Turning to me, Aphro demands: “As for you, pay up.” Of course, Aphro is referring to the wager we made in the Fashion Café. “You should have known she was the source of the misappropriation scandal. The Shallow One never disappoints.”
“You won by a mere technicality—the blog wasn’t one hundred percent accurate,” I blather.
Aphro cuts me off. “Yeah, and where’s the news flash in that—hello?”
“She didn’t misappropriate funds—which technically alludes to embezzlement, theft, or using appropriated funds for personal use,” I go on, ignoring Aphro’s bluster. “Actually, what she did is the reverse—she used her own money for the purpose of the House of Shalimar’s fashion show.”
“Yeah, whatever—the offense in question was still attributed to the Shallow One, so it’s the same thing. Honor the bet.”
“Awright, basta with the pasta—I’ll work your shift on Saturday!” I cave. “We’ve got way bigger fish to fry. As a matter of fact, we’d better be bringing up some sharks, okay?” I turn to gaze at Zeus. “No offense.”
“None taken,” he returns, basking in our secret.
“Oh, what are you hyping now?” demands Aphro.
“The Wild Card Challenge—hello?” I remind her.
“That’s true, chérie. We’d better brainstorm,” Angora says, supporting me.
“Forget about a brainstorm—we’re going to need a mighty hurricane to pull this one off!” I state. “I need all of you at the Pet Pose Off later so we can sharpen our claws for a game plan.”
“I hear you,” agrees Aphro.
Fifi looks like she’s going to cry. “I can’t come. Mami wants me to be at home. Papi’s supposed to come move his stuff out later!” She starts bawling right in front of Zeus and Lupo. I feel obligated to finally let everyone in on the Cartera crisis.
“Her parents are splitting up,” I whisper.
Zeus flinches, then nods. He hugs Fifi and she surrenders in his arms, releasing buckets of tears on his leather jacket.
“Fifi, you don’t have to come. We’ll handle this,” I assure her.
“I want to help,” Fifi croaks between sobs.
“Are you kidding—you’re the Elmer’s to my glue,” I shoot back. Fifi has been working herself to the bone with her parents’ costumes and our accessories for the fashion show.
“Está bien. I’ll see you later,” she moans, wiping away her tears.
“Good thing you never wear makeup,” I blurt out, realizing that it sounds insensitive.
Zeus lingers behind. “You’ll help us with this one—I’ll see you at the Pet Pose Off later?” I beg him.
“Yeah, I’m there, but you’ve got this. A Wild Card Challenge? You were born for this,” he assures me.
I try to suppress my smile, but a wink gets away anyway. “I hope you’re right.” I smile nervously.
Zeus doesn’t blink. “I am.”
10
I arrive at the Fashion Auditorium at three-fifteen on the polka dot with Fabbie Tabbie in tow, only to be upstaged by a Catwalk contender who has already snagged enough face time for one day. I’m puzzled pink why Willi Ninja, Jr., is running the ramp with the ten models in his fashion show during my time slot. The superlimber models are practicing poses incorporating Ninja moves and star-shaped origami shurikens instead of the lethal metal ones used by ancient ninja warriors. Lupo and Zeus are standing in the back row watching the choreography intently. Annoyed, I try to get Willi’s attention so he can take his rodeo on the road.
Zeus breaks away for a second to give me props about my ninja moves at the Special Event. “Your face poses were on point.”
“Thank you. I got nervous at the prospect of posing for the Benny Ninja—but I tried to work it,” I admit.
“Well, you did. And say what? Benny’s posing is like poetry in motion,” observes Zeus, impressed.
Now it’s my turn to provide Zeus some strokes. “Thanks for supporting Fifi. She’s in freak city about her parents splitting up—and the sudden death of their cover band, Las Madres and Los Padres.”
“I can’t imagine.” Zeus shrugs his shoulders, like he’s shaking off the possibility of such a scenario going down between his parents.
What I’m trying to shake off are the repercussions for the House of Pashmina. “If her father doesn’t come to the fashion show, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Are you serious?” Zeus asks in disbelief.
“Molto serious. Fifi will unravel, along with our fashion show!” I say emphatically.
“No, I mean are you serious her father is really not coming to the fashion show?”
“Fifi’s mother told him he can’t come unless he moves back into the house—Los Padres costumes and all,” I confirm. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Mrs. Cartera is using our fashion show as leverage. Like dangling a carrot.” I wince, recalling where I got that metaphor from: Angora’s dating advice with regard to Zeus.
Now Lupo listens in, acting concerned, but I can tell he’s more interested in stroking his crush. “Aphro was fantastico at the Special Event, no?”
“That’s why she’s in charge of runway training.”
Lupo returns to the action on the catwalk, perplexed by Willie’s lineup. “Why does he have so many male models in his show? Non capito. I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t,” Zeus says, teasing his BFF, who prefers to aim his Nikon lens at girls. “He’s making his ninja-style statement, and I kinda dig the deployment angle. If you ask me, this could be a tiebreaker come June.” Zeus strikes a ninja pose and pretends to throw a well-targeted shuriken at me. “Inside secret? For the Design Challenge, Willi put notes inside the shurikens.”
“Now I know why the House of Ninja lost,” I shoot, referring to the Design Challenge, in which each house had to incorporate things we see every day into our collection. “The only people sending notes in shurikens these days are Hattori Hanzo wannabes!”
Zeus raises his left eyebrow.
“Fifi’s brother, Juanito, schooled me—he’s thumbs-up with the ninja video games on his PlayStation,” I admit, divulging the source of my ancient ninja warrior shout-out.
Finally, Willi Ninja, Jr., acknowledges my presence. “You booked the ramp?” he shouts from the catwalk.
“Obviously,” I respond politely. “One look in the Catwalk appointment calendar would have told you that.”
“I did look, Miss Purr. Please forgive me? I figured we’d get a little runway rehearsal in before anybody—I mean you—got here,” Willi explains apologetically. He puts his hands on his hips. “Can you give us one minute? Then we’ll wrap this up like a sushi platter to go.”
“Without the wasabi, I hope?” I tartly reply, referring to the greenish root of the Asian herb of the mustard family, possessing a bite as pungent as Willi’s.
“You’re so raw.” Willi sashays back into action.
I’m puzzled pink by Willi’s flip from ferocious to feeble. The Willi Ninja, Jr., we know prances around school like he’s the prince of the voguing ball and we’re just shabby extras.
The handler of my four-legged competition arives: Nole Canoli. Sweating profusely, he releases a loud fart as he plops into one of the joined padded seats. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, placing his precious cargo—Penelope, in a padded carrier—by his feet.
“Excusez-moi is right,” says an embarrassed Angora, scrunching her sensitive nose. Once Diamond Tyler and Aphro arrive, the three are all over the furry felines.
“I love Persian cats,” Diamond says, fawning over Penelope’s round face and shortened muzzle—which I’m convinced is the result of a botched nose job. Stroking with satisfaction, Diamond coos, “They both have such beautiful toffee-red fur. I love it.”
“Toffee-red—next fall’s scorching shade,” I predict. “She’s a typical tabby in her own special way.”
Now Dame Leeds waltzes in with attitude to spare. The only reason I’ve invited him is because I’
m desperate for input for the Wild Card Challenge.
Dame, however, thinks his presence is required on all matters. “The finale of the show? Oh, no, Miss Purr—I get to vote on these scragglers, too,” he snipes at me. He eyes Penelope and Fabbie Tabbie with disapproval. “Although I’m not so sure about this idea of yours. I don’t see a standing ovation between the furry likes of these two.”
“Got any ideas for our Wild Card Challenge?”
Dame doesn’t bother to answer, but Diamond has plenty to say about his outburst.
“You shouldn’t say nasty things about Penelope and Fabbie Tabbie. They can hear you, even if you think they don’t understand. And they are precious.”
“Honey, I saw Precious, the movie, okay? There is another word you should use when referring to these two.” He rolls his eyes, unconvinced about my finale idea.
“Well, precious Penelope did not approve of the Betsey Petsey Lounge.” Nole pats his forehead with a monogrammed hankie. “Too many strays for her tastes.”
“Have a good run-through,” yells Willi, waving as he sails up the aisle with his mostly male model caravan. Surprisingly, Willi also says goodbye to Nole, whom he despises more than Mardi Gras beads made in China.
“Yeah, right. Bye, Mr. Willi Ninja, Junior,” Nole says.
“Oh, about that. You can call me C. C. Samurai from now on,” Willi informs Nole humbly.
Nole stops fluffing Penelope’s hair. “What, what?” he asks, imitating Aphro, his full cheeks ballooning from this hefty incoming tiddy. “Excuse me, but who changed the channel to Invasion of the Body Snatchers? I thought we were watching Strike a Pose?”
As Willi disappears through the swinging doors, Zeus and Lupo step up with intel about the Ninja sneak attack that occurred earlier. “We first peeped the situation in photography class. Like a minute ago.”
“Like when?” Nole asks for clarification.
Zeus turns to Lupo and asks, “What day did we go to the Francesco Scavullo retrospective?”
“Two weeks ago. Lunedi—Monday,” Lupo confirms.
“Right. So anyway, Toro and his crew—they’re all Photography majors—” Zeus explains.
“Like me,” interjects Lupo.
“Right. So Toro and his crew were photographing the voguing balls—that’s for their final project,” Zeus continues. “Anyway, they got to photograph Benny Ninja and his house—the real House of Ninja—at the Body and Soul vogue ball. So Toro came back to school and was telling us in class how he met Benny Ninja. Toro bragged to Benny that he went to Fashion International with Willi Ninja, Junior. But Benny’s response was like, Willi Ninja, Junior, who?”
“So Toro knew something was pazzo—crazy—capisce? You understand?” Lupo says, with his dramatic hand gestures.
“Wow. So Willi Ninja, Junior, isn’t really the adopted godson of the late Willi Ninja?” I ask in disbelief.
Zeus nods. “Exacto, as you would say. His name is Curtis Clyde, but he changed his name to Willi Ninja, Junior—and nobody was hip to this because the late Willi Ninja is, well, you know—deceased.”
“I wish I was a fly on Willi’s jumpsuit so I could hear what Benny Ninja said to Willi when he cracked his face.”
“I heard Willi—I mean C. C.—tell Benny that Willi wouldn’t mind because he was only paying fromage. How do you say that French word?” Lupo turns and asks Zeus.
“He said he was only paying homage because he wanted to be Willi Ninja’s adopted godson,” Zeus clarifies.
“No, Lupo was right. The correct word is fromage—because the whole thing sounds cheesy,” Angora quips.
“Maybe if he had asked Benny if he could join the house? I mean, since he’s the father,” Zeus notes. “But now Benny is like, ‘You and the house of Ninja—not.’ ”
“This is thicker than Six Degrees of Separation.”
“Che cosa? What do you mean?” Lupo asks innocently.
“It was a movie about this guy who was posing as Sidney Poitier’s son—which gave him entrée into elite circles to scam the rich and famous,” I explain.
“Oh, yeah, I remember. Will Smith played the guy in the movie,” Zeus adds.
“So what’s Willi going to call his house now? The House of Willi Wannabe?”
“Maybe he just should just call it Willigate—I mean, he’s got nothing on Nixon,” Aphro says, aghast.
“Did you see Ms. Lynx freak out when Benny put that wannabe on blast? I thought she was going to keel over—timber!” squeals Nole.
Anxious to deflate Nole’s hubris, I snap back into leadership mode. “Okay, let’s set it off with the Pet Pose Off now. And right after, we need to brainstorm about the Wild Card Challenge. I hope everybody is okay with this, because we may have to pull an all-nighter.”
Diamond shrugs her shoulders like she’s gonna have to flee for an animal emergency, which prompts me to prod her for the evening wear sketches. “Diamond, do you have anything to show us?”
“Um, can we talk about that after?” squeaks Diamond.
Biting the inside of my lower lip, I realize I’m going to have to deal with Diamond’s “sketchy” behavior. For now, we have to finish the Pet Pose Off before the ramp is disassembled and stored backstage.
Nole Canoli, however, still wants to chew on the gristle from the Special Event. “That drama with C. C. Karaoke was just the appetizer,” he chortles, inhaling. “Now I’m ready for the main course—what happened with Shalimar? Somebody better serve the T and crumpets.’ ”
I bite the inside of my lower lip again, trying to be patient as helpful Angora plays hostess with the mostest. “Jimmy Choo is only lending Shalimar ten pairs of shoes for her fashion show, but she wanted twenty. So somebody leaked to the Catwalk office that Shalimar was spending her own money to get the extra ten—which is against the Catwalk competition rules and regulations.”
“So what’s going to happen to the Shady One?” Aphro asks abruptly.
“I overheard Shalimar in the Catwalk office last period. She was trying to squeak by on a technicality: she claims that after the show, the extra ten pairs of shoes are going into her personal collection, so why should it matter?” reports Angora.
“Oh, puhleez, Rapunzel could have spun a better weave than that one. Miss Adorable Hair bought shoes in different sizes, okay, so how could they all be for her?” Aphro blurts out. “For starters, Zirconia wears a size eight. The other model, Pretensia, wears a size nine—I know cuz I tried on a pair of her shoes one day—and Shalimar wears a size ten—hello, Bigfoot?”
“She should have said she was going to donate the shoes to charity—like my father does at his factory for every pair of shoes they sell to a store,” Lupo points out proudly.
“Puhleez. Like father, like daughter—the only charity angle her family comes up with is if they are getting something in return, like running this school!” Aphro claims adamantly.
“You know, that wouldn’t be a bad idea—us hyping some charity angle at our fashion show,” chuckles Zeus.
“Hyping what, shoes? We still don’t have any!” points out Dame, striking the panic button.
Luckily for me, another chord is struck: “A charity angle—wait a second. I dig that—that could be the answer to the Wild Card Challenge!” I exclaim, excited.
“Charity? We’re the ones who need shoes—how’s that charity?” Dame Leeds asks with annoying bluster.
“Because when we send out our brilliant invites to the House of Pashmina fashion show, we will ask guests to bring a pair of shoes to donate to the homeless—you know, like St. Martin’s Homeless Shelter on Ninth Avenue?”
“Wow, I dig that,” says Zeus, rubbing his chin.
Everyone stares at me, ingesting the idea. “By adding a charity angle to our fashion show, we can incorporate that into our theme—Feline Fatales Empower Themselves and Others,” I state, bringing my concept to the finish line.
“That’s good, Pash. J’adore. And we can put our charity program on the back cover of
the House of Pashmina program, too—on every seat!” adds Angora, getting excited.
“Wow, that’s true. Everybody has a pair of shoes they don’t want but someone else can use—someone who needs them,” Zeus says, rubbing his chin some more.
“Now check this. What if we have a fierce cart in the lobby of the fashion show, manned by two members of our crew—we’ll decide later who will be the designated shoekeepers—who collect the shoes? That way when guests enter, they’ll see this furbulous cart and deposit the shoes. We could hype that.”
“Wow, Pash, I really adore this idea. This could make a community impact, too,” mulls Angora.
“Heels on Wheels! That’s it—that’s the name of our charity incentive!” I say solefully, looking at my crew for a reaction.
“That’s perfect! Heels on Wheels. We’ll stencil that on the front of the cart with some fly shoe graphics. Boom!” exclaims Zeus.
“Okay, Mr. Deejay, now you’re cranking,” I squeal.
“Oh, about that,” Zeus squirts, imitating C. C. Samurai. “You can now call me a mixologist.”
“Duly noted. You’ll be credited as such in the Catwalk program,” I utter.
Lupo slaps his hand to his forehead. “Oh. Mamma mia! I love this idea—my father would love it!”
I turn to gauge Aphro’s reaction. “It’s on,” she says. “And Shalimar can’t top that for the Wild Card Challenge. Hmmph, what’s she gonna do—throw shoes at guests in the audience from the runway? That would be her idea of wild. Wildly extravagant. You know what I’d really like to do after we graduate? Rip those orange extensions right out of her head and donate them to charity!”
“Right,” I second. Suddenly, I conjure up the frightmare at my fashion show—hair extensions flying and me falling on the runway from rigged heels. “Please, everybody make sure to check my kitten heels three times before I hit that runway?”
“You’re not going to trip,” Angora states, knowing exactly what runaway train I was on in my brain.
“I don’t mean to be a thrill killer whale—but isn’t a cart expensive?” Nole asks, bringing us back to the basics: Catwalk budgetary constraints.
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