Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  Felinez blushes and moves to the next set of sketches. One is for Feisty Feline Cat Food, featuring an adorable plump Persian, and another is a fake “Catwoman” movie poster.

  “Now we’re back on track,” I say, smiling.

  “I dig the belts,” coos Diamond. The wide see-through belts have a montage of the advertisements and big pink sequined buckles.

  “For the guys, we can use see-through duffel bags with the advertisements—sorta slung over their shoulders?” suggests Felinez.

  “This is gonna work. I want bags, belts, and a few vinyl hats, too, okay?” I advise Felinez.

  She nods approvingly.

  “Okay, so I think we’ll do the kiddie wear, then the urban wear segment,” I inform my crew, looking around for approval. “And the bangles will be worn with coordinating active and street wear with slogans on them—and we’ve got the bags with the advertisements and various posters. We’ll call the two-part segment of the fashion show “Word on the Street.” I pull out my pad and start scribbling.

  Now Zeus raises his hand. “What I wanted to do is light the scrims onstage with colors from the traffic lights—green lights, red lights, yellow lights. I can do sequences with blinking lights on the traffic signs, so it will be like subliminal messages.”

  “Traffic signs of our own making,” I suggest. “ ‘Feline Crossing One Mile Ahead.’ ‘Kitty Trail Next Right.’ ”

  “Exactly,” says Zeus, nodding enthusiastically.

  “Okay, I think we’ve nailed the Design Challenge,” I say, then pause. “Um, Aphro had a good idea. We should do a segment with sleepwear—raggedy bathrobes, pajamas, cat-head bedroom slippers—like the ones we wear every day?” I suggest.

  “Does it have to be raggedy?” Nole says, snobbily.

  “Yes, raggedy—and we’ll throw newspapers on the floor that we pick up and read while standing at the end of the runway,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “I’m not designing anything with threads hanging off of it—or that looks like it’s been eaten by bats. Otherwise I could just pull stuff out of my mother’s closet!” gripes Nole. His mother, Claudia Canoli, maneuvers through most of her life from her Hoveround chair. She is obese and needs to have hip-replacement surgery that she can’t afford. Nole told us she works for an Internet real estate company out of their apartment and sits around in her bathrobe all day, almost never leaving the house, except to run errands.

  I decide it best not to challenge Nole in front of the camera. “They don’t have to be raggedy,” I concede, “but we will do bathrobes and pajamas—and the kids will be included in that segment, too.”

  “Well, put me in pajamas with Felix the Cat—that’s what I wore when I was little,” Zeus says, heckling.

  This time, the snickers are needed, so I allow them before I move on. “Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for—sketches for the collection. Diamond, Nole, what do you have for us?” I say, waiting with bated breath.

  Without a flourish, Diamond shows us the sketches so far. “Even before the graffiti idea, I got the idea to embroider sayings across the rear of the sweatpants,” Diamond says, proudly.

  I feel my cheeks burning, but I bite my tongue to refrain from telling Diamond that her idea is dated. I conjure up the image of me in my Juicy pants that Mrs. Paul disapproved of. Dame, on the other hand, decides to make a dig. “Why on earth would we want to do something that everybody from Juicy, Lucy, and Victoria has done in shrill overkill? Honey, the secret is out. Where have you been?”

  Diamond blanches like an almond. “Victoria’s Secret uses stamped letters!” she says, her voice cracking. Blinking hard, Diamond is struggling to fight back tears.

  “Um, Diamond, I love script embroidery, but on the back of terry cloth jogging pants, it does bite into Juicy’s joint,” I say, sweetly.

  “I—I don’t think so,” she stammers. “There were designers doing it before Juicy.”

  “Exactly,” Nole says, with a defeated sigh.

  “Awright,” I say, deciding to make a declaration. “Let’s stick with our original idea and stay away from script scribblings—period.”

  “What about doing cat heads on the rear in rhinestones?” counters Diamond, like she’s not down for the count—yet.

  “Baby Phat does that,” Chintzy says.

  “Theirs are stenciled, but Hello Kitty does it—on scarves and hats—so good-bye to that idea,” I sigh. “But I have one.”

  Everyone stops fidgeting in the seats and sits as still as a statue to hear what I have to say, like E. F. Hutton has spoken. “We put cat tattoos on the models’ bare shoulders for the baby-doll dresses and tops segment.”

  “That’s very feline fatale,” says Angora in agreement.

  “Where are the sketches for baby-doll off-the-shoulder dresses and tops?” I ask.

  Diamond looks at me blankly, which means she hasn’t done them yet, so I egg her along. “Okay, what else?”

  “These are poodle-neck pullover terry tops that I wanted to pair with the pants,” Diamond continues.

  “Feline fatale and poodles?” I ask, surprised at Diamond’s obvious U-turn into a stranded fashion desert.

  “No embroidered logos, no rhinestone cat heads, no poodle necks. Done—and done squared,” seconds Nole, motioning for Diamond to continue. She is totally frozen like an out-of-season mannequin in a Macy’s window waiting to be re-dressed.

  “Keep going, Diamond,” orders Nole, a little too brusquely.

  Now Diamond looks like she’s melting and closes her sketchbook in resignation.

  “Don’t pack up your crayons and head to the sandbox by yourself, girl,” blurts out Dame.

  “Please … show us the rest of what you got,” I say, softly.

  Diamond ponders her position, smooths back her brown curly hair, then pouts. “For the third segment, I thought we should do some catsuits for the girls and scuba suits for the guys.”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” coos Aphro, enthusiastically. We all study the sketches, laying on the oohs and aahs like junk-box jewels.

  “ ‘Slink, Don’t Slouch,’ ” I say, brainstorming more slogans. “That’s another slogan. Chintzy, write that down, please,” I instruct my assistant. “I think we should pair the walking-advertisement belts with hot pants and vests and catsuits. Zip-up patent leather boots will set these off lovelily, too.”

  “I think we should stay away from black, though,” suggests Dame.

  “But I like it for hot pants and catsuits,” I say, looking around for approval.

  “I agree, mija,” says Felinez. “Think slink.” Felinez is in charge of organizing all the footwear and accessories except for jewelry, which is Aphro’s department.

  “What about leather pants?” asks Dame Leeds.

  “Do you have leather pants money?” I ask him. Realizing that the camera is on, I quickly shoot him one of Chintzy’s snap-on smiles.

  “We’re doing lots of, um, leatherette, anyway, with the catsuits and hot pants and vests. I think that’s enough,” offers Diamond.

  “Pleather is not leather, honey,” quips Dame. “And this is the sort of sketch I was going to suggest.” Obviously Dame had been sitting at the conference table concocting a replacement sketch, since Liza didn’t show up with his original ones. And here I thought he was talking about hairstyle sketches. I look at the amateur rendering of a leather jacket with zippers, gadget pockets, and a spaceship collar that looks like it’s about to take off—not set it off.

  “That’s very interesting,” I say, lying for his sake.

  “So can we use it?” Dame asks directly.

  I glance over at Nole, who isn’t letting me off the hook. I know because he has taken out a tube of Kiehl’s hand moisturizer and he squirts some into the palm of his left hand before carefully massaging it on both of his paws. This is Nole’s nervous habit, how he takes himself out of the moment, like my hair-pulling.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say, hesitantly
.

  “Well, excuse me, Miss Donatella!” Dame says with a huff.

  I decide it best to cut off Dame’s designing moment like a loose thread. “Okay, so what do we have for evening?” I query Diamond and Nole.

  “For evening—corset tops paired with long tattersall skirts, tapered pants, and tapered long skirts with bustles,” advises Nole.

  “I know what would look très romantic to wear with that,” interjects Angora, smoothing down her beret in the front. “Berets with big satin bows in front,” she says, proudly.

  “Wow, I dig that!” I say.

  “That sounds cutesy,” Aphro replies. “And feline fatale style should be bursting at the seams with scratch appeal.”

  “And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing to fit into those things!” shoots Phallon, letting out the tension with her own seam ripper. “Busting out!” Clearly she’s a little insecure about fitting her 38DDD bustline into the Carmen-style corset tops with velvet ruffle trim and hook-and-eye closures up the front.

  “Don’t worry—at the show the dressers will have you trussed up like a turkey!” says Nole.

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about!” counters Phallon, thoroughly annoyed. She squirms in her chair, obviously uncomfortable. I can tell she’s wearing one of those high-waisted girdles, which my mother never leaves home without, by the way she pushes up her rib cage to catch her breath.

  “Oh, come on, Phallon. It will be fun,” coos Elgamela, batting her fluttery eyelashes.

  “Fun for you. Not for me! And fun for the audience if one of Phallon’s ta-tas topples on them!” warns Phallon.

  “My vision for feline fatale fashion has always been for both regular and plus-size models to wear the same silhouettes—and not be confined by their size,” I explain, gently. “I can assure you that the corset top will be constructed to accommodate your—um—you.”

  “It better be,” groans Phallon. Now everyone in the room is focusing on her size-16 form spilling over the tiny conference room chair.

  It’s Lupo, not me, however, who tames her size tantrum. “Bella, I will shoot photos for you in the corset and you will see how beautiful you will look—and you can use for your portfolio, no?”

  Phallon melts like butter on a hot griddle under Lupo’s simmering gaze. “You would do that for me? Good. Cuz I sure could use some photos. And I’ma hold you to it!”

  I want to blurt out, Well, you’d better stand in line, cuz I’m first! But I stick to the agenda, winding up the meeting. “So, we’ll have some more sketches next week, no?” I ask, directing my question at Diamond.

  “Yes, we will. Beachwear, the off-the-shoulder tops and dresses, and the wedding gown,” says Diamond, siphoning off the tension.

  Now Nole shoots me a knowing look. He thinks his cat Penelope is going to close the show. I’ve got to figure out a way for Fabbie Tabby to sashay to the finish line. Penelope is one of Nole’s prize Persian cats, with a pancake-flat nose that I’m convinced is the product of a botched alley-cat rhinoplasty procedure.

  “Okay, so I’m thinking the call of show is gonna be about thirty-two looks,” I say, calculating how many outfits will be in our fashion show.

  “That’s it?” challenges Ruthie Dragon. “The winning house last year had forty-two looks.”

  “I know that,” I say, self-consciously, ever mindful of the probing lens in the corner. “And when you’re the house leader and fashion show producer, you can orchestrate fifty looks if you want!”

  “That’s right—Wall Street is crashing, so why shouldn’t we?” pouts Nole Canoli, sucking in his pudgy cheeks.

  Camera or no camera, I realize it’s time to let Nole know who’s in charge: “I’m sorry that we don’t have the unlimited budget to stage a scene from The Fifth Element for you, but even designers showing in tents at Bryant Park are showing sparer collections. Zang Toi’s spring collection only had twenty-six looks.”

  “Pash is right,” pipes up Bobby Beat. He whips out a sheet of paper like it’s an analytical flowchart to support his argument at a board meeting. “Here’s the program for the Mara Hoffman spring collection show I went to.” He pauses for dramatic punctuation. So does everyone else who isn’t a senior—the only students allowed to darken the doorstep, or rather the tents, at Bryant Park with their F.I. student access passes. “Thirty-five looks to be exact. And the show was flawless—well-received by the buyers and the press.” As we all know, in the fickle world of fashion, where one week you’re in and the next you’re out, the approval of the latter is far more important than that of the former. Fab press always means fab orders. Not the other way around.

  “Well, can we at least match that number?” insists Nole Canoli.

  “That we can do. You and Diamond bring me sketches for five evening looks next meeting.”

  “Done,” concedes Nole.

  “Okay, fashionistas, so we’re off shopping for fabrics and supplies soon—and ready for a sampling at our next meeting. Can I get a meowch on that?” I ask, signaling it’s a wrap and a falafel.

  “Meowch indeed,” says Chintzy Colon, enthusiastically.

  Felinez shoots her a look like she wants to scratch her eyes out.

  “Oh, and please don’t forget—I need your submissions for child models, because we’ll be doing that audition soon!” I remind everyone.

  As my team members start trickling out, Caterina approaches, finally coming out of her observational cocoon. “Pashmina, a few questions, please.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you think the Catwalk budget is enough to create your, um, elaborate vision for the show? Or is it unfair to expect so much for so little?” queries Caterina, sticking the mic near my face.

  I wince at Caterina’s catchall phrase for my vision and wonder what the other houses are doing. Only Caterina would know. Catching myself, I cut to the bottom line, though: “I’m glad they give us something! Whatever sacrifice we have to make by pooling all our resources together—working part-time, getting donations from family members—we do what we gotta do. The competition may be wicked, but the prizes are worth it.”

  “Yes, but I heard Diamond mention something about a wedding gown? Come on—that’s a tall order even for a bride-to-be, let alone students participating in a fashion show competition,” Caterina says, baiting me.

  I wince again—this time at Caterina’s calling us out like we’re Crayola cronies instead of fashionistas in training—but I shut her down: “Well, first of all, that was going to be our little secret. But nobody gets to see this footage before the competition is over, right?”

  “That’s right. You know that,” Caterina assures me.

  “Okay, well … we were going to have—I mean, one of our cats is going to close the show … in the wedding gown,” I whisper, furtively, like I’m Karl Lagerfeld revealing secrets for the House of Chloe couture collection.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’? Penelope is closing the show!” screams Nole.

  “Says who?” I counter.

  “Says me, or I’m walking right over to Ms. Lynx’s office and having you disqualified for lying!” snarls Nole, turning nasty.

  The crew gets quiet at the prospect of a real catfight.

  I switch my gears, pronto. “Nole, listen, all the models have to begin their runway training in a few weeks, right?”

  “So?” retorts Nole.

  “So what if Fabbie Tabby and Penelope walk the catwalk in a Pose Off so we see who will get trained to close the show?”

  “Oh, please, Penelope will leave Fabbie Tabby curled up in a fur ball!” boasts Nole.

  “So we have a deal?” I ask.

  “In principle,” concedes Nole, hesitantly.

  Caterina goes over to huddle with her crew. Now Zeus, who has been hovering over the Catwalk hurricane, moves in and envelops me in his arms. “It’s all good,” he whispers, hugging me tighter.

  I feel myself melting in his arms. Instantly, I’m fantasizing that he’s finally broken
up with his girlfriend, the one-star cook, and is ready for my style soufflé instead. I can dream, can’t I?

  6

  Felinez is not impressed with my recipe for invoking Cupid’s spell, because she cuts in and bluntly asks, “Are we going to Subway?”

  Zeus shoots me a look like Don’t let me stop you. “Sorry, but I gotta go meet my dad,” he confesses, a troubled cloud passing over his sparkling dark eyes.

  “Okay,” I sigh, acknowledging the collapse of my fashion fantasy starring Zeus and me. “Wazzup? You seem preoccupied.”

  “It’s deep. The landlord raised the rent again on my dad’s shop, and he seriously can’t afford it—so he’s tripping about that. I’ma run by there now,” Zeus says.

  “These landlords are biting the flavor out of the Big Apple,” I say, sympathetically. “The rents are so radickio the only retailers who can afford them are Victoria’s Secret, Banana Republic, and the Gap. New York is gonna turn into one gap-ing secret republic stuffed with so many bananas at its core it’ll topple the Statue of Liberty!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. My dad says soon, finding an old-school tailor—well, he didn’t use that term, but you know what I mean—is gonna be a blackmarket situation. I’m not joking, you’re gonna have to slither in an alleyway and go up five flights, then tap three times on a trick door to get your pants altered without a crooked hem!”

  “I heard that,” I say, giving Zeus an extra hug. “My mom is seriously worried about the rent drama in New York, too. Even Madison Avenue boutiques, like the Forgotten Diva, are affected. They have to clock $110,000 a month in sales just to cover operating expenses, inventory, and salaries.”

  “Wow, that’s deep pockets,” Zeus says, tipping his hat, then lingering for a minute.

  I turn my attention to Fifi and her needs. “Speaking of down under, do you mean the subway below, or the Subway between slices?” I ask for clarification.