Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  After I fill her in on Fabbie’s paws-down victory, I map out our game plan for the Wild Card Challenge.

  “Wow, mija! How did you come up with that?” she says, regaining her artistic edge.

  “With some assisterance from Lupo and Zeus, actually,” I say proudly, filling her in on Lupo’s father’s shoe factory.

  “Wow, I didn’t know that. Do you think Mr. Saltimbocca could lend us some shoes?” she jokes.

  “The customs charge on that would be a fortune,” I explain to her. In fashion merchandising class, we learned that imported products are hit with a hefty forty percent surcharge. “We’re in desperate need of a domestic loan.”

  I can tell Fifi is depleted, but she puts my guilt pangs at ease. “I’ll leave now so I can be at your apartment after you get the cart from the Piggly Wiggly—so Mami doesn’t start throwing my stuff out the window!”

  “You sure?”

  “She would. Te juro. I swear.”

  “No, I mean you sure you want to be just another girl on the IRT right now?” I ask.

  “Mija, I said I’m sure!”

  “You are the best BFF. I love you so much, I could whack you like a piñata,” I coo. “Oh, don’t forget to bring your paintbrushes.”

  After I hang up, Zeus is smiling, waiting for an update. “All the ducks are lining up.”

  “A few got thrown out the window with the bathwater,” I sigh, recounting the flying clothes story.

  “Ouch,” winces Zeus. He puts his arm around my shoulder and I find myself in a trance, following my personal Pied Piper to the pungent aromas of the Fashion Hot Dog Cart on the corner of Seventh Avenue. “Excellent idea—hitting the hot dog cart before we head uptown to snag a cart!”

  Pedro Posse smiles at us even though he doesn’t get my inside joke. I smile back. I’ve got nothing but respect for the bespectacled hot dog connoisseur, who stands in the same spot five days a week, rain or shine, manning his Fashion Hot Dog Cart. Thanks to Pedro Posse’s strong work ethic, designer hot dogs are the backbone of every aspiring fashionista’s diet.

  “I’ll take one Donna Karan Diggity Dog,” Zeus tells Pedro. Turning to me, he asks, “What do you want?”

  “A Roberto Cavalli Cherry Dog,” I decide. I always opt for the dog with the sliced red peppers. “I’m a one-dog phony—oops, I mean pony!” I reach into my bag to pay and notice I have a text message.

  Zeus shakes his head. “I got this.”

  I take out my phone to look at the text, in case it’s from my beleaguered mom, but it’s not. It’s a text from Ice Très: “We’re on for Friday. How did it go today?”

  Zeus sees the expression on my face. “What’s up?”

  “Nada to the niente.” Feeling guilty—this time for telling a fiberoni, I peer down at Fabbie Tabbie’s carrier.

  “Nothing for the cat?” Pedro asks, grinning, as he hands Zeus his change.

  “A Juicy Couture Chili Dog for Fabbie, maybe?” Zeus asks, humoring me.

  “Abso-freakin’ no,” I assure him.

  “Take a bite,” coaxes Zeus, moving his dog in my direction.

  I shake my head. “Last night the deejay saved my life. Don’t want to push my luck. Oh, sorry, I meant the mixologist,” I chuckle, envisioning the embarrassing barbecue sauce stains on my fishnet bib at the Barbiecue Hut, which may be apropos, given the joint’s drippy name.

  Zeus is digging the drippy quotient once again, diving into his Donna dog, which runneth over with melted cheese.

  “Speaking of meltdowns, do you think Diamond is okay?” I ask, trying to assuage my Twitter jitters about another online posting putting our house on blast.

  “From the scratches? Oh, yeah. They weren’t that bad,” Zeus assures me. “From the other thing? I think she had a moment of truth about the direction she’s heading in.”

  I pause, amazed at Zeus’s depth.

  As a matter of fact, I’m standing still for so long outside the Piggly Wiggly that Zeus recommends, “We’d better go in before Mr. Sunkist steals our cart.”

  My eyes twinkle at the fact that Zeus remembers the name of the homeless man in my hood.

  “I remember the hole in your fishnets, too,” Zeus reveals, winking. “Both are unforgettable.”

  I take a swipe at Zeus’s leather jacket, my hand landing on his unyielding bicep. “Ouch,” I joke.

  Mrs. Watkins is behind the register in the 10 Items or Less aisle, furiously attacking the foil on a Take 5 scratch-off ticket.

  “Darn!” she exclaims, disappointed at the reveal of the losing numbers. Mrs. Watkins looks up and instantly the mischievous light in her bulging brown eyes is ignited at the sight of Zeus, like she’s just received the consolation prize for lotto losers.

  “You haven’t met Zeus before?” I ask her tentatively. In the fall, Zeus came to my apartment for our first unofficial Catwalk meeting, which was taped by the Teen Style Network crew to capture each house leader in their “natural habitat.”

  “No, I sure haven’t had the pleasure,” she says, grinning wildly at his zebra hat. “Is that real?”

  Zeus nods. “I know some may think it’s unethical, but my father made it. Otherwise, I don’t believe in killing animals for their fur.”

  I wince, conjuring up Fifi’s fondness for fur, like the prized fur-lined hobo she made and doled out to Chenille for the infamous bribe. “Yeah, but we’re fashionistas—and the fur business makes up seven billion dollars of retail sales,” I blather defensively. “Every business has its shadows. Right, Mrs. Watkins?”

  Mrs. Watkins shakes her head sharply and purses her lips. “The lottery is as crooked as a Chinatown hem, because I know for a fact I sure should have won by now, as many tickets as I’ve bought!”

  Mrs. Watkins fixes her gaze on Zeus’s hat. “I sure would love to have one of those. You must be used to all the attention.”

  “Yeah, I am. I’ve had it for a year,” Zeus says warmly, fluttering his eyelashes like an obedient geisha girl.

  “No, I meant about being so handsome,” quips Mrs. Watkins.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank your mother,” cajoles Mrs. Watkins. “I bet you and Pashmina are both gonna be famous models one day. I know it as sure as I know I’m going to win the Take Five—one of these days!”

  Zeus chuckles. Mrs. Watkins motions with her eyes toward the Plexiglas-encased booth. “Mr. Beach is going on break in five. So y’all go meet me by the back exit.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Watkins,” I say gratefully, picking up Fabbie Tabbie’s carrier.

  “Don’t thank me yet. Better see if any of them carts got wheels left, the way those delivery boys be riding like it’s the Wild West!” she warns us.

  My heart sinks at the thought of another busted scenario like the Tracy Reese shoes getting absconded right under our kitty noses. Zeus, on the hand, beams with hope. Like he always does.

  When we see the beat-up delivery carts, Zeus smirks. “She sure wasn’t lying. These carts look like they’re used to deliver tiger milk to residents in a Bangkok prison camp!”

  We giggle, checking out the carts carefully until Mrs. Watkins sneaks to the back, opening the padlocks to release them.

  “You decide,” I instruct Zeus. “They all look the same to me.”

  “Nah, some are in worse shape than others. The hinges are rusty on this one. I’m not gonna open it in case bats fly out.”

  “Oh, Lord,” says Mrs. Watkins.

  Zeus opens the lid on another cart, closes it, and points to a cart on our left. “Let’s take this baby—she’ll be a real fixer-upper.”

  “We’re going to paint it pink,” I inform Mrs. Watkins excitedly.

  “Ask me why I’m not surprised,” she chuckles. Mrs. Watkins relocks the rest of the carts. “Now y’all get out of here before I get fired!”

  “Thank you!” I coo gratefully. “You’ll be sitting front row at our fashion show. I promise. Two tickets on the house!”

  “
I can’t wait. I’ve never been to a fashion show before,” Mrs. Watkins announces.

  Zeus wheels the delivery cart across the street to my building. “The coast is clear,” I say, relieved. “I don’t want to tangle with Mr. Sunkist tonight. He’d probably think we stole this cart from him.”

  Out of habit, I gaze toward the second floor of my building. Sure enough, Stellina is in position. “Hey, the other supermodel!” Stellina says, waving at us. “Fifi’s in the lobby! What you doing with that delivery cart?”

  “You’ll see—it’s a surprise for our fashion show!” I tell her excitedly.

  “I can’t wait!” she screams.

  “Don’t forget—your fitting is on Saturday,” I yell to Stellina.

  “Forget? I’m not sleeping till then!” Stellina swears. “Chenille did my mother’s hair today. She got ten dollars!”

  “Your mother paid too much,” I mumble under my breath, waving good-bye to Stellina.

  Zeus chuckles. “You don’t like your sister much, huh?” he asks.

  “She treats me like I’m some pretentious model in the making,” I balk. “And she doesn’t like the things I like because she has the attention span of a poodle.”

  “But she digs doing hair,” Zeus offers, locking in her hairy position.

  “Well, it doesn’t dig her—I’d never let her touch mine,” I start in before realizing I’m sounding like a poodle myself, a snooty one.

  Zeus rolls the cart into the lobby and greets Fifi like she’s his long-lost sister. I hug her tightly. “It’s gonna be all right.”

  “No, it isn’t—Papi isn’t coming to my fashion show! And I think he’s moving in with the flamenco dancer!” she cries, getting upset. Fifi’s eyes are bloodshot, and her normally unruly hair is hopelessly flat, like it’s been depleted of all its moisture.

  “I thought you said she was a tango dancer?” I ask, confused.

  “Whatever—she’s making moves on Papi!”

  Zeus seems uncomfortable and doesn’t say anything. He pushes the cart into the elevator so we can descend to the dark, dank, nefarious basement to paint it.

  I chatter nervously. “Luckily, there’s enough space down here to store the cart until the night of the fashion show. Mr. Darius always lets us store stuff down here.”

  “You sure it’s going to be safe?” Zeus asks, hesitant about my idea. He looks around like he’s been here before—in his frightmares.

  I point to the caged area that Mr. Darius keeps locked. “I’ll come down in the morning so Mr. Darius can lock it in the cage. Nobody has a key but Mr. Darius and his assistant.”

  Zeus nods, still intent on eyeballing the dankness. “This place is creepy. I bet you there are a few bodies buried down here somewhere.”

  “Yeah, and I bet Mr. Darius put them there,” I say, spooked.

  “Stop trying to scare me!” frets Fifi.

  I swat Zeus on his arm again, but this time I’m prepared for his taut muscles. Or so I think. “Ouch. You’re like a man of steel,” I chuckle. “Okay, you stay here. I don’t want to leave the cart for a second. We’re going up to my apartment to drop off Fabbie and get the supplies.”

  “You sure you don’t need help?” he asks.

  “With a can of paint, some brushes, and a dropcloth?” I retort. “Fifi and I can manage.”

  Once we’re inside my apartment, I realize that my mom is still not home from work, but Chenille is there.

  “Hi, Chenille!” says Fifi, back to her bubbly self. Chenille is sitting at the kitchen table, struggling with her homework. I quickly point out: “Wish I could help, but I’m on Catwalk duty. We got this great idea for the Wild Card Challenge—but I can’t tell ya, cuz then I’ll have to silence ya.”

  “Ha, ha,” snarls Chenille. She taps her pencil on the table impatiently.

  “Have you heard from Mom?” I know she must have called home at least once and Chenille would have picked up the phone. I take the quart of pink lemonade out of the refrigerator and some paper cups from the pantry to bring downstairs. Chenille watches me curiously. I don’t tell her that Zeus is in the basement—she’d probably think his hat belongs to Tony the Tiger.

  “Where are you going?” she asks nosily.

  “I told you it’s top-secret. So did she call?”

  “Yes. And she’s depressed,” Chenille shoots back, tapping her pencil on the table more rapidly. Craftily, she blurts out: “God, I can’t believe how much homework I have.”

  “Let me see the Spanish homework,” volunteers Fifi.

  While Fifi is helping my conniving sister, I pick up the phone to call the Forgotten Diva Boutique. This whole Ramon situation is bananas. Why can’t my mom meet someone diggable like I have? My mom answers, and she sounds oddly enough like a deep-sea fisherman struggling to talk from fifty leagues below the sea.

  “Are you okay?” I ask her, concerned.

  “I guess so. Thank you for showing me how to do that Facebook thing,” she says, sighing deeply. “I caught them in the act. Lonni had the nerve to put up photos on her Facebook page: ‘Our Memories at Brighton Beach.’ I guess I should be glad Ramon found somebody who would go to the beach with him—in Brooklyn.”

  My mom’s idea of going to a beach is vacationing in the Carribean.

  “Well, you’re right,” I assure her, “there is nothing worse than a liar.”

  “Or than being alone. I’m so tired,” she reveals. “If I didn’t have you and Chenille, I would just call it a day, I swear.”

  “Don’t say that!” I’m horrified. All my mom wanted was for Ramon to take her to the Copacabana on Thursdays for Eighties Boogie Night. And now he’s watching the rise and fall of the waves with loony Lonni. I hope he gets bitten in the crotch by a Brooklyn crab. “You’ll meet someone else. You’ll see.” I repress the urge to tell her that I have. Now is not the time.

  “You know what my horoscope said today?” my mom asks, and continues without waiting for a response. “A single black woman over forty has a better chance of getting struck by an airplane than meeting a man.”

  “No, it didn’t. You’re just spouting statistics,” I gripe, keenly aware of my mother’s fondness for finding frightening stats. One of her faves: tracking the number of sexual predators on the loose in New York City.

  “It is true,” my mom insists.

  “No, it isn’t—there are lots of available men on the prowl in New York, just licking their chops like hyenas on the horizon,” I say teasingly.

  “Yes, you’re right. There are,” she relents. “Today a man with his belly popping out of his paisley shirt came into the store after staring at me through the window all morning. Mr. Popover gave me his business card, winking as he told me ‘I love big women.’ I bet you he wouldn’t like it if I told him what kind of men I like.”

  “What kind?” I ask, taking the bait.

  “Men who take me shopping on the first date!” Now my mom releases a laugh, which reminds me of her old self. She has the craziest laugh I’ve ever heard besides Aphro’s. Like a pink flamingo in a fun house.

  “Zeus, Fifi, and I are painting the cart now,” I tell her, after filling her in on our Wild Card Challenge.

  “That does sound like a great idea. It’s amazing how you just come up with this stuff,” she says, impressed.

  “Well, my crew helps—especially Fifi,” I assure her.

  “How is she doing? Her mom throw her dad out yet?”

  “Um, we’ll talk about that later,” I say, not wanting to talk about it with nosy Chenille within earshot. “We have to get our project in gear, because the Teen Style Network is coming over to watch us preparing for the Wild Card Challenge.”

  “They’re not coming in that apartment!” she freaks.

  “No, no—the basement. That should put the fear of Halloween in them,” I chuckle. “But I’ll make sure to pull down the cobwebs before they get here!”

  “Awright then, I’ll be home in a little while,” she says, before rushing off
because a customer needs her assistance.

  After I hang up the phone, Chenille badgers me. “What’d she say?”

  “That you must be exhausted from all that whining about your homework,” I quip.

  “Whatever,” snaps Chenille.

  “I’m sorry about the shoes. I know you didn’t hide them,” I say, breaking down. I do owe Chenille an apology.

  “Whatever,” Chenille repeats.

  Feeling absolved, I motion for Fifi to wrap it up like a falafel to go. My sister doesn’t even thank Fifi for her efforts and doesn’t look up from her homework so I can glare at her disapprovingly. Fifi and I head to the hallway closet to retrieve the paint supplies. “Bingo.” I’m eyeing two full gallons of Passion Pink paint left over from painting the dresser in my room last summer. We found the discarded dresser on a sidewalk on the Upper East Side and turned it into the pink anchor of my bedroom. “Another fixer-upper, presto pronto.” I take the dropcloth, two paintbrushes, paint thinner, a scraper, coarse sandpaper, and an empty pail I fill with water.

  As we head into the elevator, Fifi says softly, “You shouldn’t be so mean to Chenille.”

  “Why not? She loves it,” I reply unapologetically.

  Zeus is pacing the basement when we return. “I thought you two ran off to Petticoat Junction with the Beverly Hillbillies,” he riffs.

  “What’s the matter, pussycat, were you scared?” I tease him. “My mom is freaked out about Ramon, so I called her to offer some assisterance.”

  “Assisterance, huh? What’s the matter?” he asks, concerned.

  “Ramon took her best friend, Lonni, to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. She’s freaked out.”

  Zeus clams up. That’s the second time. I guess guys don’t like to hear stuff about other men two-timing. It’s bad for their image. Now I feel embarrassed for breaking out my family drama. Fifi, on the other hand, uses the blank space to bend his ear with hers. She vents big-time while the three of us carefully spread the plastic dropcloth on the dirty cement floor. Zeus rolls the delivery cart on top. I open the can of paint and stir it. “Nice color,” he comments. “The darker, the better. We should still do two coats, though,” he advises.

  “I know the drill,” I inform him. “We painted the dresser in my room this same color. It came out de-lovely.” Suddenly, I think of Ice Très—de-lovely is a word he uses—in referring to me.