“Today is definitely the day,” I say, imitating the Shallow One’s huffy self-important tone. “I’m going to confront Shalimar Jackson. That’s all there is to it.”
My mom looks at me blankly.
“See, Shalimar doesn’t know that I know she bribed Chintzy Colon—my former assistant—with an intern job at Grubster PR—one of her father’s clients—so that Chintzy would be her spy in the House of Pashmina. Apparently, Shalimar had every intention of leaking our design secrets to sabotage our fashion show. But we peeped what Chintzy was up to. Remember I told you Felinez pulled off Chintzy’s fake ponytail when we confronted her at Angora’s house?”
My mom winces like she fears for the synthetic strands on her own head—a streaked shag Beverly Johnson wig.
“Well, maybe that wasn’t our finest moment,” I admit. “Luckily it wasn’t caught on tape by the Teen Style Network. But the upshot was that we talked Chintzy into going to the Catwalk office and dropping out of our house due to a ‘family emergency.’ ”
“It sounds like it was the right thing to do for the sake of the competition,” my mom interjects.
“I know, but Ruthie Dragon, who is now my assistant by default since Chintzy Colon got booted, is also an intern at Tracy Reese’s showroom—you know, the black designer who makes those pretty ladies-who-lunch dresses—”
“I know who Tracy Reese is,” my mother says tersely, waving a copy of Women’s Wear Daily.
“Oh, right,” I say apologetically. Sometimes I forget that just because my mother works as an assistant manager at a plus-size boutique—Forgotten Diva on Madison Avenue—doesn’t mean she doesn’t keep up with the “regular” fashion scene, especially black designers. “So anyway, Ruthie asked her boss at Tracy Reese if she could hook us up—you know, the House of Pashmina—with shoes from their closet for our fashion show. You following?”
“Right in your footsteps—go on. I swear, you can never tell a story before I finish my coffee!” my mom protests, placing her cup in its saucer.
“I’m sorry. I get caught up in the fashion flurry. Anyway, Ruthie’s boss said that’s not gonna happen—us snagging the shoes for our show. Due to, as she put it, ‘a commitment to another house in the Catwalk competition’!”
“Okay, so the Dragon girl claims that her boss at Tracy Reese told her you can’t have shoes for your fashion show because somebody else has dibs on them?” my mom asks.
“Exacto.”
“How do you know that the Dragon girl is telling the truth?” my mom counters as she eyes Chenille’s toast before snatching a bite.
“You mean, like it’s a conspiracy theory?” I slough off the notion like reptile lotion. “Ruthie doesn’t have that kind of fire power. I know Shalimar Jackson is behind this soleful deception—because Tracy Reese’s company is owned by Intelco—one of her father’s Wall Street clients.”
“Okay, what if Shalimar is behind this—you still didn’t get enough evidence to prove it,” my mom says emphatically.
Obviously, all those reruns of Law & Order: Criminal Intent have finally seeped beneath my mother’s wigs and into her brain. “Somehow, I have to end this reign of terror. Shalimar thinks her parents’ money can buy her this competition! She walks around school like we’re all her fashion flunkies. I can’t take another day of her sham-o-rama!” I pat my rollers in protest.
“What’s the matter with your head?” my mom asks.
“I don’t know. I had the weirdest dream. The House of Pashmina fashion show? Turned into Cirque de Soleil. I think Tony the Tiger was there!” I moan. “And we were playing your favorite song for the finale! ‘I Will Survive.’ I would never play that disco tiddy in my show.”
“Gee, thanks,” cracks my mom. On Saturdays, not so long ago, she would put on a leotard and do her own version of aerobics in the living room, playing old-school disco songs—including Gloria Gaynor’s. She could never get Chenille to exercise with her, but I loved jumping around and would always join in. Our little disco sessions are probably what gave me the confidence to sashay down a runway today. That and the fact that I’m tall and leggy.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just goospitating about this stupid dream,” I mumble. I’m on edge with my mom lately, and I don’t mean to be. Or maybe I do. But not about her taste in tunes.
“Those dreams are telling you something,” my mom advises with conviction.
“Like what? Don’t sleep on rollers?” I pull a box of Ritz crackers from the pantry cabinet and force myself to eat a few before I hit the shower. I hate eating breakfast, but sometimes I feel light-headed by second period in school—and that’s definitely not cool.
“Like in order to make your dreams come true, you have to wake up,” Mom says, serving up her Southern wisdom.
“Well, my dream remains the same—to be a modelpreneur,” I quip. “So I can buy you a really nice house where you can perch your kitten heels.” Suddenly I remember my dream—the rigged kitten heels. I get a somber look on my face. “Maybe the dream was trying to tell me that I have a lot of nerve going up against the Jackson dynasty.”
My mom senses my conflict. “Whatever you decide, just make sure I’m perched at that fashion show in June in a new dress.” She glances at the eggshell-ivory face on her elegant crystal watch with the wide red faux-alligator band. “Right now, I’d better perch myself on the IRT!”
“Pashmina is right—Shalimar is probably behind it,” pipes up Chenille, like she’s testifying at a Senate hearing. “I’m the one who saw Shalimar conspiring with Chintzy Colon in the activator room to send Pashmina the deadly computer virus. I broke the whole story.”
“Like Woodward and Bernstein,” I say, giving Chenille her props like she’s one of the two Washington Post reporters who broke the infamous Watergate scandal.
Leaving Chenille with her lumberjack breakfast, I head back to my bedroom to get pinkified for my busy day. Not only do I have to confront Shalimar, but after school I have a Catwalk meeting with my crew, which includes model–deejay–graphic designer Zeus Artemides. I can’t help it—those dark, piercing eyes hooded by fluttery lashes, that perfect smile with big white teeth, and those taut muscles that I get to feel every time he gives me a hug are like a Tasti D-Lite trifecta. I’m not sure if Zeus still has a girlfriend, but I keep hoping that he doesn’t and he likes me and will let me know after our Catwalk duties are over in June. You know, sorta like saving the best for last.
After I finish getting dressed in a pink corduroy jumper, pink turtleneck, and fuchsia fishnet stockings, I search for my kitten shoes. Fifi worked on them all weekend, embellishing them with furbulous jeweled cat clips. “Here, kitty kitties,” I yell, tearing my room apart in a mad search for them, but nada. “Aargh. Chenille!” She must have hidden them. When we were little, we were always hiding each other’s things to get on each other’s nerves.
Defeated, I scrounge the closet for a consolation prize—my pink ankle boots. I zip them up and I’m ready to report for fashion duty. At today’s Catwalk meeting, we’ll be selecting the five junior models who will open the House of Pashmina fashion show. I’ve set my sights on a child-model muse. See, my grumpy neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Paul, has the cutiest, patootiest grandson, eight-year-old Eramus Tyler, whom I’ve nicknamed E.T. Although it’s risky fashion business, I just have to try to rescue him from his tawdry life in high-water corduroys and sad plaid shirts and put him in the Catwalk fashion show. But the likelihood of Mrs. Paul’s hitting me over the head with the stack of Jehovah’s Witnesses Watchtower pamphlets she carries in her purse is far greater than that of my getting my fashion wish granted.
Nonetheless, I stand outside my apartment door like I’m looking for something in my pink hobo purse until I hear Mrs. Paul exit her apartment. The sound of her jangling keys is music to my ears. Like I’m performing staged choreography, I drop my keys into my purse, then head toward the elevator bank, where she stands like a stone statue.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pau
l,” I say chirpily.
She gives me a once-over through squinted eyes before delivering the results of her pink poll. “That’s a crazy outfit.”
“Thank you,” I say, as if I didn’t really hear her, then launch into my fashion plea. Before I can even finish, Mrs. Paul judges me guilty.
“The answer is no,” she says firmly. “And you can tell your mother not to be knocking on my door, expecting me to buy any tickets for any such nonsense, either!”
“Oh, I’m not selling any tickets,” I explain earnestly. “It’s invited guests only.”
Now it’s Mrs. Paul’s turn to act like she didn’t hear me. She stares at the elevator ceiling, humming a hymn, clutching her black vintage purse with the gold kiss lock like it’s filled with prayers. I stare down at my boots, wondering why she brought my mother into the fashion fray. My mother never knocked on her door. Mrs. Paul was the one who used to knock on our door at the crack of dawn to “deliver the word”—until my mother delivered her fiery wrath.
Sighing, I decide it’s best to abort Mission: Impossible before my tape self-destructs. I press the second-floor button so that I can go to eight-year-old Stellina’s apartment and confirm the audition time. Stellina is my junior model choice numero uno, and her mother has enthusiastically given her permission.
Not surprisingly, Stellina opens the door since her mother, Mrs. Warren, rarely moves from the couch in the daytime. She works the night shift as a nurse at Harlem Hospital nearby. “Good morning, supermodel!” Stellina says excitedly. “I can’t wait to audition later and show you wannabes how to pose for purr points!”
“That’s exactly why I’m here. Can I talk to your mother, purr favor?” I say, peering into the living room.
“Why?” Stellina asks suspiciously.
“I just wanna make sure it’s still okay with her.”
“It’s okay if I say it’s okay,” Stellina says, whispering, since she hasn’t lost all her fashion marbles.
“Who at the door, Stellina?” Mrs. Warren yells.
“Hi, Mrs. Warren. It’s me, Pashmina.” I gingerly step into the living room so she can see me.
Mrs. Warren is propped on the couch with a tumbler glass in her hand. She puts it down on the end table and scratches her exposed arm, right below her ladybug tattoo. “Stellina done wore me out about that audition—I know she’s going with Tiara and her mother, so that’s fine.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Warren,” I say cheerfully.
“You sure done grown,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “How tall you now?”
“Um, five feet nine inches—but I think I’m done growing.” I giggle.
“I think Stellina gonna be taller than that—her daddy was six four, you know,” she says and hmmphs.
“No, I didn’t know that,” I say. Now I wonder where Stellina’s father is—kinda like I wonder where my father is—but Mrs. Warren doesn’t volunteer any more info on that tiddy, kinda like my mother.
“You think she could be a model?” Mrs. Warren asks.
Feeling like a model scout instead of a budding model myself, I make sure to deliver the hype. “Yes. She could prance to a payday, no doubt.”
“Good—cuz you said the operative word—payday. She need to be bringing a check up in this house!” Mrs. Warren chuckles, shifting her bulk on the brown velvet couch.
Outside, Stellina follows me to the elevator. “Is Greasy coming?” she asks.
I know she’s referring to Eramus Tyler, whom she teases for his Dax-slicked hairdo. “No,” I say wistfully. “I couldn’t get Mrs. Paul to see the fashion light, but I tried.”
“That’s cuz she got her head up in that Watchtower,” Stellina says mischievously. “Don’t worry—I’ll get her to see the light for ya.”
I’m amused at Stellina’s tenacity, but I know it won’t do any good. Still, I humor her. “Absolutely, supermodel. See ya later.”
As I walk out of my building, my stomach churns in anticipation of my confrontation with Shalimar. Luckily, my cool neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, gives me a shout-out from across the courtyard. “Hey, Pashmina, don’t you look like the cat’s meow!” she yells, beaming, toting her usual Piggly Wiggly shopping bags.
“Thank you, Mrs. Watkins.” I beam back at her.
“When is that fashion show of yours?” she asks.
“In June—we’re coming down to the finish line,” I explain nervously.
“Well, if you need anything, you let me know. I got a few runway moves myself,” she teases me.
“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know!”
“Awright, I gotta get my Take Five. I have a feeling it’s gonna be my lucky day!”
“Well, good luck. I hope it’s mine, too!” I wave at Mrs. Watkins as I walk away. That’s probably why I don’t see Mr. Sunkist, the homeless man who hangs around our building, zooming my way with his shopping cart piled high with empty cans. He crashes into me and knocks me over and the cans tumble on top of me. Gagging, I mutter, “Maybe not?”
2
Getting my hustle on, I round the bend on Seventh Avenue, trying to shield the gaping hole in my fishnets from the prying eyes of fellow fashionistas. I send a text to my crew: “ETA in five. CODE PINK!” so they’ll meet me pronto in the Fashion Lounge, our makeshift headquarters for power huddles and fashion emergencies. As usual, the D.T. dogs, who attend Dalmation Tech High School across the wide traverse, are parked on F.I.’s faux-marble steps to gawk at the female fashionistas who make up seventy percent of our student body. That includes Chris “Panda” Midgett, who has cured my computer from a nasty virus but has been angling for more than a tech tune-up ever since. I pretend I don’t see Chris as I climb the stairs, but another admirer is hot on my kitten heels. Like déjà vu from my dream, Ice Très magically pops out from the crowd. “Hello, boo kitty,” he says, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his baggy supersized jeans like he’s searching for something—hopefully a clue.
“Hi, Ice Très,” I reply, supa chilly. Inside, however, I’m wondering why the notorious tagger’s delicious dimples and warm-milk-chocolate complexion have an effect on me. After all, he stood me up, and this is the first time we’ve said more than two words to each other since. See, Ice Très made a date with moi on a Friday night to hang out at this restaurant called Native. I was so amped about it, but he ended up leaving me in the booty dust—without so much as a call, a text, or even an SOS. That Sunday, I heard through the fashion grapevine (which consists of designer Nole Canoli and his Pomeranian, Countess Coco) that Ice Très was seen at Native chomping on conch fritters and crispy corn bread with the Shallow One! That’s right, Shalimar Jackson.
Despite the fact that I’m furious at the dubious double booker, I hear myself say sweetly, “I got a Code Pink. Can I whisper at you later?” Then I point to the gaping hole in my fishnets.
“Oh, right. Got you, boo kitty.” Ice Très winks, gathering the nerve he was obviously searching for in his pockets. “Me and my crew are gonna skate in Central Park by the duck pond later. I’ma tag the overpass for the first time. I’d really dig it if you came.”
I resist the urge to find out if he’s still in conch-fritters cohoots with Shalimar and attempt to keep it moving up the stairs, ignoring him. But Ice Très pleads his case. “I told you Shalimar orchestrated that foul-up. I’m not gonna lie—I needed the hookup she was dangling about financing my Urban Thug street wear. How many times do I have to tell you how seriously positively sorry I am about standing you up?”
Now I yield against my nasty will. Somehow I sense Ice Très is telling the truth. He’s no match for Shalimar’s masterful manipulation. From the day she purchased her first eight ounces of super-straight human hair, courtesy of Adorable Hair on West Twenty-Fourth Street, Shalimar has been “weaving” a spiderweb of deceit to trap the naïve and needy. To Shalimar, hair extensions are career extensions.
“Awright, stop quacking. I’ll run through there with my crew—if the police aren’t there first! Ciao,
meow!”
“Ciao, meow!” the Dalmation dogs heckle in unison.
Ice Très shoots them a disapproving look. “Freeze it, fellas. I’m a PC.”
Angora flings open one of the school doors and her big blue eyes pop at the sight of my bruised leg. “Oh, chérie, what happened? You saw Shalimar already?”
“No. Just another victim of fashion roadkill. Mr. Sunkist was trying to make a deposit,” I explain, embarrassed. “But I’m ready for the Shallow One—even though I’m sooo dreading the Ice Age exchange.”
“I know, it is a chilly prospect,” Angora agrees, steering me in the direction of the Fashion Lounge.
“Hold up,” I say, eager to get her feedback about the Ice Très exchange.
We make a quick pit stop behind the huge glass trophy case, which holds one of the highly coveted Big Willie bronze dress-form trophies, given to the winner of the Catwalk competition. But suddenly, Angora alerts me to an incoming missile. “Uh-oh, here she comes—Miss America.”
I turn to see the Shallow One striding confidently in our direction—her Adorable Hair weave flapping coquettishly in the wind. I do a double take at the sight of J.B., her snippy mascot, proudly perched in the black Fendi Spy bag at her side. “I thought J.B. was banned to Style Siberia—forever?” I mumble under my breath. Last year, J.B. chewed on Ms. London’s Fendi bag in model appreciation class. Principal Confardi showed his lack of appreciation by yanking J.B.’s Fashion International access pass.
“Hi, Pashmina. Hi, Angora,” Shalimar says, descending upon us, her large brown eyes and white teeth sparkling on cue as she levels her sights squarely on Angora. “Um, Angora, could you give us a moment? This conversation is—privé. Comprendez-vous?”
“Oui. Bien sûr,” Angora says, graciously leaving.
“Hi, J.B.,” I say, gingerly extending my hand to pat his prima donna head. J.B. snaps at my fingers like a hungry piranha. Luckily, I withdraw it before he gets his chomp on.
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