Suddenly, the door to the Catwalk office flings open and we’re faced with a physical challenge. Caterina Tiburon and her four-member Teen Style Network camera crew pile into the tiny room. In case you haven’t heard, for the first time in the Catwalk competition’s thirty-five-year history, all the gores galore will be televised as part of a reality show on the Teen Style Network! (I know, I can’t believe it—cinch and pinch me, purr favor!) Catwalk: Strike a Pose will begin airing after the winning house is announced and more prizes than the Mega Millions lottery are bestowed on it. Trust, I’m not exaggerating about the fashion looty toot: the winning house gets to open the Pitti Bimbo collections in Firenze (ciao, Manny Hanny!); at least three of their models will receive modeling contracts with Snooty Model Agency Inc.; and members of the winning house will snag gift certificates galore from fiendish faves like Macy’s, the Limited, and Louis Vuitton. And the cash prize? One hundred thousand dollars divvied up among the lucky house’s members.
“Hi, fashionistas! So how was your Thanksgiving?” Caterina asks, her hazel eyes flashing as she scans the cramped office for sources of salacious sound bites. After missing us in action at our secret Pose Off ceremony for the appointed house leaders in the Fashion Café last month, Caterina is determined to catch any future ops of Fashion International High School’s fashionistas in flagrante, if you catch my drift.
“You’re getting too predictable, like Tory Burch accessories,” quips Willi Ninja, Jr.
“And I might be getting as overexposed,” shoots back the pushy producer. “So what’s on today’s menu?”
“Citrus poached octopus?” I offer, knowing full well that the Catty one, as we’ve aptly dubbed Caterina, isn’t interested in the specials being served in the Fashion Café. “Seriously, we’re waiting to get the scoop on the Design Challenge.”
“Churl, please, we’re waiting for our first installment of the Catwalk budget. Stop pretending you don’t need the loot to toot your fashion horn!” heckles Willi, calling me out.
“Now that sounds appetizing,” Caterina concurs, then pauses, waiting for more bites. Boom hoists the camera onto his shoulder and points it in my direction, or perhaps at the gaping jaw of the stuffy leopard statue. Smiling nervously, I back up so Boom can get a close-up of Stuffy’s porcelain white incisors.
Shalimar jumps on the chance to shift the focus to her “catty corner.” “Well, it’s not as appetizing as the Prêt-à-Portea served at the Berkeley hotel in London, where we spent Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, did you all go?” queries Caterina.
“A field trip to London? Keep hope alive, okay?” snipes Moet, sucking her teeth.
“No, Sh-Shalimar is referring to the Browns, or is it the Joneses? Oh, pardon moi, of course, it’s the J-J-Jacksons!” snarls Willi Ninja, Jr., referring to Shalimar’s well-heeled parents, who work on Wall Street. Like we did about her sixteenth-birthday outing, we’ve heard ad infinitum about her family’s Thanksgiving foray to the land of the Earl Grey empire.
“I went with my family,” concedes Shalimar, batting her DiorShow(off) Mascara–fortified lashes. “Every day from two to six p.m. in the Caramel Room, the hotel serves fashionista’s afternoon tea—inspired by the collections.”
“Oh,” says Caterina slyly. Obviously, Shalimar’s shade boots—right down to her Shimmy Choos—make for entertaining footage. I conjure up images of Caterina filming Shalimar in her Park Avenue penthouse apartment, sipping tea with her Jack and Jill social-club cronies. Last month, after the nominations for house leaders were posted, Caterina requested face time with each of the fabbie five in our “natural habitats.”
But leave it to the serenely eerie Anna Rex to conjure another image that chips at Shalimar’s fine bone china service. “Um, I’d think twice about recommendations for certain establishments,” she starts in, her frail arms crossed defensively across the bodice of her long black turtleneck dress. Regal Rex was standing so still by the coat closet that I thought she was pretending to be a mannequin—for real. “I think the notice from the health department plastered on the gated front door of the maddeningly popular parlor explained the origin of its mysterious shutdown at the height of the holiday season.”
I marvel at Anna Rex’s delivery: she didn’t even break a sweat while breaking it down. Willi Ninja, Jr., marvels, too, because he squeals: “Ooh, drop the boom on those mouse droppings, churl! They closed that place like it was Pandora’s litter box!”
Caterina beams at the possibility of a “catfight.” She shoots a surreptitious glance at her camera crew, no doubt to make sure they’re capturing the electrifying exchange.
Boom captures another round of quibbles ’n bits among Shalimar, Willi, and Anna before I decide to seize five minutes of frame for my other BFF, Angora Le Bon.
“Oh, I forgot. You know Angora’s father, Beau Le Bon, created Funny Bunny, right? Well, a twenty-foot Funny Bunny balloon got added to the Thanksgiving parade lineup this year,” I interject, bouncing to my own beat. Angora’s father is an illustrator who has risen to fame on his furry cartoon creation.
“Did you go?” Caterina asks.
“Yup. We were numbing our tootsies together outside Macy’s!” I giggle.
Caterina smiles weakly at me before switching back to the prying game. “So, who has ended up with the most members in their house?”
The five of us all look at each other like PricewaterhouseCoopers representatives before the ballots for the Academy Awards are tallied: our lips are sealed.
“Who has the least? That’s what I want to know,” counters Shalimar Jackson, glaring directly at Moet Major. I raise my penciled auburn eyebrow in disbelief. Why would Shalimar even go there after the whole Ice Très scandal? Ice Très is the graffiti artist who got suspended after tagging one of the walls in the stairwell professing his true love for moi. (It was way more horror-frying than it sounds.) Not only was he suspended, he was also disqualified from Shalimar’s house. Since his return, I’ve been avoiding the Urban Thug designer like gaucho pants.
Apparently, I’m not the only one stunned by Shalimar’s shady lapse. “Keep sipping those loose tea leaves, churl. I hear you’re scrrrreeching by with thirty. Trrrrenta. Three zero. Okay! And I’m talking about your whole house—so how many of those are models? Good luck getting a fierce chevron on the catwalk with those skimpy skrimps!” snaps Willi Ninja, Jr., referring to a catwalk formation of three models in an inverted V-shaped angle, known as a chic chevron.
When the snickers subside, I strike a blow: “Last year, the House of Moore had forty-six members—more than any other winning house in the Catwalk competition’s thirty-five-year history.” What I don’t add is that the House of Pashmina is six members deficient of that winning combo platter.
Then Caterina goes in for the fashion thrill. “Pashmina, do you honestly think if Chandelier Spinelli wasn’t disqualified, you would have managed to snare star designer Nole Canoli for your house?”
“The question really is, would the house of Chandelier have won? We’ll never know, will we?” I say, hoping I don’t come off trifling. Nole Canoli was tight with Chandelier, but now he and Elgamela Sphinx, hairstylist Dame Leeds, and makeup maven Kimono “Mini Mo” Harris are members of my house. I know what peeps think, but why did Caterina have to put me on blast—on camera? I turn like a cornered kitty just in time to see the Fabulous one herself swing open the door to her inner sanctum and step out grandly. Puccini, her pudgy white and woolly bichon frise, is hot on her d’Orsay leopard pumps.
“Presto, darlings, presto!” Ms. Lynx announces, handing a stack of envelopes to a fretting Farfalla, who drops them on the leopard carpet. Puccini sniffs at the salmon-colored envelopes like he’s desperate for a whiff of Snausages. Meanwhile, Ms. Lynx places her heavily bejeweled hand onto her forehead like she’s about to collapse from parting with a few Catwalk coins. (I’m not joking; there was a reason for Farfalla’s frenzy earlier. Word is she practically has to write a writ of habeas corpus to get
an extra pack of copier paper approved by her tightfisted and, as you can see, ferocious boss.)
The long-awaited Lynx and doggie show is not lost on Boom. He quickly swings the camera down at her pumps and Puccini, then back up, right into her MAC-attacked face for a compelling close-up. We all wait with bated breath for Ms. Lynx to drop parting instructions.
After a few calculated heaves, Ms. Lynx releases a complimentary crumb: “Congratulations are in order. I must say I’m quite pleased.” While she pauses, we all register the Catwalk-encoded message: Kudos for keeping your fashion traps shut on camera about the Chandelier Spinelli scandalabra!
“Now, back to business. Right before the Christmas break, all five houses must submit their Design Challenge assignments to this office. Your designs will be kept top secret and will be privately judged by the Catwalk Committee. The winning team will be posted on the Fashion Board when classes resume in January. Please remember that losing the Design Challenge does not mean your team will lose the Catwalk competition—it merely means you should sharpen the scope of your collection. Conversely, winning the Design Challenge does not grant you immunity or guarantee that you’ll win the Catwalk competition—a panel of very accomplished fashion judges will decide that. But it will bequeath you with a three-hundred-dollar bonus that must be used toward your Catwalk budget.”
“That’s all?” groans Moet Major. Ms. Fab ignores her not-so-bubbly outburst to continue her spiel: “And let me remind each of you that Catwalk expense reports must be filed with this office the first of each month. Not the second, or the third, or your legs won’t be the only things in need of shaving. We’re talking points, people,” stresses Ms. Lynx. “And detail on your expense reports will be more impressive than creativity. In other words, submitting inaccurate expense forms will send you packing to Style Siberia—instead of Firenze. You heard it here first—from my mouth to your fears,” Ms. Lynx warns us.
“How do we know if we do the Design Challenge, um, the right way?” asks Moet. Like she didn’t fizzle out the first time.
This time Ms. Lynx doesn’t ignore her outburst. “The answer to that question is obvious. A misinterpretation is better than no interpretation. Tutti capito? Understood?” Ms. Lynx motions for Farfalla to turn up the AC and fans herself profusely.
“Capito!” we echo in unison.
“What exactly is the Design Challenge?” inquires Caterina.
“Don’t ask me. Ask them,” commands Ms. Lynx, now extending her jeweled hand toward Sil Lai to get this rodeo on the road. Sil Lai takes the cue and crisply requests, “Could everyone get in line, please?”
“Head of the class,” quips Moet Major, swooping into the line first, causing a chain reaction. She bumps into Shalimar and her hefty sidekick—an ample Fendi black Spy bag, which still protrudes massively despite the fact that her banned-from-school Maltese, J.B., is no longer perched inside. Shalimar’s Fendi luggage knocks into Willi while she steps on poor Puccini’s paws.
“Oh, my goodness,” yelps Ms. Lynx. “If you can’t maneuver your way around a poised pooch, how are you going to navigate Seventh Avenue!”
Willi Ninja, Jr., snickers. “Not so Major.”
Sil Lai ignores the commotion and motions for me to come up front.
“Pashmina, sign here, please.”
I obey, scribbling my signature in the Catwalk registry, and then grab the envelope from Sil Lai. I open it with a flourish and chuckle at its leopard interior. “Totally Fab,” I mumble out loud.
Caterina makes another attempt at finagling a footnote: “Now that you’ve gotten your first expense check, does the Catwalk competition seem more real?”
As I formulate a frothy flow for the camera, I notice the sharp contrast between Caterina’s authoritative voice and her hide-in-plain-sight camouflage gear. “Abso-positively,” I concur, “but I’m keeping my eye on the prize like Ms. Lynx suggests.”
“Look who’s trying to w-w-work it for points on the Dow Jones,” huffs Willi Ninja, Jr., but I ignore him and peek inside the envelope—carefully thumbing my three-hundred-dollar Catwalk check.
“So what’s the Design Challenge?” Caterina asks again. I unfold the Catwalk competition letterhead with the bold leopard border.
“It’s something I won’t be stressing about,” I lie for the sake of the sound bite. “Because I think, um, I’ve gathered the most formidable design team possible—including Felinez Cartera, who is a brilliant accessories designer. Together, we’re ready to render an interpretation of feline fatale fashion that will scratch out the competition.”
I stare right into the camera without blinking and force a smile. “I have to go now, to a job interview,” I inform her.
“For what?” asks Caterina.
I tell her about Laretha Jones’s new boutique opening and how it melds with my desire to be a “modelpreneur.”
“If I’m going to run Purr Unlimited, I’m going to need lots of retail experience,” I explain carefully.
Caterina gets a twinkle in her eye, like she’s proud of me, but in the next second she’s back to trying to sucker someone else into spilling the trade secrets. Better them than moi.
2
I flee from the Catwalk office, my blurry eyes stuck with Krazy Glue to the Design Challenge, when I hear a familiar voice ignite the deserted hallway like a brush fire:
“That sure wasn’t snappy, nappy!” hisses Aphro, one of my three official BFFs with whom I currently have a bona fried beef jerky. “What’s up with your weave?”
It’s futile dodging Aphro’s bogus missile; instead, I reach for my outta-control curls and freak at the frizz formation.
“Hmm. Hmm. Told you,” smirks Aphro. Like she should talk: it’s true that I yank my real hair compulsively when I’m nervous, but she’s addicted to Dax hair dress (aka ghetto grease) and the scorching hot comb to keep her short, Naomi Campbell–wannabe bob flatter than her training bra.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had to jet,” I say, puzzled by Aphro’s stakeout. This morning, she told us that she had to scurry after school, but didn’t reveal the reason.
“I don’t feel like dealing with that drama right now,” she tells me.
“Does it have to do with your family?” I ask, trying to act concerned. Aphro lives in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, with her foster parents—the Maydells—and three other foster children, including nine-year-old Lennix, whom she’s really close to.
“No, it doesn’t,” she snaps, snappily.
“Oh, I see,” I mutter nervously, but what I really want to say is Wish I didn’t have to see you right now! I just found out from Chintzy Colon, my assistant in the House of Pashmina, that Aphro cackled to Lupo Saltimbocca, our house photographer, about my D.D.L. crush on Dr. Zeus. Dr. Zeus is the nickname for Zeus Artemides, the tasty mink-zebra-hatted deejay, graphic designer, and model, who’s also in our house.
Right now, I’d like to hit smug Aphro over the head with a leftover turkey drumstick from Thanksgiving. Biggie Mouth, on the other hand, is intent on playing tug-of-war with me. “Let me get with it!” she insists, petulantly. Her bangles jangling, she lunges full force for the envelope in my hand, which contains the privy communiqué.
“Don’t come for me, Miss Aphro Puffs,” I retort while holding the envelope out of her long-armed reach. Aphro Puffs is the name of the blang jewelry empire the budding model-blinger hopes to helm. Another hyphenate waiting to happen in our house, Aphro is the jewelry designer as well as the choreographer and, last but not least, one of our star catwalkers for the fashion show.
I run down the hallway to get away from her claws but Aphro snags my hoodie in a heartbeat.
“Hold up,” she snorts.
I hate that I can’t run nearly as fast as Aphro because of her Wonder Woman legs, despite our being practically the same height—five feet, nine inches—give or take a centimeter. I lean against the wall to catch my breath, coincidentally right under the neon-lime-green-bordered metal plaque by the stairwe
ll, which clearly states in bold black letters:
YOU MAY BE DESTINED FOR A FASHION STABLE IN YOUR NEAR FUTURE, BUT YOU ARE CURRENTLY AT SCHOOL, SO NO GALLOPING IN THE HALLWAYS, PLEASE.
“Awright,” I sigh, giving in. Together, we examine the contents of the Catwalk envelope like fashion forensic scientists. “ ‘Take things you see every day in your environment and turn them into fashion’?” I read out loud, puzzled pink. “It kinda sounds like the Riddle of the Sphinx, don’t ya think?” I moan, removing the check from the envelope. But before I can shove the designated ducats into my Hello Kitty wallet, Aphro manages to snatch it for a preview.
While she revels in the zeros on paper, I marinate for a minute.
“Do you think it means take the stuff we see every day and make it represent on the runway?” I mutter absentmindedly.
Aphro reluctantly hands me back the check, her big brown eyes widening, which means she is thinking outside the sandbox. “Stuff we see every day could be regular stuff we wear every day—like that raggedy pink bathrobe of yours covered with balls of acrylic pile, or those silly-cat-head fuzzy slippers. Ya dig?”
“Could be. Or, your noisy bangles. Ya dig?” I retort.
Aphro lets out one of her signature snarkles—a cross between a pig’s happy snort and the scary squeals that emanate from a roller coaster at the moment when it sharply plummets at a ninety-degree angle.
“Obviously, this will be the first order of business at our Catwalk meeting,” I sigh.
I zip up my Free People pink kitten hoodie carefully, wondering how much time Aphro’s been spending with Lupo. “How come you never pick up your celly lately?” I ask, but I already know the answer to that one. Judging from the latest cackle I’ve peeped, I suspect that my best friend has been jumping into Lupo’s mouth mucho lately. (His last name, Saltimbocca, literally means “jump in the mouth” in Italian. I swear!)
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