At F.I. the hallways may be our runways, but the Internet is where we take the gloves off, ripping apart character seams and cutting close to the hemline. Read the entries on the Catwalk blog on any given day to witness the malicious and therefore delicious rants and raves we direct toward each other. Any way you slice the grosgrain ribbon, our endless Tweeting, gossiping, and name-calling should be called exactly what it is: cyberbullying.
In memoriam of the now deceased D.T. student, who we’ve learned was named Bernie Rifkind, let’s call a moratorium on using technology as terrorism. If you have a conflict, corned beef, or another type of angst with a fellow fashionista, may we suggest that you put the keypad down and confront the situation face to face, or mano a mano. And to all you two-fisted gizmo users whose hands are too full with your electronics, do us all a favor and head to the administration office to sign up for a session with our newly appointed Internet addiction counselor. There, I said it—right to your screen.
Posted by Twitter Teen at 05:21:16
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We pour into the Fashion Auditorium under the watchful lens of Caterina Tiburon and the Teen Style Network crew.
“Hi, Teen Stylers!” I wave at the camera crew.
My gleeful shout-out pales next to Willi Ninja, Jr.’s: upon sight of the ubiquitous lens, Willi vogues to his seat with a dramatic flourish. “Follow the winners, churl!”
“Follow the show-offs,” Aphro chortles in response.
“Aphro, wait till they see your moves on the runway,” Angora offers in support. Truth is, Angora needs as much of Aphro’s support she can get—and luckily, Aphro can give her just that in our runway training sessions.
“Trust I will bring it,” Aphro says confidently.
But not as confidently as Shalimar Jackson strides into the style snake pit: she releases a sparkling smile, waving like a First Lady at a political fund-raiser.
As usual, Shalimar’s PR antics (as in public relations, not Puerto Rican) make me shudder. “I want no more leaks,” I whisper to Angora.
“No more leaks. Got it!” she responds, like she’s my spin-control aide taking notes.
Ms. Lynx takes center stage with her pudgy bichon frise, Puccini, clad in his matching leopard outfit. He plops down right by her side, panting heavily, like he’s getting too old for this horse-and-furry show. “Could everyone please sit in the front rows,” orders Ms. Lynx. “Only contestants in the Catwalk competition should be present. If you aren’t currently a member in one of the five Catwalk houses, please sashay to your regularly scheduled class.” Ms. Lynx motions to her assistants, Sil Lai and Farfalla. They immediately scan the aisles and carefully eyeball every seat to weed out strays—aka Catwalk wannabes or has-beens.
After a few more moments, Ms. Lynx reveals what we’re all anxious to find out. Or not.
“I know you’re all wondering why you’ve been selected to participate in this Special Event, but first let me dispense the instructions for your next challenge.”
We the unwitting unleash a collective groan that rises to the rafters of the cavernous Fashion Auditorium.
“The blind side. I didn’t see that one coming,” I gripe to Angora, who is seated on my right.
By the satisfied smirk on Ms. Lynx’s MAC-attacked face, we can tell she relishes our response. “Yes, that’s right, another challenge. That’s why it’s called the Catwalk competition, fashionistas!” she chuckles, then drops the other shoe. “This will be your last challenge, and it should be incorporated into your fashion show at Lincoln Center,” Ms. Lynx says proudly. “This is called the Wild Card Challenge, because we want you to surprise us by introducing an unpredictable element into your fashion show—something we don’t expect, but that correlates with your theme. Naturally, it can be interactive or not, but—and here is the big but—”
A few well-deserved snickers emanate from Benny Madina. Bet Ms. Lynx didn’t see that one coming. Touché.
“But you must have fun with it!” Ms. Lynx adds. “I know. You probably are looking for more guidance in executing this random request—but that’s why it’s called the Wild Card Challenge.”
A few of us shoot our hands straight up in the air. Ms. Lynx shoos away our concerns with her dramatic hand gestures. “Each house leader must submit a brief outline of your Wild Card Challenge to the Catwalk office a few days before the fashion show so that the judges will know what they’re looking at.”
Moet Major raises her hand fervently.
“Yes, Moet,” Ms. Lynx says, calling on my petite Catwalk rival.
“How do we know if we do the Wild Card Challenge right?” asks Moet.
“If you don’t go over budget, then you’ve succeeded,” Ms. Lynx says, content with her brevity. Another collective groan rises to the rafters, but this time it’s followed by a few good snickers.
“That’s the spirit,” chuckles Ms. Lynx. “And please remember, each house leader must permit the Teen Style Network crew to capture an aspect of the execution of your Wild Card Challenge on camera, when you will discuss your choice and the reasoning behind it.”
Now Ms. Lynx calls on another student, who is in Willi Ninja’s house. “So the winner of the Wild Card Challenge will be chosen after the Catwalk competition is over? Will there be a prize?”
“That’s the best question so far!” quips Ms. Lynx. “Yes, of course. The winning house of the Wild Card Challenge will be given a Buy-a-Book-a-Week Go Wild gift card from Barnes and Noble Booksellers, with a maximum annual value of one thousand dollars. Consider that: all those books on the houses of Gucci and Versace you always wanted to buy but couldn’t afford!”
We clap wildly. Angora’s pupils widen with delight. She could sit in a bookstore for hours massaging pages.
“Please keep in mind, like the winner of the Design Challenge—which was the House of Pashmina—the winner of the Wild Card Challenge may not necessarily be the winner of the Catwalk competition. The winner of the Catwalk competition will receive an all-expenses-paid two-week trip to Firenze, where they will open the Pitti Bimbo collections by staging their fashion show again. They’ll also receive a five-piece luggage set by Louis Vuitton to transport their Catwalk collection abroad in grand style!” Ms. Lynx suppresses a squeal herself. “Okay. That’s enough incentive for now. Without further ado, let’s get on with our Special Event.”
We clap wildly. Now I’m supernervous. “I don’t know if I have another challenge in me—wild or otherwise,” I utter. Peering down the row, I catch Zeus’s eyes. He is sitting next to Lupo. I smile at him coolly. Angora is right. I should dangle the carrot in the rabbit’s face instead of forcing it down the rabbit’s throat. At least, I think that’s what my BFF was trying to tell me: play it cool.
Just like Ms. Lynx is doing right now as she delves into the rest of the afternoon’s agenda. “I know there has been lots of speculation about the judges for this year’s Catwalk competition—yes, I read the Catwalk blog with gusto,” Ms. Lynx informs us. She is now talking into the microphone, which has been positioned to accommodate her six-foot stature. “Well, I’m very excited that one of this year’s confirmed Catwalk competition judges is also the guest of our Special Event.”
Willi Ninja, Jr., claps and shouts. “Bring it!”
Ms. Lynx does just that. “I’m pleased to have with us today posing instructor Benny Ninja! After being selected as one of this year’s Catwalk judges, Benny asked if he could visit the school to see the contestants before the fashion shows. That’s what I call a win-win. Please, let’s give a warm fashionista welcome to Mr. Benny Ninja!”
Everyone in the audience claps with gusto. Suddenly, I wonder if Willi Ninja, Jr., already knew who today’s special guest was. “First the shoes, now this. How is it he always seems to be one step ahead of us?” I fret to Angora.
She shrugs while I turn to look at the object of my current Gucci Envy. I can’t help but notice a strange expression on Willi’s face, one that I can’t quite decipher. Puzzled pink, I turn
back quickly so I don’t miss Benny Ninja as he prances onto the stage. Posing grandly, Benny, who is tall, slender, light-skinned, and bald, is wearing a gray iridescent jumpsuit with aviator glasses.
“That’s the same fabric as our vests!” exclaims Fifi.
For our Urban Gear grouping, we designed iridescent nylon padded vests in celadon green and gunmetal gray to pair with pink chiffon tiered skirts.
“Maybe we should have made jumpsuits!” I whisper back to Fifi before Benny interrupts with his rah-rah rant.
“Hello, fashionistas!” Benny Ninja squeals, waving to the audience. “I know you’re ultra excited, because it’s about to be on. The only thing I love more than a fashion show is one that comes with prizes—and a trip, okay! And I’m honored to be a judge in this year’s Catwalk competition!”
We clap again.
Turning to Ms. Lynx, Benny Ninja coos, “I love the introduction of the Wild Card Challenge into the competition, too! Bring it!”
Ms. Lynx nods with a satisfied smile.
“And I know you fierce fashionistas are not going to let us down, okay!” Benny says, hyping our ambition. “But today you’re not here to be judged. I’m here as your personal pose coach because I want each of you to bring it in June. I’ve been to many fashion shows during fashion week at Lincoln Center, and it is truly an experience—and an honor.” Benny Ninja strikes a few poses emphatically. We clap in approval.
“If nothing else, I want to emphasize how important the element of posing combined with runway skills will be to your fashion show—as it is to all fashion shows from here to Paris to Milan to Taiwan,” instructs Benny Ninja. “Awright, now I want each of you to show me today what you plan to offer the audience while your models are on the ramp. Therefore, some of you are going to battle each other in poses. I need two volunteers to come up here on the ramp with me now, please.”
I look down at Zeus, but he isn’t budging. Without thinking, I raise my hand. Benny Ninja motions to me. “Okay, fierceness, come up here with Miss Naomi next to you.” Aphro realizes he’s talking about her and jumps up, too. We walk onto the stage.
“Me-ouch!” someone in the audience snarls.
I want to sit back down, but it’s too late—I stepped up to the challenge. Sweating, I smile nervously at Benny. He turns to the audience and says, “What’s important to remember when you’re staging a fashion show is that every model on that runway should have a moment where they exaggerate their pose—strike it for maximum effect, okay? This is a business—and in a fashion show, you’re selling fashion.”
Benny walks down the ramp as if he’s in a show and demonstrates various poses. When he’s finished, everyone claps. “The poses that you choose to exaggerate are dictated by the segment or groupings of outfits in the fashion show. Like makeup and hair, your poses are tools to represent the mood and purpose of the collection.
“Okay, so you two will battle doing face poses,” he instructs Aphro and me. “The primary purpose of face poses is serving beauty, which is an important element of every designer’s presentation. Okay, go!”
Aphro and I walk down the runway and strike poses that emphasize our faces, then we walk back down the runway, stop in the center and pose.
Benny claps. Pointing to Aphro, he says: “You’re a natural at posing—serving the lips and eyes. Did everyone see that?”
A few students shout out. “Yes!”
“Okay, Miss Naomi in a few years … thank you! And you, too, are serving the cuteness.” Benny beams at me, and Aphro and I both leave the stage and go back to our seats.
Benny Ninja calls up two new models for each of the four additional battles: shoe poses, handbag poses, on-the-floor poses, and evening wear poses. “So while all of you are working on your runway training and choreography for the show, keep in mind, what else are you going to be working on? Anybody?” he asks.
I raise my hand. “Exaggerating our poses in each segment?”
“That’s right, cuteness,” Benny Ninja shouts. He waves at all of us wildly again. “I’ll see all of you in June! And may the best house win!”
Suddenly, I wonder why Benny didn’t call on Willi Ninja, Jr., for anything. After all, since day one Willi has pranced around the school bragging about his voguing pedigree—that he is the adopted godson of the late voguing legend Willi Ninja. (May he R.I.P. and posthumously accept my heartfelt gratitude for incorporating voguing classes into F.I.’s physical education curriculum.)
That mysterious question is answered pronto. When the clapping dies down again, Benny Ninja asks: “Is there someone here who calls himself Willi Ninja, Junior?”
A silence drops over the auditorium. “What happened?” whispers Felinez, as confused as everyone else is by Benny’s strange question.
Willi Ninja, Jr., lets out a deep sigh and raises his hand.
“Could you stand up, please?” Benny instructs him. “What is your name?”
Willi Ninja, Jr., pauses before he hesitantly spits out an unexpected reply: “Curtis Clyde.”
“Good—let’s let Willi rest in peace,” suggests Benny Ninja, like he’s delivering a sermon. “There is only one House of Ninja—and now I’m the father. I’d like to talk to you for a minute—school you about a few things—if that’s okay?”
Willi Ninja, Jr., stands by his chair like a deer caught in a borrowed Balenciaga ball gown. Benny Ninja dramatically gets down from the stage to walk toward him. A flustered Ms. Lynx rushes back onstage with Puccini waddling right behind her. “Okay, everyone, I’d like to thank you for coming,” she says, heaving like she’s trying to catch her breath. “And will the five house leaders please make sure to come to the Catwalk office by Friday to pick up your next installments of the Catwalk budget.”
Caterina heads right over to the left aisle with her mic and her crew following like mice to capture the exchange between Benny Ninja and Willi Ninja, Jr. While I can’t hear them, I can tell by their stances that each is deadlocked into his own position. With a dramatic gesture, Willi sweeps his hand by his cheek, wiping away—crocodile tears? Aphro and Angora stand frozen, trying to comprehend what is going down before our very batty lashes. Fifi and I inch our way out of the rows of seats, closer to the aisle, so we can hear Benny and Willi, but Ms. Lynx beats us to it.
She rushes over to the ensuing disaster, wedging her large stature between the two like a referee. Ms. Lynx orders, “The two of you come to my office—now.”
“What is going on?” Aphro blurts out.
“Watergate? Willigate? I’m not sure,” I whisper.
Meanwhile, Zeus and Lupo are a few feet away from “Willigate.” Lupo is busy snapping photos with his Nikon.
Fifi slips her arm through mine as if for security when Ms. Lynx escorts Willi Ninja, Jr., and Benny Ninja out of the Fashion Auditorium. The lithe voguer doesn’t get too far, though, before a swarm of students descend upon him like locusts on corn stalks, thrusting notebooks and pens at him for autographs.
“Not now,” Ms. Lynx warns the needy throng.
Leaving the rest of us in the booty dust, Caterina and her crew focus their cameras on Shalimar and her sidekick, Zirconia. Shalimar beams at Caterina, ready for her close-up, but what she gets is a comeuppance instead.
“Shalimar, is it true that you’re being investigated by the Catwalk Committee for misappropriation of funds?” probes Caterina in her shrilly voice.
“Misappropriation? That is utterly ridiculous,” Shalimar responds, flustered.
“Ding, ding. Caterina scores once again with a catty sound bite,” I report, glued to the breaking scandal.
Patting the strand of white pearls around her neck, Shalimar regains her cool composure for round two. “Tell me one thing. If I used my own personal funds—and I’m not saying that I did—how can that be defined as misappropriation of funds?”
“Then tell us exactly what did happen?” Caterina asks, probing further. “My understanding is that each house is given a Catwalk budget and is req
uired to provide receipts for all expenses—”
“We’re given a Catwalk budget, and if I choose to spend my own funds, that should not be considered misappropriation,” Shalimar says sharply, leveling one of her sophisticated stares at Caterina—the one in her repertoire that conveys I’m Shalimar Jackson. Need I say more?
“Okay, but if you didn’t provide the receipts for the items purchased—which far exceeded the amount of your allotted Catwalk budget—that is against the Catwalk rules and regulations, isn’t it?” Caterina insists.
“It shouldn’t be. If I choose to allocate my own funds for something that I feel will best represent the vision I have for the House of Shalimar, why should I be penalized?” Shalimar challenges.
“So you’re not denying that you spent more than is allotted for your show?” Caterina says, hemming her in.
“I didn’t say that. I simply said what if?” Shalimar states coldly.
Now it’s Angora’s turn to report: “Oh, she’s pulling her classic—issuing a nondenial denial.”
“Can I say something?” Zirconia interjects, flashing the annoyingly large fake diamond ring on her middle finger as she moves closer to the microphone.
“No, I’ve got this,” orders Shalimar, dissuading her underling from following in her Shimmy Choo steps. “Right after we leave here, I need for you to go to Showroom Eight and pick up the hosiery they’re lending us. Like I asked you.”
Zirconia nods obediently. “Okay.”
Issuing a direct order puts Shalimar back in her poised position. She takes Caterina on. “I’m abiding by all the rules of the Catwalk competition, and no one can prove otherwise.” As she and Zirconia march off to the beat of their budget, she glances in my direction, hurling a shallow snippet: “Some of us are getting by with the budget of a stick of Wrigley’s. Now, that’s what should be frowned upon!”
I stand glued to my spot. Frozen. Zeus inches closer, his warm body radiating heat. And so does Aphro’s big mouth. “Nice sound bites—but you still got caught!”
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