Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “No, I’m the leader of the house,” quips Mr. Sphinx, but I know he’s not impressed. I can tell by the way he levels his dark eyes, weighed down by droopy lids, then gingerly pats his forehead with a white hankie. Elgamela and her father carry on in Egyptian. Meanwhile, Felinez has gone mum, thanks to the unwanted attention of the Haitian grill cook, who is intent on foisting another cob of corn on her, accompanied by a wink and a greasy drool.

  “No, graci-ass,” says Felinez, adamantly, letting him know she is not Poca Hot Pants who can be wooed with a few kernels and a pair of moccasins.

  “Take it,” I whisper.

  “No way, mija,” she says under her breath. For a few seconds, the frisky cook’s hand and the cob are suspended in midair.

  “Okay, so what do you want, then?” I ask, annoyed, because I want to sit down.

  “Some anti-pest-o,” snarls Felinez.

  “Right.” I nod, then decide to take the cob for her. “You’ll thank me later.”

  Felinez simply pouts, following me into the seating area. “Why do all the men who like me have to be greasy and fat?”

  “Now who’s being superficial?” I hiss back.

  “Look who’s talking. The only reason you like Zeus is because he’s a papi chulo, even though he doesn’t like you. And the only reason you don’t like Chris is because he’s short, but he likes you!” she snipes.

  “Ouch! Just whip out a seam ripper, why don’t you?” I wince. Plopping my tray, piled high with a quarter chicken and pita bread, on the table, I counter, “It’s not true!”

  “Yes, it is! You don’t like Chris Midgett because he’s too short,” says Felinez.

  “That is not the only reason. He wears goofy glasses and tacky khakis, okay? The last time I checked my arithmetic, two fashion wrongs do not make a right!”

  “We’re over the Catwalk budget—so who says you can count?” hisses Fifi. Now I’m pissed. I am over budget—and she is the only one who knows it besides Angora, who secretly agreed to loan me the money until I get the next installment of the Catwalk budget. With her father’s finances on the fritz, I doubt that’s going to happen.

  “Say it louder, so Ms. Lynx can hear you! One of these days, I really will sew your lips shut with my wicked baste stitch—but trust me, those stitches will never come out!” I warn Felinez. “Besides, now that Aphro is aggregating commerce from every corner, she can kick in for the overdraft.”

  Felinez stares at me.

  “I’m just riffing Retail 101, okay?” I squinch.

  Now Elgamela enters the fray: “My father doesn’t want me in the fashion show. Period,” she says, tears in her eyes, sitting down at our table.

  I flop down my pita bread in protest. Elgamela bows her head, but not to pray: she’s steaming—and this time the spit-fire grill is not the cause. “What happened?” I ask her, fearing that something got lost in translation with her father.

  “I told him about the fitting,” she says, embarrassed, “and he was furious. He’s worried the clothes will be too skimpy for me to parade in front of people.”

  “The Catwalk competition is not a parade—hello! And he can’t nix you from the mix just like that,” I warn.

  “I can help you get another model,” Elgamela says, defeated.

  “You can help me get disqualified as house leader, that’s what you mean,” I groan, swallowing hard to keep from regurgitating the dollop of dread that has been expanding in my stomach since Friday night. The Catwalk rules are Swarovski crystal clear: all deletions and additions in regards to team members must be reviewed by the Catwalk committee, which will render its decision. And that decision is final. No appeals, thank you. “It will be a wrap and a falafel.”

  “I can’t disobey my father,” Elgamela whispers, her forehead twitching. Felinez stops eating, which means she is also distraught by Mr. Sphinx’s unfitting response to a Catwalk fitting.

  Twenty minutes later, I still haven’t managed to convince Elgamela to call off her runaway from the runway, but we have to jet, because Angora is waiting. As we exit in defeat, Mr. Sphinx nods at us politely. Felinez makes sure not to meet the gaze of the grillmeister, whose eyes are glued to her every bounce. Even after we get outside, he stares through the steamy glass front, licking his lips like a hyena waiting for a lost lamb to wander within his predatory reach.

  Once we’re in a taxi, I sigh deeply. “I don’t think your father digs us.”

  “Please forgive him. He thinks modeling will lead me to the pole!” blurts out Elgamela.

  “What, what?” I ask, imitating Aphro.

  “A stripper,” Elgamela says, emphatically.

  “You’re joking,” I punctuate in return, because the image of Elgamela twirling around a pole in a gentlemen’s strip club instead of strutting on a chic runway simply doesn’t click.

  “I can’t even bring a Victoria’s Secret catalog into the house without his throwing a fit—and falafels!” admits Elgamela, sheepishly.

  I ponder Elgamela’s plight, taking out my tube of lip gloss to freshen my pout and my point of view. “So where do you get your fashion groove from? I mean, you always seem like you’re flaunting the fierceness—except for the bathing suit episode today, of course,” I spurt.

  “I guess hanging out with you and Nole has taught me the first rule of fashion,” Elgamela starts: “act like you’re fierce even if you’re not feeling it.”

  “I think you’re on to something,” I say. Watching her take out her tube of MAC Lipglass and press the opened applicator across her pouty bee-stung lips makes me realize that I am rubbing off on the exotic one. Brainstorming, I whip out my notebook so I can formulate another tenet for our Catwalk Credo. “The first rule of fashion: Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it.”

  “That’s a good one,” Felinez says, approvingly.

  “I’m beginning to realize that the second rule of being a good house leader is acting like a therapist,” I think out loud. “So, Miss Feline Fatale Maximus, can I ask you to declare a moratorium on your decision for now until we can all discuss it together in a group session?”

  Elgamela nods, despite the troubled glaze over the glint in her dark eyes.

  “I’m not off my therapist duties just yet,” I mutter, dialing my cell phone to check on Diamond Tyler. A little while ago, she left a message when her call went straight to voice mail. “I just need to make sure she’s on schedule for a fitting next week.”

  Judging from the sound of Diamond’s voice, I realize that the only thing she needs to be fitted for is a straitjacket.

  “I haven’t had time to work on anything!” Diamond drones on, trumped by the sound of a television.

  “Oh, really?” I say, surprised. “What’s that ruckus?”

  Sounding flustered, Diamond hesitates, then comes clean: “I’m watching the animal news. See, Polo is the only gorilla in India who doesn’t have a mate, so the zookeepers are really worried about him. They’re making a global plea to help find him a mate.”

  “What’s newsworthy about that? We’re all desperately looking for love!” I blurt out, exasperated.

  Felinez smacks my hand. “Speak for yourself.”

  “All right, Diamond—can we please put Polo’s problems aside for now so I can make my own desperate plea for a fitting, tomorrow?” I say, trying to tune in to Diamond’s channel.

  “No, I can’t, I’m sorry,” Diamond says, quietly.

  “Can you give me an ETA, then?”

  “A what?” asks Diamond.

  “An estimated time of arrival.”

  “Oh. Um, I don’t know, Pashmina,” responds Diamond, not even attempting to tempt me.

  “You don’t have any idea?” I ask again.

  “No, but I have to get back to watching the news,” Diamond says, impatiently.

  “Okay, whatever. Give my regards to Polo. And maybe you should introduce him to Maxie Pad the macaw, since she’s been rejected from every port. From the way things sound in India, I be
t the Bay of Bombay could be an option. Problem solved, no?” I say, signing off.

  Fifi gives me that look like I flubbed it. “I don’t think that was a good demonstration of acting like a therapist, esta bien?” Fifi says, frumping her face.

  “Fifi, please, she’s going bananas about Polo’s plight. Friday she was sending an SOS about Maxie and Snickers the sea biscuit, who are stranded on an island.”

  “Snickers is a spaniel,” Felinez says, correcting me.

  “I could kick myself. I knew I should have called her yesterday,” I hiss, glomming on to one of my curls for comfort. “When the call goes straight to voice mail, your life goes straight to hell.”

  Felinez and Elgamela remain quiet for the rest of the cab ride, which makes me feel embarrassed for my outburst, so I stroke their fashion egos. “I think we did a lot of work today, no?”

  Felinez and Elgamela both nod enthusiastically.

  “Awright, now it’s time to stroke Angora’s fur,” I say, snapping on a smile.

  We get out in front of Angora’s building on Eighty-ninth Street between Riverside Drive and West End Avenue. “Wow, it’s so pretty and peaceful here, it doesn’t even feel like New York,” exclaims Elgamela, gazing down the quiet, tree-lined street toward the massive cluster of trees in Riverside Park.

  We sail through the colorful stained-glass doors of the building lobby and smile at the doorman in the bright burgundy uniform and matching hat, both brimming with gold braided trim and tassel detail. He smiles at us, making us feel important. Then he chirpily asks, “Can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Miss Angora Le Bon,” I say, grandly. The doorman picks up his lobby phone to ring Angora. “There’s no answer,” he informs us, “but I know she’s home, because I haven’t seen her go out. Mr. Le Bon went out a little while ago with, um …,” he says, pausing like he’s struggling to remember someone’s name.

  “Je’Taime?” I ask, guessing.

  “Yes, sorry. I couldn’t pronounce her name correctly,” he says, looking embarrassed. “Well, anyway, they went out earlier, but I haven’t seen Angora. Listen, why don’t you just go up?”

  “Great, thanks,” I say, trying to match his cheerfulness.

  Once we’re in the elevator, Elgamela asks, sounding intrigued, “Who is Je’Taime?”

  “She is Mr. Le Bon’s psychic, visiting from Baton Rouge, but if you ask me, something is awry,” I blurt out.

  “Really?” Elgamela asks.

  “Angora says they went out to get some shrubs—no, I think she said roots at a voodoo store,” I say, scratching my head, “but if you ask me, she should pick up a few refresher pamphlets while she’s there, because I don’t think her psychic powers are working.”

  Fifi looks at me disapprovingly.

  “Fifi, what’s the point in doling out tiddies? Now is the time to spill the refried beans,” I advise.

  Elgamela looks puzzled, so I fill her in on the whole problem with Mr. Le Bon’s royalties—or lack thereof—from Bandito Studios for the tons of Funny Bunny toys and merchandising and amusement park stuff that the company has made based on Mr. Le Bon’s creation. “But yet they haven’t broken him off a piece of the back end. In other words, he has not received any profit participation.”

  “You mean they don’t give him any money for all the toys and merchandise and stuff they do?” Elgamela asks, rhetorically, I hope, since she’s simply repeating what I just told her. “That doesn’t sound fair.”

  “Mr. Blunt would hop on this one,” I say, referring to our fashion business teacher, who taught us that fashion designers receive royalties—an exact percentage of every single item that has their name on it. Without the royalties, F.I. graduates like Calvin Klein and Ruff Loner and Yves Saint Bernard would not have been able to build billion-dollar burgeoning empires that make budding fashionistas like us eager to hop on the fashion gravy train.

  “Hollywood sounds like the Wild West,” Felinez says, sounding sympathetic to artists’ plight, because as a designer, she hopes to scoop up as much profit as she can with her bag designs one day.

  “Yeah, it’s wild, all right—and it’s definitely west. Can you imagine if they tried to do that to Dolce and Gabbana or Betsey Johnson? Puhleez, they’d walk right into the department stores and lift the clothes off the mannequins!”

  “Peekaboo, don’t sue!” cracks Felinez.

  “Guess who?” I yelp when we get to Angora’s front door and see it ajar. When I don’t get a response, I gently push it, but something is stopping it from opening all the way. I stick my head into the crack so I can yell through it, thinking maybe Angora is nearby and left the door ajar because she’s at the trash takeaway or something. But out of the corner of my eye, I can see a paper on the floor, and when I push the door even farther, I see that Angora is lying next to it, her body flopped near the door. “Omigod!” I scream, squeezing my way through the door with more force. I bend down frantically to see what’s wrong, and from her gray complexion, I gather quickly that she has probably had an asthma attack. Sure enough, Angora raises her hand and whispers faintly, “Get my inhaler.”

  Elgamela and Felinez have also rushed in and are hovering over her. Felinez picks up the piece of paper, which has adhered itself to her shoe.

  “Is she okay?” asks Elgamela.

  “Does she look okay?” I yell. “Help me look for her inhaler!”

  We both scramble in search of Angora’s nebulizer inhaler. I find it inside her fringe purse plopped on the kitchen counter. With her sweaty palms, Angora grabs the inhaler and places it in her mouth.

  “Omigod,” moans Felinez, staring at the paper in her hand. “This is an eviction notice.”

  “I’m calling 911,” I say, ignoring Felinez.

  “No, don’t,” spurts Angora, wheezing. “Just give me a few more minutes.”

  “Should we wait?” Elgamela asks, hesitantly, probably because she doesn’t want me yelling at her again.

  “If the inhaler doesn’t work, then we’ll call,” I say, more calmly.

  We wait for a few minutes, which seem like an eternity. “I’m not going to any hospital for an asthma attack unless I’m unconscious,” Angora says, softly.

  Now that she has seemed to regain her breath, I become interested in the probable source of her current attack. “Lemme see that,” I say to Felinez, who hands me the paper. Like Felinez said, the form is indeed an official eviction notice for “failure to pay rent due and in arrears pursuant to RSA 540:2 in the County of New York.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I utter, involuntarily, reading the amount due—$11,500, or, in other words, three months’ rent. Reading the notice intently, I realize that Mr. Le Bon was obviously counting on Funny Bunny money that he thought he was going to get. I shiver thinking about the stress my mother goes through with her monthly bills. Who knew that Mr. Le Bon was going through the same thing?

  “I found it in his bedroom after they went out. I knew something was wrong—I’ve been feeling it for months,” Angora says, quietly. “I was going downstairs to the building management office to see if Mr. Gahneff was there and maybe I could talk to him about the eviction notice, but then my legs got like rubber and I just couldn’t breathe and I got really lethargic. I guess I freaked out.” Now Angora starts sobbing. “I can’t believe Daddy kept this from me.”

  “Don’t do that. It’ll aggravate your asthma,” warns Felinez, trying to fight back her own tears. Angora rubs her eyes and tries to stifle her sobs.

  “How am I going to keep this from my mother?” Angora asks, raising her arm for us to help her up off the floor.

  “Oh, Angora. I’m so sorry,” I say. Felinez and I bend down to help her sit upright against the door. I hug her gently, also near tears.

  I know how much Angora dreads dealing with her mother. She moved in with her father to get away from her—and to attend F.I., of course.

  “Why don’t you want to tell her?” Elgamela asks, innocently.

&nbs
p; “Because I want her to keep her hysteria on Hysteria Lane—and not here,” admits Angora. “If Daddy loses this apartment, she’ll make me come home and I’ll have no choice, that’s why.”

  Elgamela shoots me a guilty look, batting her long dark lashes to the beat of Morse code, like she’s trying to relay a message.

  My eye starts twitching involuntarily and I shriek inside. The thought of losing both of them is more than I can fathom.

  The intercom buzzes and Felinez jumps to answer it. “It’s Aphro,” she informs us.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later, Aphro enters and she comes bearing a peace offering: she shoves a big tin into Felinez’s hand. “My foster mother let me take some chicken wings and corn bread for y’all.”

  “Oh, we ate,” Felinez says, much to my surprise.

  “Thank you, chérie. I’m hungry,” Angora says, smiling weakly.

  “What happened to you?” Aphro asks, finally sensing that something is wrong. “You look pale as a ghost.”

  We give Aphro the broad strokes of the latest drama and kaflamma and she shakes her head in despair.

  Aphro listens intently, then provides a primo example of excising payment from unwilling parties. She says that Mrs. Maydell had been plying her domestic services for the now-bankrupt rapper, Trigger Happy, who hadn’t paid her in two months. “She asked him for her money while she was cutting up some apples to fry for his breakfast, and he said, ‘I’ll hit you up with that soon.’ She kept slicing with that knife and very calmly told him, ‘You’d better go cut me a check now before I cut you.’ He went with a quickness to put some paper in her hand. So somebody needs to go up to the Bandito Studios and set it off, okay!”

  “I heard that,” I second.

  “It does sound far more effective than my alternative,” Angora says, wearily.

  “What’s that?” asks Aphro, all ears.

  “Calling my mother,” admits Angora, softly. “But I have to eat first.”

  We sit down at the table to eat—and I decide to join in so that Angora won’t sit there picking, because I’m sure she hasn’t eaten all day. She’s been busy fretting about funds instead.

  “This place is wild,” Aphro says, looking around at the surroundings—Mr. Le Bon’s compulsive, cluttered collection of everything from bunny bookends to velveteen rabbit coasters.