fashion alter egos—or just plain egos.

  “I wanted to give you a heads-up,” she begins.

  “Wazzup?” I query hesitantly, wondering why I am suddenly the recipient of so many heads-up today.

  “Tune in to Channel Two news tonight, five o’clock—there might be a segment of interest to you.”

  “Omigod!” I shriek before I realize what I’ve said. Felinez and Angora snicker. “Is this about Chandelier?”

  Felinez and Angora close in on me like an invasion of body snatchers is about to take place. In her typical cagey fashion, Caterina doesn’t give me a straight answer. “It just may be something of interest to you.”

  “Awright. I’m on it,” I say, sick to my stomach as I sign off. Then I tell my crew what Caterina said.

  Zeus comes back with a fresh plate of capellini. I push it away. “I’m sick,” I confess, reporting the phone call to Zeus. “I think we might be getting the ax.”

  “You mean, like, cut from the competition, or losing a limb?” Zeus asks.

  “Could be either,” I say, kaflustered. “Forget about catfights. With these latest developments, I honestly think fashion is going to the dogs—for real.”

  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!!

  YOU’D BETTER WORK, SUPERMODELS….

  Today was the official start of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week in New York City—the only place in the world I would rather be than Paris, Milan, or Firenze next June (opening the Pitti Bimbo show, if I’m lucky—and I think I will be now that I have hooked up with the most purrlicious house in the Catwalk competition this year!). Anyhoo, back to foundation basics: I waited three years for the moment I could walk into the glamour-fortified tents at Bryant Park with an access pass—instead of hiding in the folds of the tent for a behind-the-scenes peek! More than 100 spring collections will sashay the runways under the over-guarded tents during the course of five days at Bryant Park, and other nearby venues (because not every design house can afford to sell their embryos in exchange for a spot in the park!). The spring shows are held every year in the fall and the fall shows are held in the spring. (Got it?) The fall fashions you are seeing in the stores now were shown earlier this year—that means last spring, when I was merely a junior, so those collections were not christened by my eyes! The lag between showtime and shipping gives the press and retail buyers ample time to manipulate the fashion crystal ball so you will think you’ve made your own selections to hang in your closet. (You don’t honestly believe you have been put on this planet to make your own choices, do you?) Anyhoo, I adore the anticipation, the music, the models, the fashion makers pacing to and fro with scissors, sandwiches, and sponges—and, of course, the goodie bags placed so delicately on each guest’s chair! Street-smart fashionistas remove the appointed goodie bag from their seat and plop it immediately into their kiss-lock purses to be on safe side. (Swag looting is on the rise, so guard your goodies with a vengeance, my dears!) More than the goodie bags, I honestly just love seeing inspired fashion brought to life. By the way, I spent more than three hours in line with my fellow senior fashion classmates to get our student access badges with nothing more than my sponges and Booty Dust, which I applied generously to everyone in line. I say, who needs kitty litter, when you have glitter? It’s simply all-purpose! Anyhoo, I’m not bwitchin’ about the long lines that come with being a die-hard fashionista. I don’t even mind that I cannot take off my Dolce loafers right now because my feet are so swollen. I’ve decided that I’ll just sleep with them on.

  The other reason why I was so electrified today is because I also met some feline fashionistas with whom I plan to align myself so we can “scratch, scratch” out the Catwalk competition at our school next June! With no disrespect to the creativity I witnessed today at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, the Catwalk competition means more to me because I will finally be an important ingredient in a fierce fashion enchilada. Sorry, I must be getting famished again—gotta go get my sponges and Booty Dust out, so I can beat some more faces …!

  10/10/2008 11:45:22 PM

  Posted by: SpongeBob

  10

  Next period, I have model appreciation. I’m so scared that I’m going to be dragged like an alley cat into another scrappy situation that I don’t even look up from my notebook in class. “The Trinity of Terror was n
ot a left-wing Palestinian organization but the reign of which three supermodels?” asks the teacher, Ms. Boucle. Her ample chest heaves with anticipation while she waits for a response. “Anybody?” No one volunteers. “Pashmina?”

  I feel a poke in my back that startles me back to reality. I look up and see everyone staring at me.

  “What, what?” I ask, embarrassed by my trip to the Bozo sphere. Ms. Boucle pushes her thick red glasses up on the bridge of her nose disapprovingly. Ruthie Dragon, who is seated in front of me, raises her hand energetically.

  “Yes, Ruthie,” Ms. Boucle says, putting her hands on her hips and throwing me a glance like I’m watching you Pinkie.

  “Um, it was Linda Evangelista, Christy Turlington, and Naomi Campbell!” Ruthie says enthusiastically. I am so over her. I thought we were on the same fashion page, but she didn’t even show up for my team interviews. Then I find out that she’s joined Chandelier’s house, or perhaps I should say chop shop.

  Suddenly, there’s a loud outburst right below our second-floor classroom, which faces Thirty-eighth Street. A few students jump up and peer out the half-opened windows to check out the action. Even Ms. Boucle adjusts the extra-wide red lizard belt trapping her waist and waddles over to the scene of an unfolding drama. I sit frozen in my chair, paralyzed by my own fears. Ruthie Dragon turns from the window and shoots me a look like You’d better get over here and check this out. I make a fire-breathing face at her like Don’t make me slay you, okay. I figure the commotion outside probably has something to do with Chandelier. No doubt she’s finally gracing us with her notorious presence. And with the chop shop heiress’s dumbfounding luck, her father has probably already bribed his way out of prison by donating a few hardened arteries to the Police Athletic League.

  “PASHMINA!!”

  The guttural scream from outside is so visceral, my veins turn to warm milk. Now everyone in class turns to look at me. I jump up and run to the window. Ice Très stands tall, looking up at the window, waving like he’s looking for someone—me. Mr. Confardi hovers by the entrance and barks at him, “A suspension isn’t enough? We can head right to expulsion if you’d like. As a matter of fact, why don’t you apply to the School of Visual Arts, where your talents would be more appreciated!”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Confardi. I just wanted to say good bye to someone real quick before I jet,” Ice Très offers in a feeble voice.

  “Friday, awright?” yells Ice Très, still waving to get my attention. I stand still like a dummy—a real one—because I can’t help wondering, How did I ever get myself involved in this corny kaflamma?

  “Everybody go back to your seats, please,” orders Ms. Boucle. “The show is over!”

  Felinez is waiting for me outside class, and I’m so embarrassed that I’m the one who’s now walking like a fashion felon on a perp walk. Shalimar is standing squarely outside like she’s waiting for me and ready to rumble. In her case, however, that merely means extra-heavy doses of lash batting. She’s wearing a brown flowered wrap dress. “I see we’ve been reduced to wearing consignment shop finds,” I say, observing the vintage of Shalimar’s nineties-looking Diane von Furstenberg dress.

  “She’s already handed in her forms to Ms. Lynx’s office,” Felinez informs me like it’s good news.

  “So?” I hiss back. Just what I needed—an annoying reminder that I haven’t handed in my team membership forms yet.

  “So that means she just got a strike since Ice Très got suspended,” Felinez says defensively.

  “Oh, right,” I say apologetically, scanning the Catwalk rules and regulations in my mind: Any infraction by team members results in an automatic strike, which will be calculated into the judges’ tally for your house’s final overall score.

  “We should consider ourselves lucky he didn’t show up to the meeting, mija. That’s all I’m saying,” Felinez adds.

  “Luck is a funny thing, isn’t it?” I muse, staring at Shalimar head-on. Shalimar turns away sheepishly. “That also means Ice Très got disqualified as a team member in her house as a result of his suspension. Now I can see it. She’s become unglued at her Shimmy Choos.”

  Angora joins us and, true to her journalistic nature, delivers an update. “Calls from Chandelier were fielded by Mr. Confardi’s office. I got that from a reliable source. Even better,” she says, trying to look over at Shalimar, “you missed a certain person’s Coty Fashion Critics’ Awards performance in Ms. Lynx’s office fourth period. And I got that from an even more reliable source.”

  “Crocodile tears?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Au contraire,” Angora tells me.

  I gloat for a segundo, then turn glum. Shalimar may be shedding real tears, but I am far from shedding my real fears. “We don’t have a leg up on the competition yet,” I say apprehensively. “What we do have is a head’s-up from Caterina that we have to deal with.”

  “Let’s wait for Zeus,” advises Angora. “We need all the back-watching we can get in this lipstick jungle.” I smile, realizing that she is already quoting quips from Bobby Beat, our latest addition to the House of Pashmina.

  As soon as Aphro comes out, then Zeus, we all head uptown to my house. Zeus stays zip-lipped on the subject of Ice Très. But Aphro is anxious to gloat and just can’t miss the shopportunity to seal it with a dis. “I told you to watch out for Mr. Blinking and Winking,” she snarls at me.

  I nod like I’m listening.

  “Hi, Pashmina,” screams Stellina, running out of the courtyard as if she’s been waiting for me. “The cameras were here!” she says, like she’s giving me gossip so hot her little fingers are scorching.

  “I know,” I say with a giggle. At least I can feel proud about one thing: how hyped Stellina and Tiara are about being included in the Teen Style camera crew’s visit to my humble abode.

  “They were talking to Big Daddy Boom,” she continues.

  “I know,” I say, secretly hoping my on-camera prank doesn’t backfire on me one day.

  “Can I touch your hat again?” Stellina squeals to Zeus.

  “Sure—cuz you have that Midas touch,” Zeus answers. He can tell by the look on Stellina’s face that she isn’t following his drift, so he just smiles and bends down so she can get her paws on his plushness.

  As usual, Mr. Darius is in fine form. He and José, his assistant, are assembling the massive mountain of recyling bags that must be left curbside for pickup by the sanitation trucks tomorrow morning.

  “Don’t you ever wonder where all this garbage ends up?” Angora asks.

  “I’m sure Mr. Darius wishes it would just disappear daily,” I observe. Suddenly, Angora starts breathing heavily and stops for a second to catch her breath. She takes out her inhaler and we all wait in silence for it to kick in.

  In the meantime, I watch Mr. Darius in action. Now he’s yelling at one of the homeless guys, who we call Mr. Sunkist because he pushes around a shopping cart that’s always filled to the brim with empty soda cans. He spends most of his day taking the bottles and cans to the Piggly Wiggly supermarket across the street to collect the deposit money. “Every week, ticket I get!” Mr. Darius yells at Mr. Sunkist, who has already ripped open one of the recyling bags to plunder discarded bottles and cans.

  “He’s definitely scary when detonated,” Zeus observes, nodding knowingly at the explanation of Mr. Darius’s nickname. We head upstairs to my apartment, and I’m surprised that my mother is already there, sipping a cup of her favorite Belgian Blend at the dining room table. I called earlier and told her about Chandelier, and that I was bringing my friends over to watch the news. Maybe this is her way of showing support. “This beter be good,” she says, looking at us curiously as we all pile into the living room. Leave it to my mother to know how to make me more nervous than I already am.

  Anxiously, we sit down. It’s only five minutes till the five o’clock news. “An invite for ringside seats at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week couldn’t be more coveted than a seat on the gently worn black leather couc
h in my living room right now,” I blurt out, trying to keep the situation Lite FM. “Well, maybe I’m exaggerating just a notch on my Gucci belt. Not.”

  “Chenille, come in here,” my mother says, much to my chagrin.

  Angora catches my horrified look. “Why don’t we just invite the Terminator,” I mumble.

  Chenille saunters in and flops into the butterscotch leather reclining armchair—the withered cousin of the black leather couch, both pieces snagged on Sixty-seventh Street last summer during our furniture-foraging escapades. Judging by the smirk on my younger sister’s face, she would rather be somewhere getting paid to scorch someone’s scalp with a hot comb than sitting with us.

  “So, I hear you’re working the press and curls,” Aphro inquires like she’s with the Labor Department and verifying hourly wages.

  Chenille nods her head as if she’s bored with bringing in the Benjies. I wish I knew where she hid her money, because I’m tempted to engage in a sticky-finger stint of my own.

  “I made twenty dollars this week,” Chenille boasts. “Do you put in tracks?” Aphro asks. Luckily, Aphro is sitting next to Angora, or she’d get a swift kick from my smug pink suede UGGed foot.

  “Yeah,” Chenille says matter-of-factly, like she’s the extension expert behind Beyoncé’s bouncy weave. “If you buy the hair, I’ll do it for twenty dollars a track.”

  “Twenty dollars!” shrieks Aphro. “For that much, I’ll put my own tracks in with a hot-glue gun!”

  “That sounds like a good investment to me,” Angora says sweetly. “After all, hair extensions are career extensions!” Angora is always so nice to Chenille and tries to get me to see her hidden potential, which must be buried deeper than Jacques Cousteau’s treasures in the Bermuda Triangle, cuz I sure can’t find it.

  “Okay, shut up, everybody. Cayete la boca!” shouts Felinez as the Five at Five newsroom anchors start spouting away.