“I think we should put a few pillboxes in the show—with the minidress segment?” I suggest, inspired by Zeus’s accolade. “We don’t have enough hats in the show—that’s what we need—even though the Ferocious One hates last-minute additions.”
“I second that motion,” seconds Zeus. He tips his brim again and nods humbly again.
“Who’s the ferocious?” Cherry asks innocently.
“The Big Bad Lynx!” blurts out Nole.
Aphro knocks him on the shoulder, her personal code for “Put a lid on it.” The Chintzy Incident has taught us one thing: we don’t know who is carrying secrets to our enemies at the Kremlin (aka Ms. Lynx’s office), or where the Teen Style Network has planted hidden cameras!
“All right, sorry.” Nole smirks, then beams at Cherry. “Are you ready to twirl? What’s your name?”
While Nole continues to coo with Cherry and Kiki, Mini Mo’s miniature lookalike, I can tell Felinez is fretting because Michelette, her older sister, hasn’t arrived yet with their little brother, Juanito. “She probably has her head stuck in a telenovela!” Felinez moans. Michelette works in a video store. She’s addicted to Spanish soap operas—mainly the Colombian Betty, la Fea—and sometimes has to be pried out of the recliner chair.
“She’ll be here,” I assure Felinez.
“Don’t you have someone coming, too?” Nole asks me.
I nod. “But not to worry—nothing will keep this divette in training from a shot at model stardom!” I quip.
“I heard that!” screams Stellina, blazing through the doorway like a shooting star.
I jump up to hug Stellina, relieved that she came without Tiara, her timid best friend from Building C. Alas, I hoped too soon. Stellina turns around and looks behind herself like she’s lost her bread basket in the forest. She bolts out the door. Seconds later, she returns—with not only Tiara in tow, but also Eramus “E.T.” Tyler.
“Color me impressed,” I shoot at her, pleased. “How’d ya pull this off?”
“I’m going with Mrs. Paul on Sunday to hand out Watchtowers,” she says, rolling her eyes. The Watchtower is the official magazine of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. “Miss Pashmina, you owe me—big-time.”
“I get your drift,” I respond quickly. What I want to say is This is a fashion show, not a magic show. Even the Great Houdini couldn’t pull a runway trick out of his hat to transform Tiara’s fashion travesties!
“Wow, you’re going to see a watchtower? Where?” Zeus asks, intrigued.
Aphro jabs Zeus in the side of his black leather jacket like Chill for now and we’ll hit you up later with that info. No point in insulting E.T., who beams at me like I’m his Secret Santa.
“I am so glad to have you in the mix!” I quip.
“You think I could really be in a fashion show?”
“Why not?” interrupts Felinez, ready to reassure him. “My brother, Juanito, is going to be in our fashion show, too, so you won’t be the only boy!”
“Well, he has to try out first,” blurts out Dame Leeds, like he’s in charge of model casting.
I refrain from telling Dame that Juanito’s audition is merely a formality. Juanito’s in there like swimwear.
“Don’t worry—I’m really happy you’re here,” I assure E.T.
“He kinda looks like Lennix,” Aphro says sadly.
“Who’s Lennix?” E.T. asks.
“My brother,” Ahpro says quietly. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard her refer to Lennix as her brother. Usually she says foster brother.
“So why are you so late, Miss Diamond?” asks Dame Leeds, shifting the focus from family to feuds. I know he’s really putting me on blast—not Diamond—because I put him on blast for Liza’s two no-shows.
“I had to go see for myself—I heard that three coyotes turned up on the Columbia University campus,” Diamond reports, like she’s delivering a trend observation from the Fashion Week tents at Lincoln Center.
“Really?” Stellina asks, excited.
Diamond ignores my stare and continues like we’re just sitting around having a howling good time and not conducting a Catwalk meeting. “The peak of coyote breeding season is right now, I think—so a lot of them are getting kicked out of their homes while their parents are preparing to—well, you know.” She stops, embarrassed. “So anyway, the young ones migrate south along the train tracks, cemeteries, the park, and even college campuses like Columbia, because they’re looking for food—you know, like small rabbits—”
“Um, Diamond—that’s enough with the urban coyote tales,” I say sharply. I’ve had it up to here with Diamond disrupting the meetings with her “tails” of woe.
“I was just trying to explain—” Diamond stops because her voice is getting shaky. “I mean, if you can talk about your nightmares, why can’t I talk about what’s important to me? This fashion stuff isn’t the whole world.”
“Yes, I know. But I’d appreciate it if you would keep your updates to Catwalk-related topics from now on, okay?” I plead. Diamond’s face is beet red. “Don’t get me wrong, we can talk about that kind of stuff after the meeting is over. Right now, I want to talk about this great idea we got to set off the the satin bomber jacket and chiffon skirts—what about pillbox hats?”
Diamond doesn’t answer me. She sits down like a petulant child, fiddling with her sketchbook on the table, then gets up and walks out of the meeting!
“I knew it,” I groan. “Today is not my lucky day.”
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 posting will be zapped by the Fashion Avengers!
HERE COMES THE JUDGE …
As of late, everyone at Fashion International is tethered to two “seamy” topics: 1) This year’s Catwalk competition, for which the contestants are busy assembling their creations on cutting tables. 2) The ghoulish body-parts ring—members, which include the father of one of F.I.’s former house leaders—accused of running an international illegal chop shop. All related parties will face judgment day real soon. The five competing houses in the Catwalk competition will face the music when the esteemed judges cast their votes after the fashion shows are unveiled at Lincoln Center in June; the five members of the body-parts ring will face the music in Brooklyn Supreme Court after the jurors reach a verdict.
But how can we resist passing judgment in the meantime? Let’s examine the sordid facts: one house leader went MIA after the chop shop scandal broke, leading her to withdraw from the competition; one house is claiming they were duped out of designer shoes; and apparently another will soon be facing charges concerning misappropriation of funds (that allegation is freshly plucked from the seedless grapevine).
As for the trial: we have discovered that Nurse Spinelli was part of a scheme to harvest corpses at funeral homes for bones, skin, cardiac valves, and other body parts to sell in the global transplant business! Skin, sold in sheets, went to burn victims. More than 12,000 people in the U.S., Canada, England, and other countries received the body parts!
Apparently, on the first day of the trial, juror #2 heaved up her matzoh-ball soup and root beer float during the district attorney’s opening argument: “Thousands of people around the world are walking around with tissue and pieces of bone that were never tested for hepatitis and other diseases!” Yikes! Some trade secrets should never be leaked.
The identities of the trial jurors and the five judges for the Catwalk competition are being kept confidential, but we the people always count on leakage. (Those darn leaks in the Catwalk office must keep Ms. Lynx up at night—and on the prowl for intruders!) A grade-A reliable source has confirmed that one of the judges in the Catwalk competition is Hello Kitty—obsessed jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino—not Betsey Johnson, as certain people falsely reported earlier in the year! Coinky dinky: both daring designers wear a fuchsia wig, but we the people don’t agree with the recent rumblings that a pink “influenza
” will create a “color bias” in this year’s Catwalk competition. Oh, glow up! There are five judges on the posh panel—and as in the cadaver trial, all verdicts delivered must be unanimous.
In summation, we the people think fashionistas should have more faith in the system. How much do you want to bet that one of the Catwalk judges will surely be color-blind—except for the color green, if you catch my drift—thereby ensuring the shoe-in of a certain house. (There, somebody finally said it!)
At any rate, the former house leader who sashayed away in disgrace has announced that she plans on running again next year for house leader in the Catwalk competition. Ahem, we the people think said candidate doesn’t stand a prayer of even a hung jury. Come graduation time, she should just grab that cap and be glad it only comes with a tassel—and no strings attached. But hey—no judgment!
Posted by We the Fashion People at 13:45:34
5
I’m so frazzled that Diamond Tyler dissed me in front of my entire team that I start yanking my hair like an outpatient from the Amsterdam Gardens psych ward.
“Can we have one meeting without drama?” squeals Nole Canoli. “I’ll go get her!” Nole plops the Countess on his chair in her Prada bag and waddles out of the room.
Ruthie Dragon can’t help but throw a satisfied look at me before she bares her “sole”: “It took a little digging—but I did find out at work about the shoes. The House of Ninja is going to be borrowing them,” Ruthie states, like she’s reporting from behind enemy lines in Afghanistan.
“Yes, I know,” I say curtly.
Benny Madina, an avid Ninja hater, asks, “All I wanna know is how’d he steal our hookup?”
I refrain from commenting, but looking around at my Catwalk crew, I realize that I’m being called into action. “Look, I know that you’ve all turned in your hookup sheets—but if anyone has a shoe lead we can explore, exhaust, beg, borrow, or steal, please let me know?”
“Go Manolo or go solo, that’s what I always say,” quips Bobby Beat, our star makeup artist.
“Well, put your money where your mouth is,” heckles Dame Leeds. “Enough with the false advertisement.”
“At this point I’d take Kmart shoes and Prada manners, people,” I warn Dame, sounding an awful lot like the Ferocious One, Ms. Lynx. “We’ve got eight weeks to showtime. Also, for the next Catwalk meeting, I need all of you to hand in your lists with email addresses for all the friends and family members you’re inviting to our fashion show. Zeus will be designing the Hold the Date email announcement that Angora and I will be sending to all guests. For the purposes of top secrecy, the final invitations will be sent out to our guests a few days before our fashion show. Everyone clear?”
“Crystal,” heaves Dame.
The door swings open and I jump, startled, but it’s Michelette and Juanito instead of the usual intrusive suspects, the Teen Style Network crew.
“Hola!” Michelette coos excitedly.
Felinez doesn’t hide her agitation. “You didn’t keep Juanito waiting at school, I hope?”
Michelette doesn’t answer her younger sister—subtly establishing who’s in charge. See, their parents gig-hop around the world—mostly on cruise ships—performing with their sixties cover band, Las Madres and Los Padres, so Michelette is in charge most of the time. There’s also no question about who’s blonder. Michelette has been streaking her hair platinum blond since I can remember. Felinez thinks it’s tacky, but then again, she’s not a fan of “shady” hair—she won’t even use a red henna rinse on hers.
“You’re going to work the runway for us?” asks Aphro, teasing Juanito.
Juanito shrugs his shoulders and doesn’t respond. His curly hair is even wilder and darker than Fifi’s.
“No?” prods Angora. “You’re telling me someone as cute as you doesn’t dream about becoming a supermodel?”
“No,” Juanito says, shaking his curly head.
“Then what do you want to do?” Angora quizzes further.
“I wanna be an artist,” Juanito says confidently.
Now Lupo Saltimbocca, our star photographer, perks up. “What kind of artist?” He has been quietly snapping photos from his catty corner. Inspired by Juanito’s stance, Lupo gets up and zooms in for a close-up of his face.
“A con artist,” answers Juanito.
“Juanito!” shrieks Felinez, then covers her face with the palms of her hands, embarrassed.
“That’s so funny!” laughs Stellina. Tiara stares at her beat-up brown loafers. I wonder if she laughs at all.
The ripple of laughter rises when Nole returns without Diamond. He thinks we’re laughing about Diamond’s disappearing act. “I tried to talk her off the ledge!”
I shrug my shoulders, letting Nole know Not so funny.
Zeus senses my agitation and slides out the door. I assume he’s going after Diamond. If anyone can convince her to come back, he can.
“Let’s all move to the left side,” I instruct my crew, so we can make space for the child models to walk on the right side of the conference room.
I position my adorable child models in a single line while I quiz them. “Everybody knows what a fashion show is, right?”
Stellina throws me a look like Don’t try it, then answers. “Yes, we’re gonna wear fierce clothes and walk on the catwalk!”
“That’s right—and the fierce clothes have been made by us—because you’re going to represent the House of Pashmina by opening our fashion show!” I say, hyping my junior models’ crucial position. “Okay, one by one, I want each of you to walk all the way down to Felinez, stop in the middle on the way back, twirl, then walk the rest of the way and make a left like you’re going backstage. Everybody understand?”
My child models nod. One by one, they proceed to walk as instructed and we watch on the sidelines. That is, until we get to Kiki. She stops in the middle—and doesn’t move.
“Come on, Kiki—go ahead and twirl!” Mini Mo coaxes her cousin. But Kiki won’t budge. She stands there, twirling her foot in a circular motion.
“Come on, Kiki!” Mini Mo shouts again.
This time Kiki screws up her face and starts to cry.
“That’s okay, Kiki. You don’t have to.”
“You can do it,” coaxes model Mink Yong. She babbles in Japanese to Kiki.
“She doesn’t understand!” Mini Mo snaps.
“Oh, sorry,” Mink apologizes.
Mini Mo pulls Kiki aside so the rest of the child models can take their turns walking.
Secretly, I wish that Tiara would pull a divette fit, too, so she can exit door left. When it’s Tiara’s turn, she walks, all right—like a shivering penguin marching gingerly on thin ice at the North Pole!
“Tiara—walk like I told you,” whispers Stellina, who has obviously been coaching her friend beforehand. Tiara stares down at her feet and walks back, embarrassed. Stellina’s checks fill up like a balloon and she releases the air in a deep, disappointed sigh. Then, just as quickly, Stellina puts her fashion face on like a pro—and walks, twirls, and returns in a fluid motion.
“Now, there’s a star in the making!” Nole applauds.
“Thank you,” coos Stellina, blowing a kiss.
“Not so much smiling at everyone when you’re on the runway, Ms. Stellina. Remember, you’re a model while you’re out there. Don’t react to anybody, just look straight ahead and keep walking till you hit the turn to go backstage.”
“Got it,” she says, taking another turn.
E.T. goes last—and delivers a nice quiet little strut. Even I can’t help clapping when he’s finished. “That’s purrfecto!”
“I knew you could work it,” seconds Stellina, like she’s been coaching her new crush.
Because Diamond has still not returned to the fashion fold, I decide it’s best to take all the child models’ measurements myself—even Kiki’s.
Afterward, I announce to everyone, “We’re going to have our runway training next week, then final fitti
ngs—for our child models, too—who can leave now if they’d like.”
“So does that mean Tiara is in the fashion show too?” Stellina asks me point-blank.
“I’ll work with her,” blurts out Aphro. Aphro is our choreographer and runway trainer. She begins her assigned duties at our next Catwalk meeting.
“Yes, she’s in,” I relent.
Tiara breaks into a smile.
“Bye, supermodel!” coos Stellina.
“Is someone picking you up?” I ask, concerned.
“Yes, my mother. She’s already downstairs,” Tiara says, flashing her phone in her palm.
I kiss Tiara goodbye.
“Is it okay if I leave now?” asks Mini Mo.
“Yes, go ahead. I appreciate you bringing, um—”
“Kiki,” says Mini Mo, filling in the blank.
Embarrassed by the lapse in my brain synapse, I continue, “Right, Kiki—but we won’t be able to use her.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Mini Mo says, kissing me on the cheek. “She asked for weeks when the audition was, then she gets here and freezes. Go figure.” Mini Mo shakes her head, causing the fine strands of her blunt, straight bob to flutter gently.
After Kiki is gone, Dame Leeds grunts, “You could have given that poor little girl a chance.”
I decide not to respond to Dame. I’ve had my quota of catfights with him: over Liza, over the designs—which he has no talent for. He should stick to hairstyling. I make the creative decisions—period.
Speaking of creative decisions, when Zeus returns with Diamond, I realize we won’t be able to go back to the way things were. Now I’m going to have to wrestle the evening gown sketches out of her and decide what to do about the outfits for the five child models.
Since Diamond is his second in command, Nole luckily takes the lead. “Are you feeling better?” he asks the petulant pet activist, who slithers into her seat without so much as an apology.
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