Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

“Whoo-hoo!” Nole swoons at the sight of Zeus’s pectoral muscles, which are more chiseled than I imagined.

  “Wow, your ancestors would be proud,” I say. After all, Zeus is named after a Greek god.

  While Nole adjusts the armholes, Felinez continues to show me the bags and belts. “Wow, this is what you call wide,” I say, picking up a belt. I adjust it around my waist really tight. “I like it like this.”

  “I agree,” seconds Elgamela.

  After Nole finishes with Zeus’s fittings (two more pairs of pants, one vest, and a coat), Zeus slithers back into his T-shirt and baggy pants. Not surprisingly, he also zones in on the record collection and comes across vintage James Brown. “Oh, this is a must,” he declares.

  Sweating profusely, Nole stops to pat his forehead with a hankie, then drops it onto the floor, which is our secret code for initiating a Pose Off. “Set it off!” shrieks Zeus as James Brown croons his old-school classic “Hot Pants.” Even Felinez stops pouting long enough for us to vogue our hearts out for a few minutes. Elgamela twirls in a circle with her arms stretched above her head. I can’t wait to see her do that signature move on the runway for our fashion show.

  “Work it, Snake Charmer!” coaches Nole, calling the “exotic dancer” by her on-screen identity.

  When the song ends, I come out of my voguing trance and realize that Ms. Canoli has been observing our relaxation ritual with a satisfied smirk. “Did you ever hear of Xenon?” she asks no one in particular, but Zeus answers the question.

  “Nah, I haven’t.”

  “That was the club I used to go to—every Thursday night. It was hopping—line around the corner, but me and my girlfriend always got in,” she recalls.

  “Now you know where I get my moves from,” Nole informs us, proudly.

  And he’s not the only proud one: beaming brightly, Elgamela declares, “I was born to wear a bathing suit!”

  “I made a pitcher of iced cappuccino,” announces Ms. Canoli.

  “I’d like one,” I say. After drinking two full glasses, I run to the bathroom to pee, then run out of the bathroom when I hear my cell phone ring. This time I dive into my purse to answer it. “It’s Angora,” I say out loud after seeing the number. “I’m almost finished—and coming your way,” I coo into the phone. Angora sounds even more out of breath than she did Friday night, which usually means she’s seriously stressed and her asthma is kicking in. “I can’t believe it,” she says, barely able to contain her anxiety. “Je’Taime is taking Daddy to Magikal Mamma’s to get some voodoo remedies to heal him, but I think there’s something really wrong—and he’s not telling me.”

  “What?” I ask in disbelief.

  Now Felinez is hovering near the phone to hear what’s jumping off.

  “I don’t know—Daddy seems like he’s flipping out. I can feel it. Just hurry up and get here,” Angora says, her voice cracking.

  “Okay,” I whisper. Then I ask, “Is it okay if Fifi comes, too?”

  But Angora has already hung up the phone. I stand there, stunned.

  “What happened?” asks Elgamela.

  “More drama and kaflamma,” I say, without revealing Angora’s business. I scroll through the missed calls to see who called earlier. Looking at the unfamiliar number, I realize that it wasn’t Angora. I read the number out loud, but no one seems to recognize it. Suddenly, I wonder if Ice Très is trying to reach out to me from a private shoe phone, or something.

  “I’d better not call back or maybe he’s programmed a virus into my phone, too!” I yelp.

  Zeus looks puzzled but doesn’t ask what I mean. Instead he announces, “I gotta jet.”

  “Where you going?” Nole asks, nosily. “To see your girlfriend?”

  Zeus smiles, shyly, smoothing down his wavy hair, then puts on his mad hatter. “Could be.”

  While Nole fits Elgamela—again—in the hot black one-piece bathing suit, I stare at the unfamiliar number on my cell phone screen. Finally, curiosity gets the best of me and I dial it, hoping I don’t win the booby prize in the process. Someone picks up quickly and says, “Hello, how are you?” After a few seconds I realize that the caller is Chris Midgett. Covering the phone with my hand, I mouth out loud, “It’s Panda!”

  “Go out with him and forget the shady scribbler,” orders Nole.

  I wave my hand in disgust and continue my convo with my cyberspace crony. As if he’s channeling Nole’s wish, Chris asks me out on a date. “You wanna go to this place uptown that I really like?” he starts.

  “Don’t tell me—Native?” I ask.

  “Well, I have to be honest—I wasn’t going to say Native, but we can go there if you’d like,” admits Chris.

  “Oh, no, let’s go to the place you like!” I exclaim quickly.

  “Um, it’s a diner called Googies on Fifty-seventh Street,” he says, sounding unsure of himself.

  “Wow, Googies,” I repeat in a goofy voice, resisting the urge to say goo goo ga ga instead.

  Nole holds his pudgy stomach and bends over laughing. What was I thinking? Panda and his posse aren’t on point with groovy spots like Native. They probably hibernate at the corny spots advertised at the Welcome to New York booth in Times Square.

  “Go out with him,” orders Elgamela.

  I heed her advice. After all, why am I hesitating? It’s not like my dates show up; they’re too busy cyberjacking me.

  “Awright,” I hear myself saying, almost involuntarily.

  When I get off the phone, Nole claps. “Bravo, Miss Purr. Now that’s a fitting end to a fitting! And don’t forget to bring me back the doggie bag!”

  Felinez looks at me suspiciously. “Oh, come on, Fifi—I’ll bring you back a doggie bag, too!”

  “No, graci-ass,” she snarls, looking at me like she’s going to make me into a bulletin borsa with a fake milk-carton ad featuring a missing BFF.

  “Well, I’m out,” announces Zeus again. I love that he doesn’t have to bend down much to kiss me on the cheek. Then he props the Aretha album under his arm and makes a point of giving Ms. Canoli a warm and fuzzy good-bye.

  Fifi and Elgamela help clean up before we head over to Angora’s. Nole pulls me aside. “Save the PR spin and just give it to me straight with no chaser—where is freakin’ Aphro?” he whispers, boxing me in with his strong, chubby arms.

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  He looks at me like my answer isn’t good enough.

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask, defensively.

  “The truth, that’s what.” Nole holds my arms in place.

  “These days the only messages I’m getting from her are computer viruses, okay? She doesn’t even tell me she gets a job that I interviewed for. I have to find out with everybody else,” I hiss, referring to Chintzy’s announcement at the last Catwalk meeting.

  “You’d better find out what is going on with Biggie Mouth,” he warns me.

  When we’re leaving, Nole has shifted back to his grand self and gives me a grand good-bye and hug. “I deserve that after putting up with your divo drama for a whole day!” I quip in return.

  “I know, Purrlicious One, but we did good work today.”

  “No doubt,” I say, hugging him back like the victory belongs to both of us.

  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!

  SHOP IN THE NAME OF PATRIOTIC LOVE …

  Everywhere you turn, we’re bombarded with news stories about the scary state of the American economy. But nowhere is the impact of this undesirable downturn felt harder than on the retail business. This year, for example, two of Santa’s ubiquitous reindeer—Dasher and Prancer—can be seen in full effect without their cheerful caribou crony Shopper in the mix. It seems this year Shopper has strayed from her usual maxing-out-the-credit-card duties and is hitting bargain outlets like Woodbury Commons and Daffy’s inste
ad. Shopper is also busy “winning” presents in eBay auctions instead of buying them at full retail price at prestigious department stores or trendy boutiques. While these guerilla tactics are helping Shopper pinch pennies, it’s most unfortunate for students at Fashion International, because we rely on upscale retail operations as our main source of part-time employment. Mind you, I’m not insinuating that we’re being paid fairly or anything, but those of us who don’t have wealthy parents still need the measly monies so we can at least contribute to required school supplies—though, you try buying metallic Lycra or faux fur pile on today’s meager hourly retail wages. Did you know that the minimum hourly wage is a measly $6.55 per hour? That means the budding fashionista shopgirl who helped you match the right Gucci, Pucci, or Prada argyle sweater to pair with your tube top and Seven jeans isn’t making enough money to buy the same outfit as you are. To make matters worse, the F.I. students who really need these jobs are the lucky ones who’ve been chosen as team members in the Catwalk competition, because we have a whole host of monetary needs that some of our parents—and the Catwalk budget—can’t cover.

  That’s why we’re constantly combing the fashion board for the coveted jobs. And that’s why, despite the disgraceful hourly wage for retail employees, competition for these jobs is as wicked as ever. As a matter of fact, good luck plucking anything off the fashion job board, if you ask me. Luckily for me, I have a guaranteed part-time job working in my family business, Chirpin’ Chicken, that pays more than the hourly wages given to students at Fashion International for part-time positions. And luckily for me, my family business is booming despite the sagging economy. My proud and hardworking family is big on gratitude. So in the name of my family, I want to thank everyone personally for continuing to keep the chicken economy alive, plump, and well. But please let us not forget about all the lonesome cashmere scarves and imported crocodile purses hanging desperately in department stores and boutiques everywhere—pining for a place to call home in someone’s closet. This holiday season, as you celebrate Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas, let’s encourage our families and friends—and even strangers—to shop in the name of love to support our economy—and most importantly, Fashion International’s fashionistas’ futures!

  Posted by Snake Charmer 12:34:05

  11

  Since we’re so close to Chirpin’ Chicken, Elgamela charms us into making a pit stop. “We can eat and ask my dad for cab fare to Angora’s. It’s a win-win, no?”

  “It’s a done-done, yes?” I second, enthusiastically.

  Once inside the blazing hot and brightly lit Sphinx family–owned chicken grill, I tear past the counter toward the back in search of seating so I can unload my coat and bag; a few feet farther, I spot a small archway on the right that leads to the promised plop-down area, though it’s totally dark. “Why are the lights off in here?” I ask no one in particular as I slide my hand around the wall, feeling for the light switch. I got plenty of practice using this tactile technique during the “dark” years I lived at Grandma Pritch, who habitually kept the lights off to save money on electric bills. Within seconds, I locate the switch and flip it on, only to see a man facing the wall, bent on his knees with his head bowed and hands clasped together in prayer. Mortified, I flip the light switch off and back out, walking into Elgamela, who I didn’t know was right behind me. She pats my arm, assuring me, “That’s just my father. Don’t worry—he’s oblivious.” She goes on to tell me that Mr. Sphinx prays five times a day, like most devout Muslims, regardless of his whereabouts.

  Clutching my coat and bag, I run to the bathroom, then decide it’s safer to sidle up to the counter next to Felinez and Elgamela, who are “oblivious” to the smoke wafting in our faces from the spit-fire grill. “I guess I can bypass my weekly Biore-strip ritual tonight,” I snicker, patting my nose.

  “You don’t have any blackheads—except in your imagination,” groans Felinez. “I get them for real—even on my culo grande!”

  “Puhleez, don’t call your butt big,” I scold her.

  “My butt is big—but I don’t have the market cornered on blocked sebaceous glands, cuz according to Aphro, ‘black girls and blackheads go together’!” Felinez giggles.

  Her channeling of Aphro’s angst reminds me that I have to find out why Aphro was MIA from the fitting today. It also prompts Elgamela to inquire about the whereabouts of the missing member of our “Bling Quartet,” as we’ve been aptly named by the haterade committee at F.I. “Why didn’t Aphro come to the fitting?”

  Fifi rolls her eyes and snitches like a C.F.I. (confidential fashion informant). “At least she got invited. I had to invent a family tragedy to be granted VIP access!”

  “Fifi, stop fibbing,” I snipe back. “You don’t have to invent family tragedies—in your case they really exist!”

  Now I smile sweetly at Elgamela while I formulate my PC response to her probe, since I don’t know why Aphro didn’t show up—even though I suspect it’s all part of her escalating espionage. “Um, it was only the first fitting. I think Aphro had to work today and I just forgot,” I say, embellishing with relish.

  “She did?” Felinez asks, puzzled. “I didn’t know the store was open already.”

  I wince and don’t say anything.

  “Call her and tell her to meet us at Angora’s, because we need her,” suggests Elgamela, sounding spookily clairvoyant while sweeping her long wild hair out of her face. “I don’t know why Aphrodite should join us. Let’s just call it intuition from the goddess Bast.”

  “Oooh, citing sources for inspiration, I dig that,” I say, impressed. Elgamela goes on to explicate about the famous feline goddess revered by ancient Egyptians and often depicted as a woman with the head of a domestic cat.

  “She sounds like a feline fatale maximus,” I decree.

  “A lot of Egyptians name their daughters after cats,” Elgamela explains, proudly. “My father wanted to name me Muit, which means ‘cat’ in Egyptian, but my mother’s choice won out.”

  “They always do,” I utter, involuntarily, but refrain from revealing that my name is probably my mother’s choice, too, since I don’t even know who my father is.

  “So what does Elgamela mean?” asks Felinez.

  Elgamela blushes. After hesitating, she shares: “It’s Egyptian for ‘the beautiful.’ ”

  “Fitting,” I decide, swayed by Elgamela’s eerie energy. I dial Aphro’s number, hoping she won’t answer, but she does, and much to my surprise, Aphro’s flipping her own switch. Not only is she all ears—instead of mouth—about my Ice Très disappointment, she is brimming with more good news for herself. “Laretha wants to hire me for the photo shoot for her Web site!”

  “Are you serious?” I gasp. The Aphro I used to know would have called me on the shoe phone, pronto, if she had news this hot off the griddle.

  “That’s right—three hundred dollars for a day’s shoot!” Aphro screams into the phone.

  “So, is that where you were today?” I inquire, gently, trying to squelch my Gucci Envy.

  “Where?” she asks, sounding puzzled.

  “At Jones Uptown. Where else?” I ask, testily.

  “No, why would I be there?” she asks, defensively. “The store’s not open yet.”

  “Then why didn’t you come to the fitting?”

  “I had something to take care of,” she says, without offering any explanation.

  “You should have told me you weren’t coming,” I say in a crispy tone.

  “I didn’t know I wasn’t going to be able to make it till it was too late—so it didn’t matter if I called or not,” Aphro sighs, unapologetically.

  I can feel my throat tighten around the indisputable fact: Aphro is acting shady. “Well, can you come to Angora’s?” I sputter, trying to regroup.

  “I’m there,” she shoots, without buttering me up on crispy toast like she prefers.

  “You sure?” I counter. I don’t trust her but pretend I’m catering to her incognito affairs. “
I dread dragging you from the B.K.L.Y.N. into Manny Hanny for nada.”

  “Get off the phone. In another five minutes, I’ll be just another black girl on the IRT—heading your way!” she claims, signing off.

  I stare into the phone receiver. “I don’t know what’s going on with Aphro, but I think it’s time to stop pretending. I’m calling a bronze alert.” Felinez knows what I mean, but Elgamela doesn’t, so I explain. “We need to watch each other’s back from now on. I don’t know what’s going on—but the House of Pashmina is not falling like a deck of cards.”

  “We got your back—and nobody can take away our designs. We’re gonna win, because we’re the best,” Felinez assures me.

  “Yeah, but there’s a force trying to sabotage our situation,” I mumble, tapping my finger nervously on the raised glass counter.

  “Now you sound like Darth Vader,” Elgamela says, clearly getting spooked. And I can tell that the exotic one doesn’t spook easily.

  “All I’m saying is, I’m sleeping with one eye open from now on,” I predict, pulling my hair. “Oh—Aphro got a modeling job for the Jones Uptown Web site.”

  “Stop it, mija. We’re in a restaurant,” orders Felinez, rescuing my hand from my hair. “And now I get it—you’re just jealous because Aphro got two jobs.”

  The portly chef offers Felinez a corn on the cob, which she accepts.

  “No, I’m not.” I wince. But I shut up quickly, because I am.

  Felinez shakes her head at me like we’re in kindergarten and I’m stealing her pink crayons out of her box again. “You gotta try this—take the cob and dip it in this mustard curry sauce.”

  “No. I do not want to get kernels stuck in my teeth. It’s not a cute look, Fifi!” I exclaim, turning my head away from the incoming cob.

  Mr. Sphinx, who has quietly slithered behind the counter, interrupts our cobnobbing with a polite salutation, followed by a subtle nod and a quiet smile. Elgamela introduces us, putting me on blast: “Father, Pashmina is going to be a model, too—and she’s the leader of our house.”