Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “It is,” seconds Angora; then she breaks down into tears again. Probably the thought of all these floppy-eared friends hopping into storage is more than she can bear.

  She reaches out for me to hug her. “Can you stay until Daddy and Je’Taime get back? I don’t want to be here by myself.” Then she beams at Aphro and says, softly, “I’m so glad you’re here, too.”

  I look at Elgamela eerily. She was right.

  Angora gently rubs her chin, releasing a few dainty corn bread crumbs onto her napkin. “I want to lie down now.”

  We go into Angora’s powder blue sanctuary and she plops down on her bed, instructing us to sit nearby.

  Elgamela is elated to finally meet Rouge, Angora’s prized Ragdoll cat, who has been hiding behind the blue chiffon curtain panel on the windowsill like a belly dancer manipulating a veil.

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for so long,” coos Elgamela, stroking Rouge’s sublimely silky white fur.

  “We did good work today,” I say, pulling out the copies of revised sketches from the fitting to show Angora the shapes of silhouettes to come.

  “Tres mignon, chérie,” she coos approvingly at the baby-doll dresses, which she loves the best. About thirty minutes later, the color in Angora’s face returns. “Can someone sashay into my father’s bedroom and make sure it’s not, um, in disarray? I made a mess snooping around—and when I, um, freaked out, I didn’t fix everything back.”

  By now, we’ve all grown accustomed to Angora’s substituting the phrase “freaked out” for “had an asthma attack.”

  “Right on it,” volunteers Aphro. “He won’t notice an Easter egg out of place by the time we’re finished.” Felinez goes with her.

  I pick up a delicate brush off the vanity table to fix Angora’s matted hair. “I must look a mess,” she says, sounding embarrassed.

  “At least your locks surrender to a few strokes,” I tease as her straight blond hair behaves without a fuss and lies on her shoulders.

  “I’m ready for my close-up, chérie,” she says softly. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  I know exactly what Angora is asking me. “Call her. Chicken Little would agree the ceiling has definitely fallen down,” I assure her.

  I hand her the powder blue Princess phone, her blue emery board, and her inhaler. She rests them on the bed next to her, side by side, before she gets the courage to pick up the receiver and dial the dreaded number of Ms. Ava Le Bon.

  While Angora is on the phone, Aphro rushes back into the bedroom with a stack in her hand. “You can’t believe all these bills we found in his bedroom—stamped ‘past due’!”

  I shoot Aphro a look like Can’t you keep it Lite FM, purr favor? Then I jump off the bed so I can go whisper to Aphro, up close and personal: “Talking to her mother is one thing, so let’s not stress all of Angora’s nine lives today, okay?”

  “Pash, puhleez, the cat is already out of the bag. They about to get evicted!” hisses Aphro.

  I want to hiss back, It sure is, so don’t let me drop a dime on your cyber crime! Instead, I push her back into Mr. Le Bon’s bedroom with the upsetting stack of unpaid bills. “Just put them back under whatever pillow you found them under. Let the tooth fairy handle that!”

  I hop back onto the bed to hold Angora’s hand while she absorbs her mother’s wrath. As expected, the conversation quickly reaches a crispy crescendo. “But what about the Catwalk competition? I can’t just leave school!” protests Angora, shaking uncontrollably. She moves the phone away from her ear for a second and I can hear her mother’s hysterical voice, loud and clear: “I don’t care about any ole competition, and after I get finished with that foolish father of yours, that will be the least of your problems!”

  Angora smiles and starts filing her nails. It’s a ritual she has perfected from years of fighting with her mother. After a few seconds, she puts the phone receiver back on her ear. Angora begins blinking rapidly, then curtly informs her mother, “I’m hanging up now.”

  Suffice it to say Angora doesn’t have to fill us in on the obvious: that Ms. Ava is madder than a witch who overslept on Halloween. “And now Daddy is going to be so mad with me,” she says, resigned to the ruckus coming her way.

  Felinez comes back into the bedroom. She sits down in the swivel chair at Angora’s desk, then fiddles with the computer. “Can I check my e-mails?” she asks.

  “Go right ahead,” advises Angora.

  “But what about this map—do you need it?” Felinez asks, looking at the computer screen.

  “No, I’m finished with that,” says Angora. “Daddy wanted me to get the directions for the law firm on Varick Street where he’s going next week.”

  Aphro walks back in faster than Foxy Brown to add, “All those unpaid bills I saw—he’s gonna need more than an attorney. He’d better hire a magician.”

  Yeah, to make you disappear just like you made my files, I want to shriek, but politely ask her instead, “Did you put everything back in place?”

  “If that’s what you call that mess in there, then yes, I did.”

  I glance over at Fifi for support, but she is glued to the map on the screen: “375 Varick Street—that’s the same building where Grubster PR is.”

  “Grubby what?” asks Aphro.

  “Grubster Public Relations—one of Jackson Holdings’ clients—as in Shalimar Jackson’s father, who has an investment banking firm on Wall Street,” I say, curtly, wondering why Aphro is acting like she doesn’t remember that. “Shalimar is always bragging about her father’s clients.”

  “Not as much as that Prêt-à-Portea,” Elgamela says, elegantly. “I’d like to hit her with a wet sassy-spirella tea bag—right in her eye.”

  “Y’all need to stop,” Aphro says, glumly.

  I look at Aphro like Who are you?

  “Oh, so now you’re in Shalimar’s sorority?” I challenge her.

  “No, but she don’t be bragging about nothing to me,” Aphro says, poking out her pout.

  Suddenly, there is commotion at the front door. We all freeze.

  “They’re back!” whispers Felinez.

  Angora very calmly rises from her bed like a powder blue princess, smoothing the top on her blue flannel pajamas. I help her into her blue bathrobe and we follow her out of the bedroom like she’s the Pied Piper.

  One by one, we sit on the ivory velvet sofa in the living room, plumping the rabbit-embroidered pillows first against our stiff backs. Mr. Le Bon and Je’Taime can be heard clattering in the kitchen. The whir of a blender becomes background noise to their high-pitched chatter.

  Angora waits until Je’Taime comes out with a tray on which she has assembled various roots and a tall glass filled with a green whipped beverage.

  “Is that what Daddy is going to drink?” she asks calmly.

  “Yes, this will help clear his head, so we can concentrate on a remedy for this situation,” Je’Taime says, her lyrical lilt landing on the last word. She is a tall woman who appears even more towering as a result of the colorful wrap ensconced on her big head.

  “Situation?” repeats Angora.

  Mr. Le Bon comes out of the kitchen, grinning wildly. He’s wearing a chartreuse rayon bowling shirt with pink flamingoes in the background. “What’s going on?” he asks, looking at us, his blue, bloodshot eyes scanning us wildly like pool balls.

  “I’ve called her,” Angora says, flatly. “I saw the eviction notice.”

  Mr. Le Bon’s grin turns grim faster than a three-reel slot machine in Las Vegas comes up with blinking lemons. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” utters Mr. Le Bon, without even hiding his angst from us.

  “Yes, I do, Daddy,” Angora says. “But do you realize what you’ve done? I think it’s time you start taking advice from an attorney instead of Je’Taime.”

  “Now, there is no need for that kind of obstinacy, Angora,” tsks Je’Taime, her big brown eyes bulging.

  “She’s going to make you go home,” Mr. Le Bon warns An
gora.

  “Well, I guess I should be glad that at least I’ll have a home to go to,” Angora says, turning feistier than I’ve ever seen her.

  Squiggles in my stomach churn at the reality of Angora leaving me behind.

  “She’s calling back to talk to you,” announces Angora.

  “Um, listen,” Mr. Le Bon starts, scratching his short spiky crew cut like a rabbit with dandruff, “do you mind if we talk about this in private?”

  “Um, we’ll see you later,” I say, jumping up, signaling the rest of my crew to rise.

  After we gather our belongings, including Aphro’s tin pan, we kiss and hug Angora and flee the scene of another fashion crime.

  “What are we going to do?” frets Felinez once we’re outside.

  “I don’t know, Fifi, but we have to stick together to weather the pleather,” I babble.

  At least Elgamela has the eerie presence of mind to lighten the blow: “Don’t worry, Pash. I’m not going to leave the House of Pashmina. I don’t care what my father says. Angora doesn’t have a choice, but I do.”

  “But you said you can’t disobey your father. What are you going to do?” I ask, wanting to make sure that Elgamela knows what she’s in for.

  “I’m not going to tell him—and when the invitation comes for him to attend our fashion show, I’ll make sure my mother has enough antacid relief on hand to administer to him,” she says, curling up her lips whimsically.

  “I want you to know that you are now not only an officially fierce member of the House of Pashmina, but you have been granted access into our inner sanctum,” I say, embracing Elgamela’s shoulders in a feline fatale ritual. “Even though Angora is not here, after your support in there tonight, I know she will be in accordance, too. Are we all in agreement?” I look at both Aphro and Felinez for approval.

  “Abso-freakin’-lutely,” Aphro says, imitating me.

  “I’m sorry we don’t have any kitty litter to throw over your shoulder for this momentous occasion, but,” I say as we huddle around to hug Elgamela, “we thank you. And I’m sure the goddess Bast thanks you from her kitty tomb.”

  12

  We manage to get our Design Challenge finished before the Christmas break, despite Diamond’s detour. It took a little huddling and coaxing (okay, five hours) on Tuesday to bring her to the finish line, but the furbulous results are worth it, even though I’m sooo grateful that part is over like a four-leaf clover. Now that I’ve just handed in the challenge to the powers that scratch ’n’ sniff in the Catwalk office, we’re all outside getting an update on Le Bonfire of the Insanities.

  “Yesterday my father was hopping on all the counterfeit Funny Bunny merchandise being sold on eBay—and threatening the slimy sellers with lawsuits. He was sending them nasty e-mails, like ‘If I’m not making funny money off my creation, then I’m certainly not going to allow you to openly commit copyright infringement!’ ” recounts a stoic Angora. “As for my mother, she didn’t call until last night, because me being homeless is not as important to her as planting Peruvian lilies in her garden. ‘Wait till you see them bloom in the spring!’ she cooed, like I care!”

  Angora is sprinkling on the Cajun eloquence for Nole’s benefit, since he’s only now privy to the scandal. That’s probably why, despite the gravity of the situation, he in turn can’t resist the urge to snicker, “Break it down, Miss Blue!” which is his new nickname for Angora, despite it being confusing, since my nickname for Fifi since second grade has been Blue Boca, because of all the blue Icees she sucked down that long hot summer.

  “How is he gonna pay the back rent?” Felinez asks, concerned.

  “He can’t,” reveals Angora. “Next semester my new residence will be on Hysteria Lane.”

  I realize that I don’t need to keep Chintzy any longer. She was helpful enough in photocopying everything so we could meet our deadline.

  “Chintzy, you can go now,” I inform her. “Thanks for helping me get here on time.”

  “No problem,” she says, sweetly. “I’ll see you later.” With that, she bounces off, her ponytail swaying from side to side.

  “But something has changed, no?” insists Elgamela, focusing back on Angora.

  “Oui—and no. Nothing has changed but I was crying so much I couldn’t come to school another day without a Too Faced Lash Injection,” Angora explains, referring to her favorite brand of mascara.

  “Speaking of two-faced …,” whispers Elgamela.

  We all turn to observe Shalimar and her crony, cubic-sized Zirconia. They turned in their Design Challenge yesterday, but they’ve been lingering by the water fountain long after getting the few spurts required to quench any vampire’s thirst. We didn’t notice because we were so glued to Angora’s five-gore story. The budding modelblogger, however, is paranoid about her father’s financial follies “being leaked to the gossip gurus at Page Six,” as she aptly put it. Pursing her lips, she gazes across the hallway to see if the eavesdropping duo picked up a salacious sound bite. Shalimar and CZ (her unofficial nasty nickname) start snickering up a storm, but the real reason becomes apparent when Caterina and the Teen Style Network crew surface from the stairwell.

  “Don’t mind us. We’re just waiting for my boyfriend,” Shalimar shouts loudly, then waves to Caterina like they have an appointed rendezvous.

  “No, she didn’t,” gasps Felinez.

  “Yes, she did,” I mutter, deciding it’s time to hurl the first gallstone at my Catwalk opponent: “Well, if you’ve managed to snare a boyfriend in your fur trap, then there’s hope for us all, huh?”

  “Preach, Pashmina!” snickers Nole.

  Boom and the rest of the camera crew quickly proceed to aim and shoot. Caterina smiles at me slyly, like Sorry, but it’s my job to deliver the drama!

  Now Boom points his camera at Shalimar for a reaction shot. She decides to wax meekly about her Christmas plans. We decide to ignore her. Angora pulls out her nail file and we huddle back together to commence with our crisis.

  “So what’s gonna happen with your father?” asks Nole, impatiently.

  “He’ll be homeless with all his rabbit things,” admits Angora.

  Nole’s face drops like a boom. “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “There are no jokes here,” I lament, but when I hear the sound of another opponent’s voice closing in rapidly, I realize that I misspoke.

  “Okay, Miss J-J-ackson, what’s soooo important that I’m missing my chance to be perched early in biology class, ready and willing to dissect a cold-blooded vertebrate?” taunts Willi Ninja, Jr., sashaying around the bend with Dulce and her ubiquitous red patent Kate Spade tote in tow.

  Once Willi Ninja, Jr., spots the camera crew, he bounces back and forth on his feet like a boxing kangaroo. Of course, it produces snickers all around.

  “Obviously, it’s time to strap ourselves in and fasten our Gucci belts for this roller-coaster ride,” declares Nole, stroking Countess Coco’s head. Even she snarls like she’s preparing for a cat and dog fight.

  Still feigning the fierceness, Shalimar insists, “I just wanted you to meet my new man!”

  As if on cue, Ice Très emerges from the stairwell, but his eyeballs ping-pong back and forth when he sees all the parties present and realizes he has walked into a fashion ambush.

  “Ice Très? Shady one, please, I already know him,” protests Willi Ninja, Jr.

  “Yes, but now there’s us,” coos Shalimar, gazing into Ice Très’s eyes like a desperate housewife. “Who would have thought that two different fashion paths could lead to the same place?”

  “Now you sound like a fortune cookie,” snarls Willi Ninja, Jr., to Shalimar, keeping his eye on the prize: Ice Très’s hand-painted jacket. “But I’m feeling the Ice Man’s jacket. The next Graffiti Guru, huh?”

  “Did you see my new Tory?” interjects Zirconia, thrusting her tote in a flagrant effort to bag five minutes of frame.

  “CZ, stop swinging that pendulum of a carryall. Want my rating? I g
ive it three and a half oinks,” Willi snaps, disapprovingly, then ponders a poaching possibility: “But I could use it as a murse for the show if you’re parting with that ole thing.”

  “What’s a murse?” asks Caterina, angling for a dangle.

  “It’s a man’s purse,” shoots Willi, grabbing the handles on Zirconia’s Tory Burch camel leather tote.

  “Are we going to be seeing them in your show?” asks Caterina.

  “I ain’t giving you the keys to paradise, so don’t try it,” squeaks Willi Ninja, Jr., his voice rising an octave. “Let’s just say I’m not trying to be too edgy, or playing it too safe. I’m just riding the line until it’s time to shine—holla!”

  Not to be upstaged, Shalimar shouts in our direction: “Speaking of graffiti—have you heard that some misguided members are scribbling on the booty for the Design Challenge?”

  “ ‘Stink Pink’—oops, I mean, ‘Tink Pink’!” seconds Zirconia.

  “ ‘Kitty Trail Next Right’!” adds Shalimar. “Yeah, that will stop traffic on the runway—for real. It’s bad enough they’re practically running Animal Kingdom in their meetings, from what I hear.”

  I freeze, suddenly realizing that Ice Très must be the spy who came in from the cold. “I can’t believe it,” I say, stunned.

  “But how would he know about our billboards and the sayings on the sweatpants and our display idea?” whispers Felinez.

  “I don’t know,” I say, shuddering, “but obviously the House of Pashmina has more leaks than the Titanic!”

  While I stand baffled, at least one person has put the pieces of the fashion puzzle into place. “Let’s go. Drama is not a major food group—and I need a real snack before I dissect of frog!” announces Willi, twisting Dulce by the arm to march on.

  Felinez rests her hand on mine—her cue for me to stay chill, since Boom has the camera pointed right in our direction again.

  Shalimar hits the rewind button on her Christmas plans now that she has a captive audience.