I continue to sashay through my speech. “I know all of you—except for our junior models, of course—are quite familiar with walking the runway. And if you’re like moi, you’ve probably dreamed about it since you were in designer diapers.”
“Mija, what are you talking about—we were six!” Fifi blurts out, giggling.
“Oh, right,” I say, shaking my head. “Um, like I said, during the sandbox reign. Anyway, we’ve called this session today to show all of you how to represent on the runway for the House of Pashmina.”
Everyone claps. “Yeah!” squeals Stellina, flapping her arms like a chicken. Actually, she looks like a buttercup about to be plucked in her yellow cotton turtleneck and olive-green leggings.
“The feline fatale concept behind the House of Pashmina collection must be conveyed every time you step out on that runway. The junior models will open the show, and the rest of the models each have three assigned outfit changes,” I explain carefully. “Aphro, as you know, is one of the models, but she’s also our runway choreographer, so today she will show us how to work the runway to represent our theme.”
Aphro comes up and stands next to me to walk the run of the room. We pushed aside the conference table so that we have plenty of room to conduct our runway training.
“I want everyone to memorize the tenets of our feline fatale concept: fun, flirty, fierce—the latter is imposed to convey our catlike prowess. What this means in terms of practical application is—there will be no trotting like horses on the runway!” I emphasize.
I do a quick exaggerated demonstration of the gait that I despise, up and down the length of the conference room. “I don’t care how hot this style of walking is on the runways in Paris right now. You can save that galloping gait for Gaultier, okay? That is, if you’re lucky enough to get booked in his show—and from what I can see, every male and female model I’ve handpicked in this room would be Gaultier-approved.”
“What’s Gaultier?” asks Juanito, confused.
“He’s a con artist!” shouts Stellina.
“Okay, Miss Buttercup?” I scold Stellina. “Jean Paul Gaultier is a revered French designer. He even designed costumes for Madonna’s worldwide tours and Britney Spears—and he designed the costumes for the movie The Fifth Element.”
“Fierce cult classic,” Nole shouts out. “If you’ve never seen the movie, rent it!”
“Anyway, he’s not the only one. A lot of designers have their models working this equestrian style of walking in their shows,” I explain. “All you need to know now is, it’s the exact opposite of feline fatale.”
“So we’re supposed to be slinking down the runway, too?” asks Benny Madina, a hot chocolate model with shoulder-length dreadlocks and brilliant white teeth. (He was Aphro’s pick.)
“Look—I know we have a lot of haters,” I admit, sensing the uneasiness among my models. “They think our whole feline fatale concept is too frilly. Let our haters be our motivators. We are participating in this competition for our shot at fashion stardom. And don’t think for a second we’re going to misfire because of cyberbullying.”
Everyone claps. “That’s right, bring it,” Benny says, regaining his confidence.
“So back to serving what we do. I want all my male models to think of yourself as male cats. So, Benny—you’re a black male cat. Can you envision how he walks? Slow, graceful, with purpose—and the exact opposite of a ninja warrior, okay? We’ll leave those moves to C. C. Samurai’s models!” I explain, in an effort to motivate my Catwalk models to think outside of the litter box.
I look at Benny’s and Zeus’s faces and can tell that my motivational speech is sinking in. “Now Aphro is going to guide each of you through the training.”
Aphro walks up and down the run of the room, demonstrating the feline fatale style of runway modeling we approve of. She loves walking the runway, so she can’t resist unleashing a tiny smile.
“Work it, bella bronzina!” coaxes Lupo.
Stellina is mesmerized by Aphro’s style. Even at her tender age, she can spot what any trained fashionista can see: Aphro works it for purr points on the Dow Jones—and her long, muscled legs and arms give her a panther’s edge.
“Notice that Aphro never puts her hands on her hips—which you see a lot in fashion shows,” I point out. “The House of Pashmina does not throw shade—or attitude!”
“Not on the runway, anyway,” interjects Nole.
“Right. Think playful, flirty, and accessible. Oh, but that does not mean girly. And our male models can convey this playful attitude, too.
“So rule number one—never put your hands on your hips when you’re on the runway,” I announce.
“Okay!” shouts Stellina.
We line up the child models first. Aphro begins by providing Tiara with the extra instruction she needs. She gently tells her to stand straight with her shoulders back, walk slowly, and smile.
E.T. is up next. He fidgets while standing at the makeshift stage. “When you first come out on the runway, stand completely still,” Aphro tells him. E.T. listens and follows Aphro’s instruction to the letter.
My cell phone vibrates in my sweater pocket, so I take it out to glance at it. Another text from Ice Très: “Counting down the days. You and Me. Sipping Pinktinis at the Lipstick Lounge.” I put the phone back in my pocket and continue to watch Aphro training E.T. He walks up and down very smoothly.
“Smile a little more—okay?” Aphro coaxes him. “And take slower steps. Remember, just envision how a cat walks. Keep that image in your mind while you’re walking on the runway. Nice and easy. That’s what feline fatale is all about.”
“Meowch!” hisses Benny Madina.
Training Tiara, of course, is not as easy. She has to walk the runway five times before Aphro finally gets her to smile softly. It’s obvious she is going to need another session. But for today, she has made some serious strides.
After she’s finished, Angora coos at Tiara. “Bravo, you were really good. Did you like it?”
Tiara nods. Stellina is waiting for some strokes, too. “And you were good, too. Très bien.”
I hand Tiara a cup of pink lemonade, which she guzzles faster than a paratrooper falls out of a plane without a parachute.
Now Aphro is ready for the bigger fashionistas. She turns her attention to Benny Madina and breaking him out of his butch stance. He’s a little stiffer than he was at the model tryout sessions. “Doesn’t he seem bigger?” I whisper quietly to Angora. She nods. I wonder if he’s been bulking up from weight training or something but decide it’s better not to ask him. Male models get even testier than female ones about their measurements. Finally, Aphro gets Benny to relax enough to create a runway presence that aligns itself with our feline fatale concept. After a few rounds, Benny lets go and stands at the end of his walk with a natural grace.
“Benny, that was on point,” I say, encouraging him. “Can I make one petite suggestion? We need for everyone to be aware and smile a little more—like you know a secret nobody else knows and you’re dying to share it with the audience—but you can’t.”
Our exotic model Elgamela Sphinx, known online as Snake Charmer, is up next, and slinks down the runway, serving it sublimely. I love her mysterious image. Elgamela is Egyptian American with dark curly hair, superthick eyebrows, and dark doll eyes.
At first, I was sure that Zeus was feeling Elgamela, but now I know he isn’t—at least not like that.
Aphro places her hands on Elgamela’s slender hips to adjust them forward slightly. “Lean back when you’re walking just a little more,” she advises.
“For your first outfit, you can walk even slower than that, because you’re going to be wearing a bathing suit—and flat sandals,” I add. Suddenly, I cringe at the mention of footwear again. I should have known that Aphro would not miss another op to hop on the blame train.
“That’s if we ever get them,” Aphro blurts out.
Everyone else zips their lips. Elgamela smiles at me
like she knows, we’re all supa-tense. She concentrates on her walk carefully. After she finishes, she exclaims, “The slower I walk, the better, so I don’t jiggle—and make my mother faint!”
We all laugh uneasily at the mention of her strict parents. Unlike Fifi, Elgamela is happy that her father won’t be at the fashion show. See, Mr. Sphinx is a strict Muslim, and he has forbidden his slinky daughter to model in the Catwalk competition. At first, Elgamela was going to comply, but last Christmas after Angora and her father almost got evicted because of funny money business with his Funny Bunny cartoon franchise, Elgamela made a New Year’s resolution: to sashay toward her dreams. With the covert help of her mother, Mr. Sphinx will be serving grilled chicken at their family-operated eatery, Chirping Chicken, on the Upper East Side, while Elgamela is serving style on the runway with us in the fashion tents in Lincoln Center.
After Elgamela finishes her sultry sashay, Nole claps. “Bravo! Work it, Snake Charmer!”
Secretly, we’ve all got our fingers crossed that the devout Mrs. Sphinx doesn’t confess to Mr. Sphinx at the last minute. Gingerly, I query: “Isn’t your father happy there is the first Muslim Miss U.S.A.?” (Last year, Rima Fakih, a Queens-raised daughter of Lebanese immigrants, became the first Arab American to win the sparkly crown.)
“Are you kidding? He keeled over when he saw the photo of her in the newspaper, wearing that bikini under the Miss U.S.A. sash!” shrieks Elgamela. “He was so upset, he prayed that she doesn’t win the Miss Universe pageant so she doesn’t disgrace herself any further by letting the whole world see her parading onstage in a bathing suit!”
“Okay,” I say, disappointed. “But you’re sure he’s not coming to our fashion show?”
“Oh, I’m sure, because my mother has agreed to not say she’s going until the day before—that way he can’t get anyone to cover for him at the restaurant!” Elgamela confesses.
“Sounds like a Code Pink plan,” I say, still unsure.
Zeus is next up for petite tutelage from Aphro. I watch, mesmerized by his every move. Kissa, the Finnish model, blushes while watching. I can tell she digs Zeus, but for once I feel sure about one thing: Zeus likes moi.
After all the models have finished, Angora plays hostess and pours pink lemonade for everyone.
“Congrats! Catwalk cocktails all around,” Aphro squeals, psyched by the runway training session. She always seems happier when she’s doing what she loves: working the ramp. Relieved that the session went well, I begin to chill—and think about Ice Très’s text. I wonder what Pinktini cocktails are?
I haven’t told Zeus that I’m going out with Ice Très. I smile at Zeus, who is talking with Kissa. Fifi tries to smile, but she’s frazzled, too. I feel so helpless seeing the wounded-fawn look on her face.
At last, Aphro finally reveals what’s been making her act so shady. Collapsing into the chair next to mine, she lets the information simmer slowly. “It didn’t go so well on Saturday.” Aphro sighs like she’s been waiting to exhale all day, then takes a gulp from her drink before she continues. “Lennix’s new foster mother is a trip. She was grilling me about what happened. But I was like, why should I tell her about that? What happened at the Maydells’ has nothing to do with her, you know? That’s our business.”
“I agree. Why should you tell her?” I second.
“Well, she was all about playing Detective Do-Right. After she couldn’t get anything out of me about the Maydells, she starts grilling me about my background. I was like, Hello—you’re not taking me in as a foster child.”
“What did she ask you?”
“Where was my mother and did I have a father? Frankly, I was like, Not only do I not know you, but why would I tell you if I did? Hello?” Aphro swings her left leg like her reflexes are being tested in the doctor’s office.
Now Angora sits down, sensing that something is wrong. Aphro clams up for a second, but Angora rubs Aphro’s arm like Be for real, it’s me, chérie. The three of us were there when Angora needed us.
“Then finally she was asking me questions about what I plan on doing when I grow up. So I told her, I’m going to be a model and travel. Then I told her about the Catwalk competition and asked if Lennix could come.” Aphro pauses, and I wonder why until she starts sniffling.
“Oh, chérie,” coos Angora.
We wait quietly for Aphro to regain her feisty flame, which she does in a few seconds. “So, she was like, ‘Modeling? Well, you should think about getting an education. And you shouldn’t be allowed to walk around in that outfit, because your skirt is too short. And I don’t know what kind of foster parents you have—well, obviously I do know, because that’s why Lennix was removed—but he certainly is not going to any fashion show.’ ”
“She sounds mean,” I say, squirming.
Fifi squirms in her chair, too. Although Mrs. Cartera is far from mean, she sure threw Mr. Catera’s shoes out the window with enough brute force to hit an innocent bystander on the head.
“Oh, trust, I wasn’t scared of her. Then she looks me straight in the face and says, ‘Lennix is going to college. I’m going to make sure of that. And if your foster parents cared about you at all, they wouldn’t allow you to indulge in this nonsense, and they’d make sure that you go to college, too—and make something of your life.’ ”
“She said that?” Angora asks in disbelief.
Aphro snaps. “Why would I say she did if she didn’t?”
I come to Angora’s defense. “She didn’t mean that—”
“I know. I’m just tripping,” admits Aphro, covering her face with her hand and swinging her leg more forcefully.
I glance over at Kissa and Zeus, who are still at the other end of the conference room, flirting, from what I can see. I realize I’d better wrap up our runway training session so everyone can spread to the four winds of NYC. I get up to address my models. “Um, everybody—that was great. So next Thursday will be our fitting for the evening wear segment. And Fabbie Tabbie’s wedding gown,” I squeal. “Okay, finito. That’s it—you did great.”
“Can I come?” begs Stellina.
“No, it’s just for the regular models,” I tell her.
“So Fabbie Tabbie is a regular model and I’m not?” she challenges me.
“Oh, let her come,” Aphro insists. “We can do the kids’ fittings and the evening gown segment at the same time. Why not?”
“Oh, I do not want to be doing a fitting around any kids,” blurts out Fallon. “No disrespect.”
“We’ll do the junior model fitting and Fabbie Tabbie’s evening gown together. How’s that?” I suggest. Compromising, as usual. But that’s my job as house leader: greasing the fashion wheels—and everybody’s ego.
“That’s okay with me,” offers Felinez.
“Okay. Kissa, you’ll have to bring Cherry an hour earlier. That’s okay?” I ask.
Kissa nods yes. Her sister, Cherry, smiles. She doesn’t talk much, which I guess most designers would approve of. According to Nole, models are meant to be seen, not heard!
Zeus, on the other hand, has gotten an earful, and I can tell he seems a little jittery. I try to sense what’s going on. “Um, I have to take care of something,” he says.
I feel my heart sinking but concede. I know that Aphro wants me to come over. I can tell even though she doesn’t say it that she really needs my assisterance right about now.
“All right, we’ll resume tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep the situation Lite FM.
But when Zeus pecks me on the cheek, I sense something is off. After he leaves, I sit back down with Angora, Fifi, and Aphro. “Did you notice anything strange about Zeus?”
“Ray Charles could see that,” states Aphro.
“I don’t know. Sometimes he’s all over me, then other times, he seems so distant. I feel confused.”
“Chérie, that’s just guys. I told you. Read The Rules,” preaches Angora.
“No, Pash is right. There is something weird going on with Zeus,” says F
ifi.
“Angora is right. Ice Très is beating down my phone—probably because I ignore him, I swear,” I reveal. “And he is so looking forward to our date.”
“You should be, too. Give yourself a chance to see if you like Ice Très now that Shalimar doesn’t have her hooks in him anymore,” advises Angora.
“Puhleez, everyone is on the shady Jackson payroll,” Aphro says with a snarl.
“So, what was the upshot with Lennix?”
“She said Lennix can’t come to any fashion show—and I got the impression I wouldn’t be allowed to visit him again,” Aphro says, poking out her pouty mouth.
“I wish Lennix’s new foster mother could see you in action. How amazing you are with kids. You worked Tiara like a lion tamer. Amazing,” I profess, giving props.
“Thank gooseness, or we would have to rename our show the March of the Penguins!” barks Nole.
Suddenly there is a knock on the door. “Oh, Lord, look who is tardy to the party,” cracks Aphro.
“Caterina?” I mumble. But when I open the door, C. C. Samurai is standing there without a shuriken—his weapon of choice. “Oh, ye cometh unarmed?”
“Can I come in for a second?” he asks.
I look over to Angora. “Oh, sure,” she says, quickly shifting into her hostess mode.
C. C. Samurai takes a deep breath, like he’s anchoring himself. Ruthie Dragon sits straight up in her chair. Even I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. And does he ever drop it.
“In light of the recent incident with Benny Ninja, I’ve had to rethink my strategy. I don’t want the Tracy Reese shoes. They’re yours—you borrow them.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask suspiciously.
“After what happened, nothing matters more to me than regaining my credibility,” confesses C. C. Samurai.
“So what are you saying?” I ask, stunned.
“The name of my house has changed, but the theme remains the same—urban warrior fashion. But my models won’t be wearing shoes, because style warriors go barefoot in the urban jungle,” C. C. Samurai spins.
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