Shalimar glances at my frenzied fishnets before she dives into her agenda. “Pashmina, I think you’ve been misinformed by your assistant—what’s her name?”
“Do you mean Ruthie Dragon?” I clarify, going along with her charade. Even J.B. probably knows that Ruthie Dragon is my assistant now.
Suddenly, Caterina Tiburon, camouflaged in her usual khaki gear, appears with her ubiquitous Teen Style Network camera crew, ambushing Shalimar and me. The bright light flashes in my eye, causing me to squint. This constant intrusion of so-called reality is due to the fact that Fashion International’s entire faculty and student body have signed a waiver permitting the crew unlimited access. That means no exchange (or corpse in the closet!) is safe from the crew’s probing intentions! I try desperately to shield my frazzled fishnets from the cameraman’s lens, but to no avail. And as I suspected, Shalimar uses the occasion to practice spin control.
“Um, whoever is your assistant. Sorry, I can’t keep up with the turnover in your staff. But, I wanted to personally inform you that I’m not the culprit responsible for your inability to raid—I mean, secure Tracy Reese shoes for your fashion show. I mean, the House of Pashmina fashion show,” Shalimar says, suppressing a smirk.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the infamous zebra-striped mink hat on the head of Zeus zooming by. I desperately want to turn and shout, “Rescue me!” And despite the fact that my cheeks are burning from yet another humiliation at Shalimar’s hands—and Jimmy Choo–clad feet—I calmly proceed. “You’re not using Tracy Reese’s shoes in your fashion show? I mean, the House of Shalimar fashion show?” I add, mimicking Shalimar’s haughty tone. Two can play that fashion game.
Shalimar responds, très tongue-in-chic. “Absolutely not. I’ll be featuring Jimmy Choo shoes only. And that’s not revealing any of the design secrets for the House of Shalimar fashion show. Everybody already knows my allegiance to the Malaysian cobbler—since everything about me has been dissected on the Catwalk blog almost daily.”
Before I can dissect Shalimar’s dismissal, an eager student vies for her attention. “Excuse me, Shalimar. I hear you’re going to be in charge of the career mentorship program and I need after-school credit—”
“I haven’t decided, but can we talk later? I’m in a meeting,” Shalimar interupts the eager student.
“Oh, sorry, right!” The student giggles, managing to smile right into the camera lens. “And I’m rooting for you front row in June. I know you’ll win!”
After the student leaves, Shalimar regains control of the convo. “Listen, I don’t know which house has dibs on the Tracy Reese shoes, but I want to make it clear—it isn’t mine. Not the House of Shalimar. Worry not.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” I say. Now I’m confused about my intel, and past experience has taught me to be cautious. See, when my computer froze a few months ago from a nasty virus, I was running around in circles accusing everyone of the cyber whammy—from Aphro to Liza Flake (one of the hairstylists in my house) to even Ice Très. (After all, he did stand me up.) It was only after Felinez and I bribed my sister to spill the refried beans that we figured out it was Chintzy Colon—at the behest of Shalimar. Turns out Chenille accidentally overheard them plotting the plague in the activator room.
I decide it’s time to play my trump card. “Next you’ll tell me that you had nothing to do with getting Chintzy Colon a job at Grubster PR and weren’t behind the cyber crime committed on my computer.”
“Your accusations are exhausting. Chintzy is delusional. And the last I heard, she withdrew from your house because of family problems. Clearly she has no shortage of those,” Shalimar says, challenging my intel. “I suggest you look further into the shoe situation before—”
Now Shalimar’s underling, Zirconia, sporting an oversized CZ ring, cuts in. “Big problem. I can’t get J.B.’s access pass reinstated cuz—”
“I told you to see Mr. Confardi—All right. Is there anything I don’t have to do myself?” hisses Shalimar, who then whispers something to Zirconia out of camera range before she resumes speaking down to me. “Excuse me, Pashmina. I’d better go. Oh, one more thing. I don’t think you see the big picture. When I was twelve, my father gave me a book—The Seven Secrets to Success by Dali Drammeh. My father attributes his success to those valuable principles. Maybe that’s the difference between you and me—well, maybe you should just pick up a copy. Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to go take care of this. We’ll discuss it another time.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I force a polite smile. “Yes, I’ll go pick up a copy, pronto, of your father’s precious manifesto—The Seven Secrets of Swindling!” Walking away, I smile warmly at Caterina and her crew, who are now turning their attention to the long-awaited return of Chandelier Spinelli, the former house leader who bailed out on the Catwalk competition when her father, Mr. Spinelli, a nurse at Brooklyn Hospital, was indicted last fall for his alleged participation in an illegal-body-parts operation. (I know, it’s très bizarre.)
Over my shoulder, I hear the Gucci Guilty One, as we’ve aptly nicknamed Chandelier Spinelli because of her designer name dropping and father’s indictment, coo to the cameras: “I’m just soo glad to be back in school!”
Like I’m passing a train wreck, I can’t help but turn to catch Caterina stick the mic in Chandelier’s face and ask one of her usual annoying questions. “Are you upset about being disqualified from the Catwalk competition?”
“Ask me that next year when I launch my election campaign—again. But this year, I can assure you, I’ll be there in June at the fashion shows rooting for Shalimar Jackson. Now that I’m no longer in the running she’s the favorite to win!” Chandelier cackles back.
I fume at the Gucci Guilty One’s predictable prediction as I swing open the gilded door to the Fashion Lounge. Angora, Aphro, and Felinez are hyped and ready for the Code Pink, which is my fashion emergency. There is a hot-glue gun plugged into the wall, and the sewing kit is arranged on the shelf.
“Hi, sugar plum,” coos Angora, concerned.
“Hi, crème brûlée,” I coo back.
Felinez queries anxiously, “Did she admit it? Did you tell Shalimar?”
“I tried. Smuggling Gianni Versace gunmetal mesh from the seventies over the Berlin Wall would have been easier. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” I lament, having a meltdown.
“I’m not surprised. When Shalimar’s talking to herself she can’t get a word in edgewise,” bellows Angora.
“And what’s J.B. doing back in the mix? Someone school me, please?” Aphro asks, agitated.
“That one’s easy. The Jacksons’ financial contributions to F.I. coffers minus Ms. London’s chewed Fendi purse equals J.B.’s reinstated access pass. Do the math,” I mumble. “And, just my luck, the Catty One filmed her denying the whole Chintzy thing on tape!”
“That takes shadiness to a new level,” winces Aphro.
“To the glass ceiling.” I shudder, wondering if Ms. Lynx’s spies overheard the sordid exchange.
“So she denied calling dibs on Tracy Reese’s shoes for her fashion show?” Aphro persists.
“She issued a nondenial denial.”
“Speaking of shoes, where are the kitten heels?” Fifi asks, landing her disappointed gaze upon my ankle boots. “The ones encrusted with a kaleidoscope of crystal stones in the exquisite shape of twin Siamese-cat clips? The ones I slaved over all weekend?”
“Don’t ask, Fifi, okay?” I lament. “I tore my bedroom apart like Chicken Little on a griddle. Chenille must have hidden them. Oy, what is it with shoes lately? Can’t people go back to robbing cradles?”
“Forget your shoes,” interjects Aphro. “So you’re telling us that Shalimar isn’t borrowing any shoes from Tracy Reese for her show?”
“Correcto. She claims the House of Shalimar will showcase its allegiance to the ‘Malaysian cobbler’ Jimmy Choo—and that we’ve been shoe-jacked by another house.”
“By whom?” my crew ask
s in unison while aiming the handy repair accoutrements in my direction.
“I have no idea. My guess is we’re gonna have to sole-search the shady situation,” I expound, suddenly getting a whiff of inspiration. “Hold up—I do have a fishy idea, however.” I grab the scissors from Angora and slip into the bathroom stall, taking off my fishnets.
“So what are we gonna do about shoes? We can’t afford to buy any.” Felinez gulps.
“I know, Fifi—and we sure can’t make them, because the only thing we know about cobblers is they’re peach,” I lament, wrapping a piece of fishnet around my neck like a bib.
Stepping out of the stall, I continue mapping out my fishnets and our strategy. “Let’s just pick the child models today, finish our fittings, okay? Which means I pray that Diamond brings the sketches—and leaves the animal alerts at home and out of the Catwalk meetings.”
“I know, it is becoming troublesome,” Angora agrees about Diamond Tyler, who is on my design team. “She seems more interested in the goings-on in the four-legged kingdom—that’s why she inundates us with gory stories about their perils and problems.”
“Speaking of animal updates, you won’t believe the catmare I had last night—in high definition,” I remember suddenly, getting creeped out again. “We were backstage at the House of Pashmina fashion show, but when I went out onstage for the finale—I fell on my face, and all the judges had turned into hissing cats!”
“That does sound weird. What do you think it means?” Felinez asks. She’s always searching for omens, signs, burning bushes, Tweets—anything that can remotely serve as guidance through this complicated maze called life.
“Maybe you should ask Confucius?” Aphro blurts out to Felinez. “Check those slips from the Chinese fortune cookies you horde in your purse like shredded documents!”
I look in the bathroom mirror at my newly fashioned fishnet skullcap and matching bib. “I don’t know—maybe that catmare was trying to tell me that I’m gonna fall flat on my face in front of everybody at our fashion show.”
“Dreams are never what they seem—sometimes the message is convoluted,” advises Angora, who studies my latest creations carefully and beams. “Pash, that looks très adorable.”
Angora is our unofficial style expert when it comes to hats. Like Zeus, she’s almost never without one. Unlike the Mad Hatter, however, Angora likes to mix them up—from powder-blue mohair berets to vintage felt cloches.
“My mom said the same thing about dreams in reverse,” I tell her, pushing the fishnet skullcap farther down on my forehead. “So, Aphro, Fifi—approve?”
“Um, yeah, except for that pink sponge roller in the back of your head!” snaps Aphro, letting out one of her signature snorts.
“Oops!” I yelp, embarrassed.
Angora takes out the stray hair roller as house music is piped over the PA system, signaling the start of first period. Amidst our giggles, we exit and sashay our separate ways.
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 post will be zapped by the Fashion Avengers!
LIGHTS, CAMERA, JACKSON!
Can we cybertalk about the intrusive white elephant in the pantry closet? Unless your swelled head is buried in the pearly sands of Fiji, you’ve figured out that I speak in riddles about the Teen Style Network camera crew. For an entire school year, these alien intruders from the television planet have been granted the green, red, and blinkin’ yellow light to follow Fashion International students and faculty members around anywhere we go.
Of course, this invasion of privacy is in the name of capturing the not-so-pretty process of the Catwalk competition by any means necessary—even if it means hiding in someone’s pantry closet. Now, please don’t pooh-pooh my PC (pantry closet) reference. There are those prancing among us who have a pantry closet—as well as a cook, a butler, and fine bone china for serving tea, which they’ve bragged about ad infinitum. (Stay awake in Latin class?)
This morning, however, the Teen Style Network camera crew (who henceforth shall be referred to as TSN, which is not to be confused with TMJ, although the two have a lot in common) merely had to hide in plain sight in the school’s lobby to land a double whammy of a jammy. First they captured a not-so-chic catfight between an underling named after a shawl favored by street vendors and a privileged member of the “other” Jackson dynasty. The clawfest would have been a trilogy of terror if a Blue Beret with blinkin’ blue eyes (this one named after rabbit hair) hadn’t politely been asked to hop along on a scavenger hunt. By the way, what exactly does the word privé mean when the TSN alien intruders can descend upon us without warning?
At any rate, the frustrated underling named after a shawl’s claims of espionage against her house unraveled, along with her ripped fishnets, under the glare of the camera lens. Doesn’t she know that her only mistake was getting elected in the first place? See, there is only room for one house leader in this year’s Catwalk competition. Frankly, there should have been a memo—just like the one announcing we had to sign waivers for all the up-too-close-and-personal video-stalking tactics from TSN.
Milliseconds later, the TSN intruders also captured the long-awaited return of a former house leader who used to be a brightly lit fixture at F.I. before her father was indicted for his alleged participation in an international illegal-body-parts ring. Come next June when the show airs, we’ll all be privy to the close-ups of the raised eyebrows of students scurrying from the scene as the insecure fixture tries to ensconce herself back in the school and let the light shine on her once again by giving the camera crew a few sound bites. (Whatever happened to “No comment”? Surely it’s a phrase she memorized after witnessing her father repeat it thousands of times to the reporters hiding in their bushes after his arrest?)
Unlike the TSN intruders, I’ve tried to be careful about protecting the identities of all parties involved, as you can see by my references in riddles. Thanks to TSN stalkers, however, we should all ponder the following fashion fodder: after the poses have been struck, will the winner of this year’s Catwalk competition claim the Big Willie trophy through sheer talent, or simply because they delivered the best sound bites? Only the hairdressers will know for sure. The rest of us will have to watch next June to find out after the fur settles, the swag is regifted—and the Nielsen ratings are in the bin.
Posted by The Riddler at 15:04:12
3
After textile science class, I’m summoned to Ms. Lynx’s lair.
“What do you think she wants?” Felinez frets naively.
“Duh? I put Shalimar on blast on camera?”
“Oh, right, the spies are everywhere,” Fifi concedes, nervously plucking cat hairs off my top.
“I’m shedding!” Agitated, I shoo away her hands.
When we hit the third floor, I detect another reason to be fearful: down the hall, in plain sight, is my sister, Chenille, in her drab overalls, being filmed by Caterina!
“This really takes a bite out of fashion crime,” I shriek like a Barbie banshee. “First she hides my shoes, now she’s shrinking in the spotlight!”
I try to decide if I should bolt, while Fifi puts on a brave front and steers me forward. As we inch closer, my suspicions are confirmed. Caterina is grilling my unsuspecting sister about Catwalk business!
“I know that the hot water conked out in your house, but did the lights, too?” Fifi whispers to me.
“No, why?” I retort defensively.
“Look at what Chenille is wearing! Did she get dressed in the dark?”
I roll my eyes, exasperated. “I know. Oh. I told Chenille you’d help her with her Spanish homework, just so she could stop kvetching about her fumbling frijoles!”
Now Fifi rolls her eyes. “Graci-ass!”
Then we both watch, wincing, as Caterina probes my shy sister in her usual pushy manner: “Is it true that Chintzy Colon was acting as a spy for Shalimar
and you’re the one who brought this to your sister’s attention?”
“Oh, please, don’t let Chenille drop the quibbles ’n bits! How did the Catty One peep our intel?” I yelp.
Fifi frets. “I didn’t say anything to nobody! Te juro—I swear!”
I sigh, resigned. “Truth is, the House of Pashmina has more leaks than the Titanic.”
Squealing, Chenille spills the refried beans one by one. “Once, I saw Chintzy talking to Shalimar—I mean, they were hiding in the activator room, so I told my sister. But that’s it—it’s not like I was spying or anything.” Chenille sees us and raises her forehead like a furry chinchilla desperately sealed in a Kremlin vault, gasping with its last breath to be saved.
“Hola, Chenille,” coos Felinez. “I hope you’re taking care of that hobo?”
Chenille gulps at the mention of the “bribe.” See, in order for us to coax Chenille into telling us what she overheard in the activator room, Felinez offered up her prized black leather fringed hobo with the white fur lining. True to her handygirl nature, Chenille never uses it, but the prize is simply about collecting a piece of fashion herstory. (Although she doesn’t admit it, Chenille knows that Fifi and I are destined to be fashion trailblazers.)
“Oy, the fashion grapevine delivers drama faster than FedEx,” I lament.
Apparently Chenille isn’t delivering drama fast enough for Caterina, because the pint-size producer shifts her khaki camouflage gear in my direction and goes in for the fashion kill. “Pashmina, is it true that your sister told you about the exchange?” she yells.
“Yes, she did,” I say, without adding relish to the hot dog. I walk away, striding confidently toward Ms. Lynx’s office, before I realize that my strut is eerily imitating Shalimar’s.
The pushy producer persists. She yells down the hall: “So is it true that Chintzy was a spy for Shalimar?”
“You heard Shalimar’s explanation. Chintzy dropped out of my house because of family problems,” I reiterate, shifting my gait and losing my balance slightly.
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