Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Pure fabbieness: When something is just utter perfection. As in, “Have you see the new Dolce and Gabbana hobo bag? It’s pure fabbieness.”

  Psycho Twinkie: An annoying person. As in, “Sharpen your claws, girls, here comes that psycho Twinkie Shalimar again!”

  Purrfecto: Better than perfect.

  Purring: Throwing around compliments or bragging. As in, “She’s always purring about Dr. Zeus like he invented rhymes. Puhleez!”

  Purrlicious: Tasty. Exceptionally fabbie. As in, “I think Zeus is purrlicious.”

  Purr points: Rating system on a scale of 1–10 for an object, fashion item, or person with feline fatale qualities. As in, “Did you see the new Fendi clutch? I give it five purr points.”

  Purr-worthy: An object, fashion item, or person with feline fatale qualities.

  Put on blast: To hype. Also, to call someone out. As in, “Why did you have to put me on blast like that?”

  Radickio: Utterly and completely ridiculous. “Did you tell Chandelier she looks radickio in those polka-dot gaucho pants?”

  Read with relish (and mustard): When you really tell someone off. As in, “I’m gonna read you with relish (and mustard) if you don’t stop lapping up my props!”

  Runway: A narrow, usually elevated platform used by models to “sashay, parlay” during a fashion show.

  Sassyfrass: To say something smart-mouthed.

  Scandalabrious: Describes a scandal so thick, it’s dipped in Crisco, then refried. As in, “Chandelier’s father got arrested for chopping up body parts. How scandalabrious is that!”

  S’il vous plaît: French for “please.” Pronounced, “see voo play.” As in, “Why should I do your homework? S’il vous plaît.”

  Sham-o-rama: It’s the one place that’s always open for business in the urban jungle: everywhere you turn, there is someone trying to pull the wool over somebody’s eyes in the name of getting ahead. Word of advice: don’t fall for it!

  Shopportunity: A combination of favorable circumstances for the purpose of shopping till you drop.

  Snap your clutch purse: Go off on somebody. Tell someone off.

  Snooty-patooties: Snobby rich people.

  Spin patrol: A press release version instead of the real deal. As in, “Chandelier is just serving spin patrol. I know she gagged when her father got arrested for selling body parts!”

  Sprinkle: To shower someone with tasty sweet nothings. As in, “Stop trying to sprinkle me. Aren’t you dating Zeus?”

  Stroking her fur: Boosting someone’s confidence. As in, “I know why you’re stroking my fur, but it’s not gonna work.”

  Super winks: Deep, sound sleep. As in, “I’m in serious need of some super winks.”

  Swag: The freebies and promotional incentives that are given away in goodie bags at fashion shows and other fashion clothing and product launch parties and events. Acronym could stand for Stuff We All Get.

  “Thank gooseness”: “Thank goodness.”

  Thread the needle: Do whatever it takes to get the job done. As in, “I can’t believe you still haven’t turned in your illustrations. Just thread the needle already!”

  Tiddy: Tidbit. As in, “Now, that’s a tiddy for your ears only.”

  Times squared: Magnified twice. As in, “There are times squared when I just want to click out my claws and scratch Shalimar’s face into grosgrain ribbons!”

  Tout de suite: French for “right now.” Pronounced “toot sweet.” As in, “You’d better whip it together, because we have to be in Ms. Lynx’s office tout de suite.”

  Très: French for “very.” Pronounced “tray.” As in “Zeus is très tasty!”

  Twirl: To battle. Also a command used in voguing battle. As in, “You think you got the yardage? Then let’s twirl!”

  “Wake up and smell the catnip!”: “Stop daydreaming!” “Stop pretending!” or “Stop sleeping on your game!”

  Whatever makes her clever: Not stressing over someone else’s actions. As in, “I told Taynasia I’d take her to school, but she blew me off. Whatever makes her clever.”

  “What’s the fuss, glamourpuss?”: “Chill out and stop making a scene.”

  Wickster: Someone who is a tad bit wicked. As in, “Shalimar is a real wickster, so don’t lean too close, because she’ll singe your eyebrows off!”

  Work it for points on the Dow Jones: To capitalize on a situation. Or, to prance on the catwalk like your paycheck depends on it!

  Yanking my weave: New-school equivalent of the old-school expression “yanking my chain.” As in, “Knock, knock—stop trying to yank my weave—that’s not a real Louis Vuitton bag!”

  DEBORAH GREGORY

  dedication

  For Anath Garber, a purrlicious person to the maximus, and her lucky daughter, Karina. I’m forever grateful for all your shape-shifting to help me reach my feline fatale potential.

  And to all the kats and kitties around the globe who are priming to pose for points on the Dow Jones. Sashay, parlay!

  acknowledgments

  Muchas muchas to Random House Delacorte Press dedicated editor Stephanie Elliott and ferocious designer Kenny Holcomb. And to Benny Ninja, the father of the House of Ninja, for keeping Willi Ninja’s legend alive and the time-honored tradition of voguing. The days of voguing at the Club Shelter and the new Loft will always be a part of my youth. It was at these underground house music clubs that I learned that to strike a pose is akin to meditation—and to finding inner balance and grace in this crazy world.

  And to the most legendary catwalker of all time, Pat Cleveland, who ruled the runways back in the day from New York to Milan to Rome to Paris to Tokyo…. For the fashion record, La Cleveland, who sublimely channeled Josephine Baker into her unique runway presence, will eternally stand as the ultimate example of the saying You’d better work, supermodel!

  Catwalk

  Credo

  As an officially fierce team member of the House of Pashmina, I fully accept the challenge of competing in the Catwalk competition. I will grant unlimited access to photographers and television crews at any time during the yearlong process. I will also be expected to represent my crew to the max, to obey directions from my team leader, and to honor, respect, and uphold the Catwalk Credo.

  *Strap yourself in and fasten your Gucci seat belt. By entering this world-famous fashion competition, I acknowledge that I’m in for the roller-coaster ride of my young, style-driven life. Therefore, whenever I feel like screaming my head off or jumping out of my chic caboose, I will resist the urge; instead, I will tighten the belt a notch on my fears like a true fashionista.

  *Illustrate your visions, but don’t be sketchy with crew members. My commitment to my house must always come first. Nothing must stand in the way of my Catwalk obligations—nada, nyet, niente, Nietzsche! And when someone or something presents itself as an obstacle, I promise to call upon my crew to summon the strength necessary to cut off the interference like a loose, dangling thread.

  *Rulers are for those who rule with purrcision. The true measure of my success will not be how I scale the terrain to fame, but my ability to align my tasks and tantrums with those of my crew. I must always remember that grandiosity could land me in the half-price bin like Goliath—who was toppled by a tiny but well-targeted rock!

  *Be prepared to endure more pricks than a pincushion. Now that I’ve made the commitment to strive toward a goal shared by many other aspiring fashionistas, I must be prepared for catiac attacks. Therefore, I will honestly share my fears and concerns with my crew so that I can be pricked back to the reality that I am not alone in this not-so-chic and competitive world and will not achieve fabulosity solely on my own merits.

  *Become a master tailor of your schedule. I must face the fact that my time has now become a more valuable commodity than Gianni Versace’s gunmetal mesh fabric from the seventies. Despite the complexity of my tasks, I must always find the time to show up for my crew and attend my weekly Catwalk meetings throughout the year. Together we
can make our dreams come true, one blind stitch at a time.

  *Floss your teeth, not your ego. Now that I’m part of a crew, carrying on about my accomplishments like I’m the Lone Ranger of Liberty prints is not cute; neither is grungy grooming or having food between my teeth. I will carry the tools of my trade with me at all times, including a container of dental floss and a hairbrush so that I can be prepared for prime-time purring and on-camera cues that may come at me off the cuff.

  *Ruffles don’t always have ridges. While everyone is entitled to an opinion, I will not allow myself to become hemmed in by well-meaning wannabes outside my crew. My individual style is only worthy when it becomes incorporated into the collective vision of my Catwalk crew. I will also resist the temptation to bite anyone else’s flavor to the degree that it constitutes copying, or I will be asked to pack my tape measure and head back to the style sandbox on my own.

  *Pay homage and nibble on fromage. As a true fashionista, I must study the creative contributions of those who came before me so that I can become the maker of my own mélange. I will also publicly give the fashionistas who came before me the props they’re due whenever name-dropping is appropriate. Despite my quest for individual development, I must acknowledge that I will always channel influences from the past, present, and future.

  *Click out your cat claws to defend your cattitudinal stance. When others turn bitter, bring on the glitter. Competition always brings out the worst in foes—and even friends—because everyone will try to gobble the biggest slice of the fashion pie and no one readily settles for crumbs without putting up a fight.

  *Always be ready to strike a pose. Even though I may not be a model, I cannot expect to strut the catwalk without getting a leg up on the competition first and saving my best riff for last. When it’s showtime, I will be prepared to do my assigned task to help bring the House of Pashmina to the finish line.

  *Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it. I will never let the competition see me sweat. While going through this creative process, I may feel doubts about my direction. Therefore, I will bounce ideas off other crew members, but never reveal sensitive information to anyone else! Not all fashion spies have been sent to Siberia—they hide among us, always ready to undo a dart or a hemline.

  *Keep your eyes on the international prize. As a fierce fashionista, I intend to get my global groove on by sampling style and culture around the world. To show my appreciation for the global access that style grants me, I pledge to practice a foreign language for five minutes a day and double up on Saturdays, because we’re going to win the Catwalk competition and stage our fashion at a destination—to be determined—far, far away! Ciao, au revoir, sayonara!

  1

  Don’t get it French twisted: the number one reason I desperately wanted to become a house leader in the Catwalk competition this year is the chance to cinch and sparkle on the fiercest catwalk in Manny Hanny (that’s New York to nonfashionistas)—the elevated platform in Bryant Park assembled twice a year to officially unveil the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week designer collections. But I must also confess a scintillating second reason: to get my grubby paws on the Catwalk budget!

  See, the elected house leaders, aka “the fabbie five”—Willi Ninja, Jr., Anna Rex, Moet Major (who became a house leader by default after Chandelier Spinelli was disqualified; more notes on that scandal later!), Shalimar Jackson, and ahem, ahah, the feline fatale of the fashionable litter, Pashmina Purrstein (that would be moi)—are in charge of our own fashion show expenses. Of course, it’s not a straight-up shopportunity, but delegating ducats to create the purrlicious vision for the House of Pashmina is definitely a clothes encounter of the third kind. The furbulous Catwalk competition will be staged next June in front of a panel of celebrity judges and oodles of très important invited guests. Today, however, we’re getting the first installment of the Catwalk budget as well as the assignment for the Design Challenge, which must be turned in to the Catwalk office in a few weeks.

  This explains why, at four o’clock, I’m still perched with my kitten heels in the Catwalk competition office, waiting like an anxious game show contestant for Ms. Fabianna Lynx’s trusted assistants, Farfalla and Sil Lai, to hand each of us the “envelope, please.” Okay, the truth is I’m crouched in a far-flung corner of this wild habitat—my elbow dangerously close to the gaping jaw of the four-foot-tall stuffed leopard statue whose urban territory I’m invading because my new Catwalk rival, Moet Major, is trying to upstage me, literally.

  “We’ll see who prances to a payday, that’s all I’m saying!” she boasts. Hovering too close for fashion comfort, Miss Moet flings the long asymmetrical bang on her burgundy spiked boy cut while pivoting on her left and then her right Adidas. She flexes her outstretched arms until they stress the seams on her tiny black satin baseball jacket—HOUSE OF MOET embroidered on the back in mustard yellow letters.

  We’re all on pins and needles, because we don’t know how much we’re getting for our first installment of the Catwalk budget. We also don’t know the secret assignment for the Design Challenge, which can garner the winning team a surprise bonus as well as make or break our chance of ultimately snagging the Big Willie trophy next June. Willi Ninja, Jr., is so anxious that he pops the cork on Moet. “The Muhammad Ali of muslin? Churl, please, may I suggest you step out of the ring before you snap, crackle, fizzle!” snarls Willi, who is stationed diagonally across from me, next to the closed door on Ms. Lynx’s inner sanctum.

  To punctuate his punto, Willi renders one of his signature Ninja moves: one sharp snap with his fingers, followed by a full-circle hand movement, then a finger pointed at the object of his disdain.

  “Ding, ding, ding! Round’s over,” Shalimar announces like a gruff sportscaster. “Yes, I said it—so put that in your blog entry for all I care!”

  Everybody gets hush-hush. We’re all guilty of putting Shalimar’s pretentious platitudes on blast in our Catwalk competition blog entries. “Miss Shallow—I mean Shalimar—what else should you expect for dribbling on about a thousand-dollar Golden Opulence Sundae exploding with chocolate peaks from the undiscovered mountains of Peru?” chortles Willi Ninja, Jr. “May I suggest that on your next birthday, you do us all a favor and just blow out the trick candles on the cake—and keep your wish of global domination to yourself? Ah, Choo!” Willi pretends to sneeze at Shalimar’s Shimmy Choo burgundy calf-hair pumps.

  “I wish they would burn sage in this office to clean out the negative energy,” huffs Shalimar, prissily. Meanwhile, Farfalla is having a fit of her own. “Non ancora! Not again!” she whispers, harshly, flailing her arms in protest at the photocopier.

  “It’s time to hit the Easy Button,” suggests Anna Rex, deadpan.

  I shudder, because the Staples shout-out reminds me of the technical difficulties awaiting me at home. Last night, while I was updating the master hookup list for my next Catwalk meeting, my computer froze like a Popsicle.

  “That’s it, finito!” Farfalla moans, clearly giving up on her limited mechanical skills. I pull at my corkscrew curls, secretly praying that Ms. Lynx’s dramatic assistant doesn’t make me late for my job interview at Jones Uptown boutique, which is right about now! I can’t afford not to get this job. First of all, I desperately need the ducats (money at home is tighter than Betsey Johnson’s waist cincher); second, Ms. Lynx herself provided the intro, so I have to represent. That’s right—out of all the students at F. I., she referred moi for a job at Laretha Jones’s new flagship boutique in Harlem, because, she says, “We both share a passion for the same shade—pink.”

  At the moment, Willi is feeling his own shade, or I should say shadiness: “Come on people, bring on the challenge, so I can say boo to Mr. Benjamin and his friends!” he groans, confident that the TBD (to be determined) bonus is merely a twirl away. In case you didn’t know, Willi is the adopted son of the late Willi Ninja, whose voguing legacy extends from the West Side Highway piers to le podium in Paris.

  We’re all ready for th
e challenge. Shalimar Jackson and Anna Rex are even analyzing plays from last year’s biggest losers. “No, see, you’re wrong. Dropping the ball on the Design Challenge is definitely the reason why the House of Barbie didn’t win last year,” explains Shalimar, coolly. She is seated by Sil Lai’s desk, her legs crossed, swinging her left foot with the calculated precision of a hockey player guiding a puck with his hockey stick into a goal.

  “So Miss P. P. What say you?” Willi asks, prompting me to deliver my own analysis of the House of Barbie’s demise.

  “Barbara Beaucoup made a mistake with her take on last year’s Design Challenge—turning night into day. She thought it meant to go non-coloric with her collection. In my opinion, that’s what caused the judges to go total eclipse on her house’s score,” I say, authoritatively.

  “Black is back,” insists Anna Rex, like she’s channeling enough dark energy to levitate whatever the challenge might be this year.

  “I heard that, cuz I’m gonna be coming with it like the other side of midnight!” seconds Miss Major, feebly. Then she reluctantly smacks her raisin-branded lips like she’s finally grasping her place on the fashion food chain: house leader by default.

  Here’s the scandal: Chandelier Spinelli’s house came tumbling down after her father was indicted for participating in an illegal “chop shop”—and we’re not talking Caddies and Benzies, okay? Apparently, Mr. Spinelli, who was a nurse at a Brooklyn hospital, and four colleagues were caught red-handed divvying up human limbs and organs to sell to the highest international bidders! Once the très tawdry scandal hit the front page of the Daily News, Chandelier developed a bad case of post-traumatic press disorder, and she’s currently in hiding while her father awaits trial for his alleged participation in the hamstring ring. (According to a bona fried reliable source, the MIA house leader is holed up at her aunt Voltage’s Séance Parlor in Carroll Gardens. The source is one of my best friends, Aphro Biggie Bright, who also lives in the B.K.L.Y.N. and has eyes in the back of her bob.)