I quickly regain it as Fifi taps the face of her watch with her finger. “Mija, you’re late!” Then she nudges me into the Catwalk office. “Just go in there and act professional. See you later.”
The house music sounds over the PA, and even Caterina knows that’s her cue to back off from the students with their busy schedules. When I walk into the Catwalk office, Ms. Lynx’s assistants, Sil Lai and Farfalla, are sitting together, peering at a magazine. “Pink hair is soo last year—even though I think T.T. looks good in it,” confesses Farfalla.
“You’re just saying that cuz she’s Italian,” counters Sil Lai. They’re buzzing about my favorite jewelry designer, Tarina Tarantino, who has a penchant for Hello Kitty and neon fuchsia synthetic wigs in a blunt bob.
“Non è vero! That’s not true!” protests Farfalla. “Betsey Johnson looks bellissima in it, too!”
I stand at the desk, smiling, and pipe up, “Pink is always in. I agree.”
“You would,” Sil Lai says, eyeing me like I’m a fashion felon requesting a change in the color of prison-provided jumpsuits. “Bordeaux is hot right now. I’m thinking about going red, like Alyjah Jade.”
“Who’s Alyjah Jade?” I ask curiously, wondering if it’s a new designer or model rising in the ranks.
“She’s a singer,” Sil Lai says, like she’s playing a trump card. Then she talks directly to Farfalla, ignoring me. “She’s performing at the Lipstick Lounge next week. I so hope I can make it, but I’ll still have classes at Barbizon.”
I wonder what Sil Lai could be taking at Barbizon but I don’t dare ask, given her chilly reception. She’s not tall enough to be a model, so it can’t be that—and I thought that’s what Barbizon is known for. I glance at the closed door to Ms. Lynx’s office, then around the office—looking right into the gaping jaw of the leopard statue in the corner.
“Your skullcap is so cute. Guess you’re getting a jump on Fly Hat Fridays,” coos Farfalla.
“Fly Hat Fridays?” I ask, puzzled.
“Haven’t you heard? Ms. Lynx read that Zeus Artemides post on the Catwalk blog about hats,” explains Sil Lai, trumping me twice. “There will be a memo.”
Farfalla, who comes from the land of Dolce & Gabbana (that’s Italy, nonfashionistas), sweetly fills me in further: “Ms. Lynx has decided to designate Fridays as Fly Hat Fridays in order to inspire students and faculty to wear their most creative headgear. Not that anybody here needs encouragement to be more creative!”
“But that’s not what she wants to see you about,” Sil Lai says not so sweetly.
I refrain from blurting out that I already suspected that. Or that I also know that Sil Lai is Ms. Lynx’s personal spy, reporting every fashion bread crumb before it even drops on the ground in the enchanted fashion forest.
“And you can go in now,” Sil Lai orders, pursing her thin red-lacquered lips.
“Oh, grazie! Thank you!” I squeak to Farfalla. No point in wasting my cheesiness on Sil Lai, even though I don’t fully understand why she’s so shady to me.
I step into Ms. Lynx’s inner sanctum, but she is on the phone. “Hmm, hmm—that’s right—avec chanterelles, s’il vous plaît. Merci!” Ms. Lynx coos into her leopard phone before placing it back in its cradle.
My ears prick up at the mention of such an exotic name as Chanterelle. Now, that has to be the name of a major new model, because Ms. Lynx keeps her ear to the street—aka Seventh Avenue. Ms. Lynx motions for me to sit down in the Queen Anne chair with the leopard cushion opposite her massively cluttered desk. I try to sit down like I’m poised for positive strokes, even though I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. Especially when Ms. Lynx levels a blank stare at me like she can’t remember something important—like my date of execution. Squirming, I blurt out, “Chanterelle—that’s such a pretty name.”
“Yes, it is—for a mushroom, which is exactly what I was ordering on my mesclun salad.” Now Ms. Lynx snaps out of her trance.
Meanwhile, my cheeks burn with embarrassment—bright red! I sounded like such a fashion amateur.
“So, Miss Purrstein—there seem to be a lot of goings-on in the House of Pashmina that apparently I should have addressed sooner,” Ms. Lynx says, putting on her leopard glasses, then opening a leopard folder and peering at a page carefully.
I shriek inside, wondering if it’s a secret dossier she’s been compiling—on me!
“I had no reason to suspect anything wrong when Chintzy Colon asked to be removed as a member of your house due to a family emergency. It was a legitimate claim.” Ms. Lynx pauses. “But now am I to understand that you’re accusing Shalimar Jackson of influencing Chintzy—and Tracy Reese—in some way? What’s next—a Catwalk conspiracy in the Pentagon?”
Flustered, I stammer, “N-no, my assistant, Ruthie Dragon, told us that she’d be unable to secure shoes for our show from Tracy Reese because another house would be using them due to a prior arrangement.”
“And? So you assumed it was because of Shalimar Jackson?”
Now it’s my turn to stare blankly at Ms. Lynx.
“Did you?” Ms. Lynx persists.
“Yes, because Intelco is one of Mr. Jackson’s—um—Jackson Holdings’s clients,” I blurt out.
“Pashmina, I know you don’t major in fashion journalism,” she says, riffling through the papers in the dreaded folder again. “And your grade point average is excellent—very impressive—but perhaps you’ll consider honing your investigative reporting skills before you accuse anyone of anything—especially on camera?”
“I didn’t do it on camera. I mean, that wasn’t my intention!” I protest.
Ms. Lynx ignores my defense and continues delivering her summation. “I called over to the Tracy Reese showroom and spoke to Rina in the publicity department. Apparently, the House of Ninja will be lent their collection of highly sought-after soles.”
“How did that happen?” I ask, puzzled pink. Nervously, I yank one of my curls. Willi Ninja, Jr., has no connecs at Tracy Reese. And to my limited knowledge, no other student from F.I. is interning there now, except for Ruthie Dragon, who is on my fashion team—the House of Pashmina.
Ms. Lynx ignores me again. “It’s not my job to find out how the House of Ninja managed to secure shoes that are eluding you. May I suggest focusing your energy on finding shoes instead?”
“I’m sorry,” I apologize humbly, because I’m gagulating at this latest tawdry turn.
“Don’t apologize to me. But may I suggest you apologize to Shalimar Jackson?” advises Ms. Lynx.
“But I do know that—” I stop midsentence to suppress my urge to drop the tiddy about Shalimar and Chintzy sending me a computer virus. What’s the use? It won’t earn me any brownie, or pinkie, points. Instead, I switch gears: “I will apologize to Shalimar. Thank you.”
Ms. Lynx tilts her head at me, softening, before she puts her fashion armor back on: “I specifically asked all of you to please be careful about on-camera dialogue. The operative word is discreet. For the sake of our fine fashion institution. Have I made myself clear—again?”
“Understood. Capito!” I say enthusiastically.
Ms. Lynx smiles faintly at my Italian cheesing before administering another stern warning. “It shall remain on record that Chintzy Colon dropped out of your house due to a family emergency, but if any other member of your house drops out, I will be taking a closer look at the cause to consider shaving points off your Catwalk score.”
I fight back the tears and smile, my back frozen to the chair like a Popsicle, before Ms. Lynx dismisses me.
I can’t even look at Sil Lai when I exit; luckily she’s on the phone. With her kind eyes, Farfalla delivers a message to me that I decipher to mean Hang in there, cara!
The hallway is no longer a war zone. Bolting to my fashion marketing class, I feel grateful that I didn’t reveal anything to Ms. Lynx about Chintzy—the spy who came in from the cold. For sure, that plan would have backfired, just like my plan to confront Shalimar. And at le
ast now, I’m still in the fashion game.
4
Angora, Aphro, and Felinez are already in Studio C for our Catwalk meeting. So is Ruthie Dragon, sitting in a corner by her lonesome, pretending to be engrossed in the book Fifty Shoes That Changed the World. I wonder if Ruthie is trying to channel a subliminal message to me.
“What happened?” Felinez whispers.
“Let’s just say Ms. Lynx put me on notice—any more pink slips and I may fall from grace,” I whisper, sitting at the head of the conference table. It’s a ritual I usually find royal, but today I feel like a leader about to be dethroned.
“Of course, the Shallow One is sipping up the drama like Earl Grey tea,” Aphro blurts out.
I wink at Biggie Mouth with my left eye, which is Catwalk code for “Put a lid on it.” This hushed convo is for our ears and fears only. I glance over at Ruthie and recall what my mom said. How do I know that Ruthie is telling the truth? Just in case, I’m unofficially yanking her privilege to sensitive info. It’s bad enough that today’s Catwalk blog entries have everyone yodeling from the fashion treetops about the Shalimar showdown in the lobby this morning. “I shouldn’t have put Shalimar on blast till I had better intel,” I croak, shifting into guilty gear.
“Well, I’m just glad somebody finally said it—the Shallow One does think she’s the only viable candidate in this high-heel race!” snarls Aphro.
“And she’s trying to win it with our shoes!” hisses Felinez.
“That’s just it. Willi Ninja, Jr., shoe-jacked us, not Shalimar,” I confess.
Angora is aghast at this tawdry tiddy. “Pash, are you sure?”
I nod. “That’s what Ms. Lynx told me.”
Felinez crinkles her brow like she’s channeling brujería. “Don’t be fooled by Shalimar’s silence of the lamb chops. She’s leading us to slaughter—I can feel it!”
“Please don’t get mad, Fifi, but feelings are not factos,” I advise.
“I’m not—but I had a feeling about Chintzy and I was right, está bien?” protests Fifi.
“Está bien, okay,” I crow, deciding to test her brujería intuition. “So who exactly is the Riddler?”
“It could be anybody,” Fifi responds, shrugging her shoulders like an unappreciated psychic.
“Oui, c’est vrai. It’s true. It could be anybody hiding behind a blog identity,” seconds Angora. She gently smooths the ends of her long, straight blond hair. “Now all we need is the Joker.”
“Speaking of true or false, does chanterelle mean ‘mushroom’ in French?” I query, hesitant about my pronunciation. Angora takes French for her language requirement.
“True,” Angora says, nodding. “Technically, it’s one type of mushroom.”
“What about Alyjah Jade?”
“That’s a mushroom, too?” asks Aphro, skeptical.
“No, she’s a singer performing at the Lipstick Lounge next month—or so says Sil Lai.”
“Then she must be stuck-up, or Sil Lai wouldn’t be putting her on blast,” snorts Aphro. “But I heard that spot is serving it cutely with red velvet love seats. Wish someone would take me there.”
“Why don’t you ask Lupo? You’ve been locking lips with him—might as well cozy up together at the Lipstick Lounge to test those love seats,” I suggest. Lupo Saltimbocca is our resident photographer, thanks to Zeus, who brought the goofy Italian Francesco Scavullo wannabe into the House of Pashmina. Although he really digs Aphro, she is sticking to her sob story—that his nose is too big to be diggable.
Aphro doesn’t respond to my snap; instead she starts belting out an impromptu riff like she’s channeling an old-school blues singer: “So we ain’t got no shoes/and we ain’t got no man/but we got our slinky moves/and we’re putting on a show so/everybody gonna have a real good time.”
“What moves you got?” I ask, taking the Bessie Smith bait. I know that the late legendary blues singer is a favorite of her foster mother, Mrs. Maydell.
“Come over later so I can show you the pose formation I have in mind?” pleads Aphro in her normal voice.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say obediently. Things have been tense for Aphro at home since her foster brother, Lennix, was removed. Aphro finally told us that Mr. Maydell and his strict discipline were too rough for Lennix’s gentle nature.
More members of my Catwalk crew file in for our meeting. “Here are my models!” I announce, snapping into Catwalk leader mode at the sight of Mink Yong and Kissa Sami, who arrives with her velvety-blue-eyed little sister.
“Well, who is this?” asks Angora, beaming approvingly at our first child model prospect—yummified in a parfait-orange sweater over bubble-gum pink leggings and Pastry Kicks sneaks.
“Cherry,” she says with a grin.
“Oh, Cherry, chérie, aren’t you a style soufflé.”
A puzzled look clouds Cherry’s face, prompting Kissa to explain to her sister, “She likes your outfit.”
Cherry grins shyly, reminding me of how insecure I used to be if I thought someone didn’t like me. Now there’s only one person who I wish liked me more: the Mad Hatter.
“Fly Hat Fridays! Work it out!” shouts Benny Madina, our dreadlocked male model, clapping at Zeus as he brightens the doorway with Lupo Saltimbocca and his Nikon lens.
Fallon also claps for Zeus’s fashion activism. She is our star plus-size model. “Freaky Fridays! Now all we need is Big Girl Appreciation Day to set it off up in here!”
Lupo Saltimbocca lets out a snicker.
Zeus tips his brim before he takes off his black leather jacket, baring his muscled biceps in a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words DON’T FEED THE MODELS.
“We are not adding that slogan to the Urban Gear segment!” I blurt out, referring to the slogans we’ve stamped on the T-shirts and sweatpants in our show.
Zeus winks in acknowledgment of my cuteness. Staring at Zeus on the sly, I wonder if he was always so secure and confident. With those dark, dreamy eyes and chiseled cheekbones, he probably knew at the age of two that he was gonna be a Tasti D-lite. Or maybe that’s what it’s like when you have a big, tight family with a father at the helm; you get to feel warm, secure, and fuzzy inside.
Lupo, on the other hand, wears his insecurities like an itchy wool sweater plagued by pilling. His eyelids are so droopy he has to tilt his head sideways when he levels a gaze, like he’s searching for his good angle. Like right now, as he sidles over to Aphro and plants a kiss on her satin-smooth cheek. “Ciao, bella,” he coos.
“Hey,” she shoots back, angling her face so she doesn’t butt heads with his Pinocchio-plus nose. Despite what Aphro says, I know she is feeling Lupo, and definitely vice versa. For a second, I fantasize that Zeus is feeling me, too—and that that’s why he comes over and gives me a hug.
“Congrats,” I coo, blushing. Suddenly, I start blathering about my creepy catmare. “So I had a dream that we were playing this funny remix of ‘I Will Survive’ in our fashion show—and you were nowhere to be found. And I was like, what’s with the switch-up? Why did Zeus do that? And where is he?”
“Yeah, well, I’m right here. So, what you got?” he asks, interrupting my babble flow.
I shake my head like Forget it, but I can’t get the song out of my head, so I start singing it in my cackling jackal voice. After all, Zeus is the deejay and will be putting together the tracks for our show.
“Oh, Lord, rip the runway, not my eardrum, puhleez!” Aphro puts her hands over her ears.
“Párate, stop!” hisses Felinez. She slaps Aphro on her arm. “Nobody stopped you when you were singing like an old-timey washbucket.”
“That was the blues. Get your history straight.”
“Go ahead, mija—it’s really cute!” coaxes Felinez.
Because everyone else giggles, too, I shrug off my shame and resume singing like a cackling jackal.
“First I was afraid
I was Petri-FRIED
Kept thinking I could never live
Without Fabb
ie Tabbie by my side …
But as long as I know how to pose
I know I’ll stay alive
I will survive! I will survive!”
While I’m singing, Diamond Tyler, our second designer in command, sneaks into the meeting like a field mouse, quietly popping into an empty seat. When I squeak to the finish line, I record the reactions: Angora and Felinez clap loudly. Liza Flake snaps her gum loudly, then snickers until she’s posy-pink in the cheeks. Aphro just shakes her head, embarrassed. Zeus’s reaction is the most surprising. “I could make a track out of that. I’m not kidding,” he reassures me.
“Really?” I respond, surprised. “My mom would dig that. Let’s mix it.” Trailing off into the outer limits, I resume trying to decipher my trippy dream. “In my dream, I was wondering—why were you standing next to Shalimar in the audience instead of remaining backstage with us?”
Zeus shrugs his shoulders like he’s lost me in the Twilight Zone. He meets my gaze, and his eyes twinkle until we’re locked into a mutual adorationfest. That is, until the spell is broken by the noisy entrance of nosy Nole Canoli, model Elgamela Sphinx, and makeup artist Kimono “Mini Mo” Harris, who has brought her little cousin.
“Oh, look, it’s Mini Mo Two!” squeals Dame Leeds, our lead hairstylist.
Nole is more interested in Zeus’s brim victory. “Fly Hat Fridays! You’d better work, supermodel!” Nole Canoli squeals like he’s Miss Piggy, whom he strongly resembles, only without the strands of pearls. “In honor of the first Fly Hat Friday, I’m making the Countess a red pillbox hat!” Nole plops down with his better half, Countess Coco, perched neatly at his side in a Prada carrier.
“That’s it—we need some pillbox hats for the bomber jackets and ruffled chiffon skirts,” I brainstorm.
Kissa strokes the Countess’s fiery red mane. Unlike snippy J.B., the Countess has manners and appreciates attention and Lambo Lovers delicate liver treats.
“Well, if we don’t win, we’ll be remembered as the house that created Fly Hat Fridays,” giggles Liza Flake. When she’s not popping her annoying gum, she’s blowing off Catwalk meetings for her internship at Vidal Sassoon. Not once, but twice. Oy, our assistant hairstylist makes me scratch my head—and not to relieve dandruff, either. Of course, Dame Leeds, our lead hairstylist, always makes sure Liza is on time so he can avoid tangling with me.
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