I start banging the computer tower to see if I can get it to work.
“What are you doing?” asks Angora.
“Sometimes banging the thing gets it to work!”
“Well, now that you have a check for three hundred dollars, you can buy a new one,” Angora says, giggling.
“That’s not funny-bunny!” I hiss at her. Even the thought of misappropriating Catwalk funds and facing Ms. Lynx’s wrath makes me shudder.
“Okay, listen. I’m going to send an e-mail to all our members about the Design Challenge so everyone will come prepared to the meeting. And hop over here in the morning and we’ll type the hookup list here, okay?” suggests Angora.
“Great. Now I have to get up an hour earlier. I’m totally psyched!” I gripe, jokingly. Really I’m grateful to Angora for being one of my best friends. When I hang up the phone, I grab Fabbie Tabby’s furry cinnamon body and hold her close to me, collapsing like a soufflé onto the pinkified bed. Whenever I feel frightened, her warm body and heavy breathing remind me that somebody does care about me. She surrenders to my grip and flops down on her pudgy side, defeated. She knows she can’t get away from my needy paws when I’m in a state like this. I don’t even bother to get up and take my clothes off. Lying there, I fall into a deep dream and see myself, Angora, Felinez, and Aphro as our alley cat alter egos, homeless and looking for something—anything—to eat. Aphro warns me not to stick my nose into a discarded can of tuna. “There’s something foul in there,” she warns me. Somehow I know she’s talking about something else. I spend the rest of my dream attempting to figure out what she’s really trying to tell me. But she just stares at me, her piercing brown eyes squinting and the fur of her black coat rising. I try to swipe her with my paw, but even as a cat she runs faster than me. “You’ll never catch me,” she taunts me, climbing magically to the top of a tenement building. “And you should stop spending so much time chasing after your own tail.”
When I wake up, the only thing I realize is, even as a cat Aphro gets under my fur—and now I’m convinced, she is definitely hiding something.
4
It’s been forever since my dilapidated desktop has taken an unplanned trip to Style Siberia and gone into deep freeze.
“Pash, the Red Cross is not coming to your rescue, so you’re going to have to rely on the kindness of strangers,” coaxes Angora. Her shady plan for thawing my computer crisis: instead of noshing on today’s exotic lunch special in the Fashion Café, we’re descending upon the Dalmation Tech “dog pound” across the street.
“You mean the kindness of strange students,” I protest.
“C’est vrai, chérie. Zeus says their bulletin board is littered with listings ‘from computer show-offs pimping their services for next to nada’ or so he put it,” relays Angora.
“Well, let’s hope Mr. Tasti D-Lite is right,” I giggle to mask my irritation with Angora for ad-lipping with the mink zebra hatter about my technical difficulties. But that’s Angora—always aiding and abetting. She probably thought Zeus could lend a helping paw because he’s a visual merchandising major, but little did she know he’s a dunce on the download just like the rest of us.
Aphro thinks our plan is pointless. “You shouldn’t be going across the street,” she warns us.
“Do you have a better idea?” I ask her.
“No, but maybe you should just wait until someone else can fix your computer,” she offers.
“No thanks. I’m already falling behind on my Catwalk duties,” I gripe.
Aphro bails from our bid and we can’t figure out why, but I’m through with trying to figure out Aphro anyway. Anna Rex cuts in front of us without a poised “pardon me” to make a hasty retreat to the Fashion Lounge. “No doubt for a barf attack,” notes Angora. Victoria’s Secret is out—about Anna Rex and her crew, anyway: black is de rigueur for them, probably to cover the stains and dribbles from their rampant bulimia bouts. I make a sour face, but Angora misinterprets it.
“Aw, come on, Pash, you look like a kitten without a mitten,” coos Angora. “Aphro is right. You should tell Zeus how much you j’adore him.”
“Puhleez. Now you sound like Ms. Ava.”
“Arrête. Stop. I cannot discuss my mother before lunch,” pleads Angora.
“Oh, no, I can’t deal with this before lunch, either,” I moan. Ice Très is sauntering in our direction with that smirk on his face that makes me melt.
“Yes, you can!” Angora says. She tugs at my arm like I’m a child, because she thinks I’m getting chilly feet about our latest Operation: Kitty Litter.
“I’m not talking about that. I mean that!” I say under my breath, trying to subtly turn my eyeballs in Ice Très’s direction without moving a facial muscle so Angora can catch my drift.
But the Urban Thug designer is upon us before we can flee the fashion scene. “Wazzup, pussycat?” Ice Très says, sweetly, like he just hollered at me yesterday.
Ice Très does his trifecta tease: grins widely, showing off his big goofy white teeth, sets off his dimples and makes his chocolate brown eyes twinkle, then winks. It works every time. I can feel myself melting against my iron will. I continue to stare up at Ice Très, remembering how much I like that he’s so tall. “Oh, hi. I haven’t seen you in a minute,” I say, telling a fiberoni. Truth is, my Fashion Lounge appearances have multiplied like white rabbit boleros in my attempt to avoid this lethal eye contact with the infamous tagger.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been out of pocket for a minute. My mom was hospitalized—cuz of her diabetes,” he explains, sadly.
“Oh, is she okay?” Angora asks, sounding concerned.
“Yeah, I get her moving every morning now to golden oldies. She had to step up the exercise and cut out the red velvet cake—know what I’m saying?” he chuckles. “But we’re dealing with it.”
I know that’s not the only reason Ice Très has been absentee, but there is no need to point out his much-publicized suspension. He probably feels foul for being disqualified from the Catwalk competition. Sure enough, Ice Très gives me props for my enviable position. “That’s crazy cool, you hanging in there, Miss Boo-Kitty Leader.”
“Catwalk leader,” I say, correcting him.
“But check this, I wanna show you my new sketches for my line—since you’re gonna snag the Big Willie come June,” he jokes, buttering me up like a Parisian croissant. His ploy is working, too, because I can feel my crust flaking off. Of course, Ice Très is referring to the sought-after bronze dress-form trophy bestowed upon the winner of the annual Catwalk competition. The award’s name was chosen in honor of F.I.’s founding father, William Dresser.
“What about Shalimar?” I ask, looking for further strokes. All of a sudden, I wonder if Miss Earl Grey still plans to be serving him tea in her family’s penthouse digs now that he’s out of her fashion house.
“She’s got skills, no doubt, but you’re the prize,” he says, winking and blinking. “Come hang out with me next Friday at Native—this fly spot uptown—so I can show you what I’m up to. You know I’ve got to maintain my reputation.”
“Um, what reputation?” I ask, pretending I’m not fully familiar with his self-proclaimed fame.
“You know—I’m the notorious tagger from Highway 20. I told you that, right?” he says, having the decency to blush from his own bold hype.
“Yes, I think I read that in the Catwalk blog,” I say absentmindedly, as if I don’t recall every line of his blog entries verbatim. Nonetheless, it’s definitely time for Shalimar to share, whether she likes it or not. “Awright—pick me up.”
“Awright—seven o’clock?”
“That’s groovy,” I second.
“Awright—I gotta jet—take care of this prescription thing for my mom,” he explains.
I refrain from telling him what we’re up to, and luckily so does Angora. She just smiles sweetly at him as we bid him adieu.
“He is très charmed and dangerous,” Angora says, like she’s a dating expert.
“Do you think he’s going out with Shalimar?” I ask, gloating.
“I don’t know, Pash,” admits Angora.
“Well, you must have heard the word on the street, no?” I say, trying to stimulate the brain cells underneath her Helene Berman powder blue beret with the satin bow on the side.
“Um, no, I haven’t—but I suggest we start crossing the street,” Angora says, taking my arm. “I wonder what is up with Aphro.”
“Who knows? But I’m not down with it,” I groan.
We exit school to meet Felinez, who has agreed to tag along. “I can’t believe you’d pass up today’s special—yuca corn bread and jalapeño sausage dumplings—for this humiliation,” I say, beaming at Felinez, who is propped against the pink wrought iron gates. I know that the only thing Felinez loves more than sniffing foil leather hides is aromatic dishes served steaming hot. Instead, she decided to settle for a quick snack run to Stingy Lulu’s newsstand to snag some crunchies.
“I’m such a glutton, um, for punishment?” admits Felinez, abruptly shoving a bag of Mariquitas plantain chips into her bounty-full hobo bag.
“Well, I must be, too, because I’m never going to stop hounding you for that hobo—no matter how many times you adamantly say no!” coos Angora. She is always pumping up Fifi’s product. Today’s handcrafted offering: a black leather fringed hobo bag lined with opulent white rabbit fur. She made it for her final project last semester.
“Well, you’re gonna have to get in line, cuz I swore to Chenille I’d leave it to her in my last will and testament!” Felinez says modestly, wiping the crumbs from her mouth.
“Puhleez, she’s lucky you even speak to her,” I gripe. I know that Chenille digs Felinez’s fashionable handiwork, which says a lot, since I wouldn’t put fashion and my sister in the same sentence. That reminds me to ask Fifi about intel. “Have you heard anyone say anything about me, or the House of Pashmina?”
“You mean aside from the usual—that we’re stuck-up?” Felinez asks, sounding confused.
“Chenille knows something—I think,” I explain to her.
“Well, you should ask her,” suggests Felinez.
“Trust me, that was a waste of time,” I reply.
“Well, wait till you see what I sketched for the meeting later!” Felinez says, moving on.
We turn our eyes to Caterina and her Teen Style Network crew, who are camped by the pink pansy trees. “Not one sound bite about my computer crisis,” I warn Felinez and Angora under my breath.
They nod in silent agreement as we put our fashion game faces on and wave wildly at the Teen Style crew. Flanked by my best friends, I slowly drag my kitten heels across the wide traverse to the treacherous terrain known as Dalmation land.
“Now I know what it must have felt like for the brave Indians crossing the fifty-three-mile Bering Strait sixty thousand years ago!” announces Angora when we reach the other side. Then she pats her pale blue beret in place like it’s a security blanket.
Felinez giggles nervously.
“Knuckleheads dead ahead,” I whisper with dread, trying not to look into the two sets of hungry eyeballs shielded by dark gray hoodies stationed in our path.
Felinez glares directly at them while tugging at the hem of her red corduroy skirt.
“What a pudgy predicament!” the shorter one snickers like a goofy chipmunk.
My cheeks flush instantly. “Well, if it isn’t the dingy duo!” I hiss back, remembering their stint last week on our fashionable turf. Angora tries to smooth their rough edges by beaming at them like they’re official members of the Dalmation Tech welcoming committee.
But Felinez has had it up to her hobo. “No more, graci-ass!” she gripes. Obviously, the thought of encountering more Dalmations who stare at her like she’s spicy lunch meat is more than she can stomach. Felinez rifles through her beloved bag and whips out a brochure—stuffing it defiantly into Angora’s hand. “Here, está bien. I’m gonna do something more productive—like finish the sketches for later!”
“Come on, Fifi. Stop. Parate!” I coo in Spanish, trying to coax her.
Angora sighs sweetly. “Okay, chérie,” she concedes, quickly stuffing the glossy brochure into her Princess Lion white and gold shopper.
By now the Dalmation dog packs have multiplied to watch Felinez’s bouncy exit.
“Don’t go! They don’t love you at Faggots International like we do!” barks one of the Dalmation dogs.
“They’re just plain rude!” Angora frets loudly to me, causing the scrutiny to shift back to us.
“Let’s get inside. We’ve got more eyes on us than the shoplifters at Macy’s!” I warn.
“They’re just plain rude!” chortles one of the boys in a fluttery voice, imitating Angora’s Southern accent.
Angora purses her lips, twitching her mouth sideways, which she does when she’s trying to digest sour thoughts. I put my arm gently on her shoulder, then strike a brave pose, flinging open the dilapidated, dingy gray metal doors to enter the school’s elaborate security checkpoint.
“Computer theft must be on the rise,” comments Angora, coolly, trying to regain her sweet composure.
What I’m more interested in, however, is the glossy brochure sticking out of her bag. “What did Felinez give you?”
“Oh. That. Um, Beau wants to take me and Je’ Taime to Colombia for Christmas, which we have to book soon,” Angora explains, hesitantly. “So Fifi got me, um, some travel packages.” She gingerly hands me the trifold brochure to look at.
“Oh, right,” I say, recalling how psyched Felinez is that her parents’ band will be performing in the Cali Fair, which is held from Christmas to New Year’s Eve. According to Fifi, the Cali Fair rivals Carnival in Rio with its salsa marathon concerts, calbagatas (horse riding parades), and masqueraded movers and shakers. “Well, I’m glad somebody is going.”
“I wish Felinez was going with us,” Angora says, wistfully. After all, the Carteras have lots of relatives in Bogotá. John Cartera, Felinez’s father, makes up the Colombian half of Felinez’s Latin equation. It would mean so much to Fifi to see her eighty-five-year-old nena (great grandmother), who takes her false teeth out at the dinner table to eat a plate of platanos “gummy-style.”
“Well, let’s hope Dad’s check arrives in time, or we won’t be going, either,” says Angora, blushing like she’s embarrassed that Funny Bunny is funding her holiday hoopla.
Angora’s angst is cut short by the menacing security guard’s barking order: “Open your bags, please.”
We hop to it and hold our breath while he checks our bags. He’s so thorough I’m surprised he doesn’t call in some real Dalmatian dogs to conduct a sniff test.
Afterward, Angora conducts her own sniff test: “The hallways are in desperate need of Stick Ups,” she concludes, twitching her sensitive nose as we head to the security desk for our visitor’s passes.
“I wonder how Lurch knew we aren’t students here,” I muse, jokingly.
“Because we’re not gray?” concludes Angora, looking around at the scant few female students on the move in their non-coloric baggy pants and sweatshirts.
“Ghetto wear,” I observe, disapprovingly. I hate anything that smacks of uniform, and lots of urban gear fits that category too neatly, if you ask me. At that moment, my point is proven. Loquasia Madden, Chenille’s crony who lives in Building B across our courtyard, whizzes by, giving me the strangest look followed by a smirk.
“She knows something, too,” I say, getting paranoid.
“She’s your sister’s friend—what do you expect?” Angora says while she’s trying to navigate us safely through the inquisitive masses. “Okay, this way.”
“Well, I guess we’re right on time—to be the lunch special today,” I say as we ease up to the Computer Annex bulletin board. We’re immediately flanked by grungy boys wearing clunky glasses.
Like a fashion journalist on assignment, Angora ignores the eyes on us and whips out a pad, pointing wit
h her blue feather-topped pen: “Let’s see—this one looks, um—”
“Catchy?” I say, wincing at the GET THE FACTS notice in bright red letters warning about the rise of meningococcal meningitis in teens.
“Not that one—this one,” Angora says, placing the plumage on her pen at the ad in question.
“Oh. Less infectious,” I say. I read the listing in question.
YOUR PC AND ME: COMPLETELY COMPATIBLE. FAMILIAR WITH MICROSOFT WINDOWS, MEMORY INSTALLATION, INTEL PENTIUM DUAL-CORE PROCESSOR REQUIREMENTS, AND LCD MONITORS. MAJOR: COMPUTER TECHNOLOGY. WILL WORK FOR A LETTER OF REFERENCE FOR AFTER-SCHOOL CREDITS. CALL ME: CHRIS MIDGETT, 212-555-HELP.
“That can’t possibly be his name, can it?” I ask in disbelief. The eavesdropping ears behind me answer instead of Angora.
“Yep, that’s his real name, but maybe I can help you?”
I turn abruptly to face the nosy intruder. “My computer is frozen,” I reveal.
“Is it a Mac?” he asks.
I stammer for a second, because I’m busy peering into his glasses, which are so thick I wonder if they’re bulletproof.
“No, it’s a PC,” interjects Angora.
“Oh,” he says, snobbily. “Well, I could look at it…. But mostly everyone has a Mac now.”
“Right. I’ll run right over to Apple and charge one—in pink,” I say, sarcastically.
Mr. Mac Attack turns sheepish. “Well, I’m just telling you—nobody is into the disk operating system anymore. It’s virus city.”
“Um, you know what? We’re good,” I reply.
Mr. Mac Attack treats our lack of interest like it’s a phase in his computer programming. “So, you go across the street?” he asks rhetorically.
“Yes, siree,” Angora says, sweetly.
“You’re models, right?” he asks, his lip twitching.
“Almost, but we’re not flattery operated,” I say, determined to move to final phase.
Mr. Mac Attack does his version of freezing, because he stands as still as a statue while we ignore him and scribble down a few more freebie listings. Then I drag Angora by the arm away from his gooey gaze.
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