“No. See that’s the thing—it’s not going to cost us one sordid dinero!” I say, screwing up Spanish currency. “My neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, works at the Piggly Wiggly supermarket near my house, and she already told me she can help—just ask.”
“That’s right! Mr. Sunkist is always stealing the carts from the Piggly Wiggly, right?” Angora asks, remembering my run-in with the homeless cart crasher.
“Well, yeah—he ‘borrows’ the metal shopping carts from Piggly Wiggly, then comes back with empty soda cans to get the deposit money. I mean hundreds of cans. But I’m not talking about those shopping carts. I’m talking about the wooden-lidded carts the delivery guys use when they are bringing the groceries to the customers’ homes,” I explain. “Maybe I can get Mrs. Watkins to give us one of those and we can paint it screaming hot pink!”
“Whoa, that is not a brainstorm, that is a hurricane.” Zeus beams at me with bravo. “I can go with you to pick up the cart and help you paint it.”
“Okay,” I say, delighted that Zeus has volunteered. Now a pang of guilt settles into my midriff. “Maybe Fifi will be finished and she can come help, too?”
Zeus nods like that’s cool. Now I excuse myself to make a call to Mrs. Watkins at the supermarket to execute our get-ahead game plan.
Just as I had hoped, Mrs. Watkins is true to her word. “Anything for you, Pashmina!” she whispers into the phone.
I click off my phone, deliriously hyped. “Yes, it’s on!” I scream to my crew, just as the Teen Style Network barges into the conference room. But this time my nerves aren’t even jangled. I greet Caterina and crew with gusto: “Hello, Teen Stylers, you’re just in time for some real furry footage.”
Of course, Caterina’s idea of footage is always a lot more hairy. “So, what did you think of Benny Ninja confronting the Ninja imposter in front of all the Catwalk members?” Ms. Caterina asks bluntly.
“It was really wild,” I say carefully, “and speaking of wild—we just hatched our idea for the Wild Card Challenge, which you can be privvy to later!”
Caterina’s eyes glaze over, but she lets me explain the concept for our Wild Card Challenge before she takes a fork on the thorny road. “So, have you come up with any ideas for securing shoes for your show—since Curtis Clyde snagged your source?”
“That’s yet to be determined,” I say coyly. Diverting from that drama, I make an appointment with Caterina to come to my house tomorrow night so she can see us paint our Heels on Wheels cart. Caterina barges over to Nole to get a sound bite on the Ninja drama, instinctively sensing the discord between the two rival designers.
“Benny was looking out for his own agenda. Being a judge in the Catwalk competition is major props for him—so he had to out the shadiness!” After delivering his sound bite, Nole lets Caterina know that he is anxious to get his game plan in action: pushing Penelope for the finale. “Come on, Miss Penelope, let’s get those pretty, tiny little feet ready for the runway. We both know you should be pattering to a pose instead of that fat heffa with big paws!” he gripes. Nole combs Penelope’s hair for the tenth time, cooing, “And you don’t need some silly stage name like she has, either.”
Now I render my own imitation of C. C. Samurai. “Oh, about that,” I inform Nole. “You can now call Fabbie ‘Fabbie Tabbie,’ which is spelled T-a-b-b-i-e. Think how chic that will look on the House of Pashmina program.”
“Yes, so chic I’m going to throw up from my beak! But first Fabbie Crabby has to win!” Nole marches onto the stage with Penelope. He fluffs Penelope’s feet and dresses her in a black coat dotted with dangling, shimmering crystals.
“Um, I pray that’s not what you think she’s wearing—if she wins?” I ask.
Nole ignores me.
“Um, I’m serious. That contraption makes her look like a traveling jewelry salesman,” I badger.
“She’ll wear a wedding gown, just like we discussed—before you reneged!” snaps Nole.
“I did not renege!” I shout back.
“Yes, you did, but I’m a team player, which is why I’m going along with your charade,” he says, offended. “Penelope only walks like a star when she’s dripping in jewels! So if you don’t like it, get pink earplugs!”
“Whatever makes you clever,” I shoot back, puzzled by his dis. Nole agreed to do this Pose Off. It was only fair. Suddenly, I realize it would also be fair to get feedback on Zeus’s remix. “Oh, wait!” I yell, putting a halt to the Pose Off. “I want everyone to hear the remix Zeus did of Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive.’ Let’s play it so that we can decide if we should use it for the finale.”
“Excellent choice.” Zeus beams, accommodating my request. He heads over to the tech booth and puts in the CD. We all wait until the bass kicks in—and the singer belts out the lyrics. “Ooh, I like the singer’s voice. Who is that?” I ask Zeus.
Zeus hesitates before he answers: “Oh, she does vocals on a lot of my tracks. So you like it?”
I nod approvingly. “I really dig that singer’s voice—she adds this haunting quality to the house-music vibe.”
“Yeah, she’s an amazing vocalist,” agrees Zeus. I can tell he’s reluctant to tell me more, so I let it go like disco. Maybe it’s an industry thing—not revealing your resources. I can understand that.
Aphro starts to shake a tail feather, singing over the track: “At first I was afraid, I was petrified!”
Lupo’s eyes widen like pool balls. He starts snapping away with his Nikon, mesmerized by Aphro’s tantalizing moves. Now Elgamela joins the fray, gyrating her hips like a belly dancer. Nole shakes his head. He puts the jeweled collar around Penelope’s neck with the matching leash. “Penelope dances better than that,” he snipes. Nole positions Penelope to get ready to rip the runway.
“Okay, on the count of three,” I instruct him. “One, two, three.” Nole proceeds to walk down the runway, but Penelope doesn’t take the nibble. His pampered Persian won’t budge a single long hair on her plump body.
“Come on!” Nole whispers.
Forcefully, Nole tries to drag Penelope, but she lashes out with a paw and hisses.
“Don’t do that!” shouts Diamond. Agitated, our resident animal activist jumps out of her seat, insisting, “Nole, let me try. You can’t treat an animal like that!”
“No, I don’t want your help. I can do this myself!”
Diamond ignores Nole and climbs onto the stage, displaying more enthusiasm than I’ve seen her muster in months. She takes the leash from Nole and tries to walk the runway with Penelope. Penelope latches onto Diamond’s leg, clawing her ferociously!
“I knew this was a bad idea!” screams Dame Leeds.
Zeus cuts off the music as Nole grabs Penelope and pulls her off Diamond’s leg. He screams at Diamond: “She hates you! I told you to let me do it!”
A tearful Diamond protests, “I was trying to help!”
“Well, you didn’t!” Noel continues, screeching. He holds Penelope, trying to quiet her trembling furry body.
“Diamond, it’s not your fault,” I say, trying to reassure my hysterical second designer in command.
Now Angora and Aphro are examining Diamond’s wounded left calf, which is scattered with faint red welts and scratches. “I think she should go to the infirmary,” advises Angora.
I feel like an eel in a pair of kitten heels, but I have to ask: “Diamond, can you wait till we finish?”
“No, my leg really hurts. I wanna go now!” she cries. “This is cruelty to animals, putting them in a fashion show. I should never have agreed to this!”
“But we’re just closing the fashion show with a cat—it’s our personal statement for the House of Pashmina,” I balk. “And it wasn’t your decision!”
“Nothing is ever my decision!” whines Diamond. “I can’t take it anymore—all you people care about is winning a stupid competition and becoming famous. Fashion isn’t everything, you know?”
“Really—then what is?” Nole challenges.
&n
bsp; Diamond’s eyes widen in horror. “Listen, this is really too much for me. I feel guilty working so hard on a fashion show when all anyone cares about is winning prizes and money and a trip. There are animals that are sick and dying all over the world—they don’t have enough food to eat. I mean, they need our help, but nobody even cared when I mentioned the coyotes wandering in Central Park scavenging for food.”
“I feed my cats fresh liver—what are you talking about?” Nole protests.
“I don’t think this fashion business is really for me. I mean, I don’t care about this stuff,” Diamond confesses.
Now we all realize what has been bothering Diamond and why she’s been acting so weird. I also realize in horror that the watchful eyes of the Teen Style Network camera crew are upon us. Before Diamond does any more damage, I pull her to the side so that we can finish our convo without their probing lens.
“Look, Diamond, we understand,” I console her. “This is a lot of pressure. But this means a lot to us. Ever since I can remember, I’ve dreamed of being a model. For me, this is about helping my family. I’m in this with my crew, and I need for you to stay until the competition is over.”
I look at Angora, Aphro, Felinez, Elgamela, and Zeus. They beam at me approvingly, so I continue. Caterina is entertaining herself by getting more sound bites from them. I turn my attention back to the ego of my wounded designer. “And I do care about animals just as much as you do. I love Fabbie Tabbie more than life itself.”
“That’s what I want to do. I’ve decided,” Diamond says. “I want to devote my life to helping animals. I mean, that’s all I really care about.”
“Okay, but can you just hang in there until the competition is over so we don’t get penalized?” I whisper.
Diamond nods. Dame Leeds nudges into our conversation, but for once, he does a reverse. “I’ll take Diamond to the infirmary.”
“Thank you, Dame,” I say gratefully.
Diamond limps out of the auditorium with Dame.
I motion for my Catwalk crew to huddle together. “Listen up. We got lucky that this incident happened behind closed doors—meaning there’s no one in here but us—and them,” I explain, rolling my eyes toward the Teen Style Network crew. “So let’s make sure this stays between us, since that footage isn’t airing until after the competition is over!”
“Absolut. Another one bites the dust,” Nole says, exhaling deeply, his hefty midsection rising to the occasion.
“We can’t afford to have another house member leave—next time I will get penalized!” I snap.
“I don’t mean Diamond,” Nole snaps back. “I mean Penelope!”
“Are you conceding defeat?” I ask in disbelief. “I mean, it’s only fair that Fabbie Tabbie continue the Pose Off.”
“That’s true. You’re right—we probably have two furry failures on our hands, not one,” he says defiantly. “And we should rethink the finale. Maybe get a goat, like Mexicans do for their weddings?”
“Oh, now it’s on,” I hiss. I motion to Zeus. “Hit it!”
Zeus puts on the remixed house-music track again. Confidently poised, I stand with Fabbie Tabbie’s leash in my hand. As soon as the lyrics kick in, so do I: I gently pull Fabbie Tabbie forward and we sashay down the runway together. Fabbie Tabbie takes each step like a true star, just like we practiced all summer in the courtyard! When we reach the end of the platform, she rests on her haunches, posing prettily. I smile and bow like we really are at the fashion show and I’m being showered with affection from the audience. Lupo clicks away furiously. Everyone claps. “Bravo, Pashmina! Work it, Fabbie Tabbie!”
For good measure, I stare right into the lens of the Teen Style Network and strike a final pose; then I walk back, beaming, and Fabbie Tabbie doesn’t miss a furry step. Now Nole’s face is cracked. I almost feel bad for the helium-inflated Canoli. Nole simply hates being defeated. In more ways than one.
Caterina rushes right over to get a sound bite from Nole with regard to his four-legged failure. “Let Penelope have her private moment, okay?” he orders.
Folding, Caterina and her crew wrap it up and exit.
Afterward, I take the time to console Nole and take responsibility for the Diamond disaster. “Look, Diamond is cracking under the pressure,” I whisper to him.
“Who are you telling?” Nole whispers back, patting himself with his monogrammed hankie. “I’ll deal with her—I know exactly how to smooth those ruffled feathers.”
“How?” I wince, trying to get the image of Diamond’s weltered leg out of my mind.
“We’re going to give her design credit—even though she’s a disaster. That’s how. In return, she has to stay—and she can be one of the dressers backstage. No one will be the wiser if she just seals her penguin lips,” Nole orders.
It’s a solid plan, and at this point we have nothing to lose but the Catwalk competition. “Let’s try it,” I agree, then throw him some well-deserved kibbles ’n bits. “Fifi and I will make the evening wear without the sketches.”
Nole nods his head, pleased. “Good, because my plate is full. You do the evening wear. I’ll finish the pillboxes, which are killing me! Of course, Fifi can finish those, too.”
“Fifi is overworked!” I balk.
“Well, then I guess you’d better free up your schedule from smooching sessions with Zeus and put the pedal to the metal!” orders Nole.
I pause, like a good negotiator, then agree. “Done and done.”
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!
MOVING ON UP?
Like Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, not everyone is deliriously delighted that Fashion International’s annual Catwalk competition has moved from Bryant Park to Lincoln Center. But after a long and contentious battle between the designers and park management, Seventh Avenue has taken their show on the road. To the critics and snobs who pooh-poohed the fervor, flash, and gridlock, claiming that Mercedes-Benz and other big-time corporate sponsors turned the business of fashion shows into nothing more than a commercial for a car dealership, I have one thing to say: it’s the naïve who don’t realize that larger budgets and marketing power are what make the dream of becoming a designer possible. And that sometimes it’s just time for an upgrade—especially if you can afford it.
Which brings me to another source of not-so-chic contention: the budgetary constraints forced upon Catwalk competition contestants with regard to their expenditures for their respective fashion shows. Is it really necessary to penalize a Catwalk house for not adhering to overly strict budget constraints? Or to require house leaders to provide expense reports and receipts for every cent spent down to a stick of gum? Why shouldn’t a specific house leader be allowed to contribute funds directly to their fashion campaign if they so desire? If you ask me, it’s time for an accounting upgrade so we can put on a real fashion show worthy of the status that comes with the new location: Lincoln Center, home of the American Ballet Theatre and the Metropolitan Opera. Oh, and the Big Apple Circus.
Posted by Shimmy Choo to YOU at 14:15:43
11
Nole is furious that Fabbie Tabbie won the Pose Off, but I can’t deal with his ego right now, because I’m desperate for an update from Fifi. Zeus and I wave good-bye to Nole and the rest of my crew as they toddle down the yellow-brick road away from school.
“I feel guilty about dragging Fifi to my house, but that’s the problem with brainstorms—and hurricanes: they always come at inconvenient times,” I confess to Zeus.
“That’s the problem with breakups, too,” Zeus offers about the Cartera family crisis.
“This is doubly true, but Fifi’s gotta help us with decorating the Heels on Wheels cart—especially since the Teen Style Network is visiting my dank basement,” I fret. “We always do everything together.”
“You’re lucky, you know. Fifi’s
been there for you since first grade, when you were swiping the pink crayons out of the box,” Zeus chuckles.
I land a well-deserved jab on Zeus’s sturdy chest, but I’m impressed by all the little details about moi he seems to remember. “I know, I’m lucky. But that’s because I plied her with delicioso Coco Helado ices for five years to assuage my guilt about sucking on her talent.” I marinate on Fifi’s father being kicked out of the hornet’s nest. “In a million years, Fifi never imagined her parents breaking up. She wasn’t happy about them being on the road all the time with their band, because that put her older sister Michelette up in her hair—literally—but she really cares about her family.”
“That’s probably why the two of you are so connected,” Zeus philosophizes. “You’re more like sisters to each other than your own sisters are to you.”
I ponder his astute observation while twirling my curls; I use my other hand to call Fifi on the celly. For five minutes I listen to Fifi drop a hyperfrenzied earful.
“As soon as Papi got here, Mami threw his clothes out the window! The police had to come!” she yelps on the other end between bouts of tears about the horror-frying experience. Apparently, Mrs. Cartera suspected that a scantily fringed dancer on the Princess cruise ship was the root of Mr. Cartera’s last tango in Tahiti. “Mami saw the text messages he sent her,” moans Fifi.
“Oy, technology seems to be at the core of every tawdry takedown these days,” I lament. “I showed my mom how to use Facebook this morning. She’s determined to catch Ramon in his cyberacts of finagling with her friends.”
Fifi blathers on. “I can’t believe Mami flipped like this. She threw him out!”
“I know, boo kitty,” I say, consoling her.
Fifi laughs. “Now you sound like Ice Très.”
“I know, boo kitty,” I repeat, giggling.
“So what happened at the Pose Off?” Fifi says, switching gears for a fashion FX.
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