“She thinks you should have let her be an assistant hairstylist in our house,” Fifi points out.
“I couldn’t! Dame Leeds insisted on Liza Flake—and Dame came giftwrapped with the Nole Canoli package—although I’d like to jetsam his arrogance overboard into the curdling Black Sea.” I shake my head. “I’m caught between a curling iron and a crimping rod.”
Felinez nods, defending my decision. A slender blond student swathed from head to toe in black walks into the office, staring straight ahead. Although I can’t remember her name, I can tell she’s a disciple of my Catwalk rival, Anna Rex. Ignoring us, she stops at the counter, glued to the techno gizmo in her hand.
“Can I help you?” asks an administrative assistant.
Without looking up, she mumbles: “Yes, I’m here to make an appointment with the Internet addiction counselor.”
The administrative assistant places a clipboard in front of the obvious BlackBerry addict for her to sign.
Suddenly, Mr. Confardi’s booming voice wafts out the open door of his office. “I did not order the zap-it ultra-bright white. I’m Italian American, honey, people pay money to get the color of my complexion. It’s the wrinkles I can’t stand! Never mind. I ordered the anti-aging defense serum. You sent the wrong product—so why should I pay the return postage to send it back?”
“Another case of misappropriation of funds?” I whisper to Fifi.
Hanging up the phone, Mr. Confardi lets out a bark, “Aarrgh, do your job, people!”
“Speaking of keypad strokes, you don’t think they were talking about us in the blog, do you?” I drill Fifi.
“What happened?” Fifi responds.
“The suggestion that someone has sticky fingers with the Catwalk budget?” I prod.
“Oh, right. I bet you it’s Moet Major,” says Fifi.
“Why?” I ask. Moet Major slid into a house leader slot by default after Chandelier Spinelli disappeared from school following her father’s chop-shop indictment.
“She looks like she has sticky fingers,” says Fifi.
“And sticky hair products.” Moet Major, my least fave Catwalk rival, is a petite tomboy with burgundy spiked hair and asymmetrical bangs glued to the sides of her pointy face. In short, she’s heavy on the superhold gel and light on talent.
“So what happened?” Fifi asks.
“Awright—you asked for it.” I proceed to add relish to the details of my magical evening with Zeus. “It was surreal how connected I felt to him—like this crazy energy just sucked me up and I went tumbling down a rabbit hole. The whole thing made me feel like Cinderella.”
“When we were little, you said that Cinderella was stupid, because who would run off dropping a shoe, let alone a glass slipper?” Fifi reminds me.
“Fifi, we were in first grade—I didn’t realize the depth of the emotional complexities,” I explain, flustered. “Now I can see the big picture.”
“Now you sound like Shalimar,” Fifi says, scrunching her nose like she’s caught a whiff of a repellent odor.
“What I’m saying is Cinderella was upset—that’s why she lost her slipper, not because she was stupid, okay?”
Fifi shakes her head. Suddenly, I think about the nightmare again—falling on my face on the runway because my kitten heel gave out. “Maybe I’m a reincarnation of Cinderella?” I ponder, spooked again.
“You’re cuckoo,” snaps Fifi.
Our Cinderella debate is cut short by the receptionist’s command. “Go in now, please.”
Mr. Confardi takes one glance at the carrier in my hand and balks. “Pashmina—you know cats are not purse-sized pets!”
“I know, Mr. Confardi,” I apologize, explaining about the Pet Pose Off, which is the reason for Fabbie Tabbie’s presence. “Until then, she’ll be checked in downstairs in the Petsey Betsey Lounge.”
“I see.” Mr. Confardi softens, smiling slyly, like he approves of our feline finale idea for our fashion show.
“Nole Canoli will be bringing in his cat, Penelope, for the same purpose. They’re dueling it out,” I explain earnestly.
“Just make sure I don’t see Fabbie Tabbie catting on the runway with the special guest!” he warns me.
“What?” I respond, puzzled.
“There’ll be an announcement,” Mr. Confardi barks, shooing me away.
As we leave the administrative office, Nole Canoli rushes in—late, as usual—with Penelope in a black carrier. “Make sure Fabbie Tabbie rests all day,” he warns me. “Penelope is going to wipe the floor with her later.”
“We’ll see.”
Nole brushes against me to crowd his way into the reception area. “Oh. I hope it’s not you who’s misappropriating funds for our Catwalk budget, is it?”
“Yeah—I bought myself two first-class tickets to Fiji,” I snarl. “You caught me pink-handed.”
8
By lunch period, we’re all sitting in the Fashion Café searching for chic clues to the mysteries: 1. Which house leader is being called out in the Catwalk blog for perpetrating funny business with funds? 2. What is the Special Event in the Fashion Auditorium today?
An announcement over the PA instructs all current Catwalk competition team members to convene in the gymnasium for fifth period.
“Well, now we know the Special Event pertains to us,” I observe nervously. “No biology class for moi today. Yippee.” While I’m delirious that I won’t have to go to biology, Angora is happy, too, but for the wrong reasons.
“And no voguing class for moi.” Angora sighs delicately, ogling her dessert—a stylish houndstooth cupcake with Bavarian cream filling.
Meanwhile, Felinez has her eye on sucking up Aphro’s: a green tartan plaid cupcake soaked with Madagascar vanilla. “Which one did you get?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.
“Never mind, you ain’t getting it,” snaps Aphro. She never shares her food, and who can blame her: she has had to contend with the grabby hands of other foster kids since the ripe age of four.
Suddenly, I get a cupcake special delivery. Ice Très comes up behind me and hands me a striped cupcake that reminds me of Fifi’s fave pj’s. “No pink ones?” I tease him.
“Nah, but wait till next Friday—you’re gonna love the taste of the Triple Pink Pussycat cocktail at the Lipstick Lounge,” he says, kissing me on my cheek. I flinch, embarrassed. Suddenly, my cheeks seem to be in big demand.
“Later,” says Ice Très. He jets, sensing that he’d better not push his luck—yet.
“Houndstooth, camouflage, and plaid cupcakes? No, merci.” I pass my cupcake to Fifi. “All yours.”
“What happened with Ice Très?” Angora asks.
“Nothing yet. I made a date to go with him to the Lipstick Lounge—it was the least I could do after standing him up last night,” I confess.
“Ah, the mystery place. Wish I was going there,” Angora says wistfully. “Anywhere but to my job.”
“We’re all working girls now,” I remind her.
“You do look exhausted,” Aphro says, delivering an observation as blunt as her bob.
“Merci.” Angora says, embarrassed. Like Aphro and me, Angora was forced to get a part-time job—luckily landing one at the lovely Anthropologie boutique in SoHo—after her father’s Funny Bunny cartoon empire turned into a basket of rotten eggs. Now the Le Bon family is learning to live on a budget—with strings attached, thanks to the watchful eye of Ms. Ava Le Bon, who came up from Baton Rouge to rescue her only daughter and her “irresponsible ex-husband,” as she refers to him, when the Funny Bunny finances fell apart last Christmas.
“Zeus is on the loose,” signals Aphro. I turn to witness Zeus’s arrival and automatically wave him down.
“No, don’t. Wait until he comes over on his own,” advises Angora. “Remember, you’re supposed to be in demand, chérie—so many suitors, so little time!”
“Right.” I smirk.
Angora subscribes to the dating principles from an old-school guide
called The Rules.
“So many suitors!” Fifi giggles so hard, she chokes on her cupcake.
“And so many crumbs,” adds Angora, handing Fifi a napkin. Ms. Ava Le Bon also runs a charm and etiquette school back home—and it’s rubbed off on Angora, whether she likes to admit it or not.
“Actually, you do have a point. Why am I waving him down?” I ponder. Zeus smiles at me but heads over to Lupo’s table instead of ours. Nole Canoli rushes right over there, too, fawning over Zeus and babbling.
I stare at him blankly, trying not to feel slighted.
“Why didn’t he run over to be with your pinkness?” taunts Aphro.
“Who cares,” I fib. I glance around the lunchroom, catching sight of Chintzy Colon sitting by herself—wearing a fishnet skullcap and matching bib, my Code Pink–inspired creation.
“Look who’s biting your flavor,” observes Aphro.
“At least she stopped wearing that annoying fake ponytail,” comments Fifi.
“Ice Très would like to bite your flavor, too,” chuckles Aphro.
“Maybe.” I sense Ice Très’s watchful eyes turning in my direction. Nonetheless, I pretend I don’t notice and continue gazing at Zeus, who is locked in animated convo with annoyingly pushy Nole Canoli.
“Nole is sure acting shady today,” Aphro says.
“He’s not happy about the Pet Pose Off, but they don’t call it a competition for nada. Why shouldn’t Fabbie Tabbie be given a fair chance before I concede to Nole’s nefarious nepotism?” I explain, defending my position.
“I hear that,” Aphro agrees.
Much to my dislike, Zeus stays at the table with Lupo and Nole for the rest of lunch period. Meanwhile, I babble to my crew about every detail of our date together, which consisted mainly of gazing into each other’s eyes.
Suddenly, Fifi cringes. “My father used to look at my mother like that.” She screws up her full cheeks and bursts into tears.
“Oh, no, chérie,” sputters Angora. She takes a napkin to wipe the cupcake cream off Fifi’s upper lip.
“I worked so hard to be in this fashion show—and if they both don’t come to see me, I will never forgive them. Never,” she announces. Now Fifi covers her face.
“What are you talking about?” I ask Fifi.
“He’s moving out!” Fifi blurts out.
“No way, José,” I respond.
Fifi breaks down and tells us about the telenovela she’s been keeping to herself. I was so wrapped up in my own telenovela that I didn’t even notice something was wrong with my BFF. I had no idea the Carteras, her musician parents, were having trouble in cruise paradise.
Now everyone at the nearby table is looking at us. I hug Fifi and whisper in her ear, “I will never leave you. I promise you that. Best friends, pura vida. Just like we promised each other.”
Fifi moans, “I’m gonna make you keep that promise.”
“Good,” I confirm. “I like keeping promises.”
I look up and spot Diamond. She is like an animal tracker—someone who senses when the wounded are in need of help. I can tell she is dying to come over, but she keeps her distance, hovering nearby, then darts over to the table where Elgamela Sphinx is lunching with Dame Leeds and Mini Mo Harris. “I really need to speak to Diamond about the progress of the evening sketches,” I mumble.
Struck by paranoia again, I ask my trusted crew: “What do you think is going on? Does everybody think I’m the house leader misappropriating funds? Is that it?”
“So what if they do? We know the truth,” Aphro assures me. “Read between the weave—it’s Shalimar!”
I waive off Aphro’s prediction. “Misappropriation of funds? Why would she? She has the money.”
“Who else could it be? Wanna bet?” Aphro dares.
“All right, Biggie Mouth—you’re on,” I state. “Why you want to part with your hard-earned coins is an Agatha Christie mystery to me.”
Aphro and I now both work part-time at the Jones Uptown boutique. For meager hourly wages (seven dollars an hour, to be exact). Given the sorry state of the retail industry, however, I’m grateful to Laretha Jones for finally changing her mind and giving me a job. Laretha was pleased purple (her favorite shade) with the modeling shoot Aphro and I did for her website. I got three hundred dollars for my first professional modeling job, too.
“Oh, we’re not betting money,” Aphro informs me. “You cover my shift on Saturday so I can go visit Lennix.”
“They’re letting you see Lennix?” Felinez asks, forgetting her parents’ problems.
“Yeah, but it has to be on Saturday,” says Aphro matter-of-factly. I can tell she’s trying not to get excited, but she must be. Originally Aphro’s caseworker told her she would not be allowed to visit Lennix in his new foster home.
“Wow, that’s great,” I second. “I’ll cover your shift, no problemo. But if you lose, then you cover my shift on Sunday.” Not that I have anywhere to go on Sunday besides working like a demon on the Catwalk collection. As a matter of facto, I’d work at the boutique 24/7 if I could—because I need all the ducats I can get.
“Oh, you just want to see if Zeus is gonna ask you out on Sunday,” Aphro teases me.
I blush, shaking my head in the negative.
But Aphro isn’t buying it. “So what was it like kissing him?”
“How did you know I kissed him?” I respond, feeling icky. “Houndstooth and plaid cupcakes, putting my smooches on blast—is nothing sacred?”
“You should have known Zeus would tell Lupo,” Aphro says. By the smirk on her face, I can tell my bossy BFF is pleased with herself for landing such a zesty zinger.
“Who knew he was the kiss-and-tell type?” I utter. I stare over at Zeus for life support, but he’s still deep in convo.
When lunch period is over, I want to go running after Zeus—and Diamond, for that matter—but my kitten heels turn to Silly Putty. Against my will I find myself waiting to make eye contact with Zeus as we pour out of the Fashion Café. I figure I can glom onto that fast-moving cluster of Catwalk contestants who are migrating to the Auditorium for the Special Event.
At the doorway, Nole breezes by, banging into me—on purpose. “Oops, sorry. Miss Purr, you must be gaining weight. Not so smart before the fashion show, no?”
“Today, Mr. Nole, you are working all of my real hair follicles.” I shake my head of kinky curls. Then I snap back into leadership mode. “We’re working on the children’s outfits tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, Miss Purr,” he says, sighing. “So many orders and so little time.”
I suck up to his charade. “Can you please tell Diamond that I expect her to be at the Pet Pose Off with the sketches in hand for our evening segment?”
“It’s already done, Miss Purr,” Nole says. “Stop trying to ruffle her feathers. She wouldn’t miss seeing Penelope win our Pet Pose Off for all the urban coyote tales in North America.”
“Right,” I mumble, tight-lipped. My lips loosen, however, at the sight of Zeus heading in my direction, finally. I gaze at him steadfastedly, blotting out Nole’s prickly patter.
Zeus’s piercing dark eyes twinkle like black diamonds. Inches away, he says, proudly, “I’ve got something for you.” I’m hoping it’s a kiss, but instead Zeus reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a CD in a clear plastic sleeve. “Now, if you don’t like this, tell me the truth and I’ll run it through another remix.”
I stand there speechless. Zeus waits for a response.
“Oh, right—yeah,” I stammer, sidetracked by my latest bout of insecurity. Arrgh.
Now Zeus is distracted by Dame Leeds, who is bending his ear. After Dame jets ahead to catch up with Liza Flake, I can’t resist asking. “What was Dame serving?”
“He thinks something is about to go down. Never mind. We’ll see,” Zeus relays, shrugging off my concern.
So I move on to another concern. “You’re coming to the Pet Pose Off?” I ask, biting my lip.
“No doubt,” Ze
us assures me. “But go ahead to the auditorium. I gotta take care of something first.”
I nod, then catch up with my crew. Lupo sidles up to Aphro and puts his arm around her waist.
I need Angora. “Zeus is acting weird,” I whisper to her.
“That’s how guys are. Maybe he’s thinking about buying a new pair of sneakers and doesn’t have the money. Maybe it has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s radickio,” I respond.
“That’s why you have to really get to know a guy before you decide if he’s right for you,” Angora adds sweetly. “In The Rules, it says girls always close off our dating options too soon. We meet a guy we like and bam, closed for business! But you can’t.”
“Wow, that’s deep,” I say, shaking my head at Angora’s dating wisdom.
“She’s right, mija. All of a sudden he likes you? So what—you don’t have to fall all over him,” Fifi warns me. “You didn’t fall all over Ice Très, and now he’s chasing after you, right?”
I think about what my crew is trying to tell me, but I’m just puzzled pink. “You’re both right, you know. I guess I don’t trust Ice Très—but I just really trust Zeus, that’s all,” I confess.
“Why? Because he’s a Tasti D-Lite? He has to earn your trust—that’s what it says in The Rules,” adds Angora, capping her argument. Little does she know, in many ways, she is just like her mother—always dispensing advice.
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!
WHO YOU CALLING A WEB-A-HOLIC?
No self-respecting fashionista could care one glass tiger eye about the goings-on directly across the street from us at that grungy hole in the universe known as Dalmation Tech High School. (As a matter of fact, could someone please do us the community service of submitting that gray mass of a mess to the television show Extreme Makeover: Home Edition?) But with the recent news that one of the D.T. students hanged himself after being constantly cyberbullied, you’ve now got our attention because you’ve stepped smack into the middle of our fashionable Twitter-jitter blog-obssessed terrain.
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