“It’s your Wild Card Challenge!” blurts out Nole, pleased as a piglet with a snout stuffed with truffles.
C. C. Samurai is startled, like he swallowed an overweight canary. Carefully, he constructs his thoughts. “Look, I’m willing to let you have the shoes—as long as you don’t go blasting my show secrets on the blog. I only agreed to borrow the shoes because she wanted to make sure you didn’t.”
“You’re talking about Shalimar, aren’t you?” says Aphro, demanding a response. “Aren’t you?”
Now C. C. looks like a canary with heartburn.
“See, I told you not to be fooled by Shalimar’s silence of the lamb chops. She is trying to steer us to slaughterhouse five!” Fifi says righteously.
Like Fifi, Aphro is running helter-skelter with accusations of espionage. She tries to force C. C. to confess: “Come on, tell us. It was Shalimar. It makes perfect sense. How else could you have gotten access to Tracy Reese shoes if Shalimar wasn’t behind it?”
“I will not get in the middle of any catfight. My lips are sealed.” C. C. Samurai strikes his usual pose. “Don’t shoot the messenger, just sign for the delivery, okay?”
I decide I’d better dive into this drama before the gift of the shoes—which are made for walking—struts out of our reach. “You’re right,” I say cordially, comprehending his metaphor. “We want the shoes, and in exchange, your Wild Card theme will not be leaving this room. You have our word.” I gaze at everyone in the room to make sure we’re on the same page.
“I’m counting on that. I’m just grateful that this crisis gave me such a fabulous idea for my Wild Card Challenge.” C. C. Samurai flexes, like he’s superior because of his decision but still anxious to mark this particular amends off his to-do list.
Now Aphro sits straight up in her chair, like she’s saying Don’t do it!
But I’m in charge, and my job as house leader is to put my pride in check for the collective good of my team. “So you’ll make sure that the publicist at Tracy Reese is aware that we’ll be borrowing the shoes instead of you?”
“Will do,” C. C. Samurai assures me.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
“You’re welcome. I feel if I’m going to win this competition, then I want to win it in my own right.”
I can tell by the glint in Nole’s eyes that he admires C. C. Samurai’s new attitude. I do, too. Apparently, the Benny Ninja beatdown has been a catalyst for this unexpected episode of C. C. “sole” searching. And C. C. is right about one thing, which I utter out loud: “You’re right. May the best house win.”
13
What I love most about the Carteras’ cramped digs on the Grand Concourse in the South Bronx: the spicy, aromatic smells of Latin food wafting through every room and the dizzying whir of electronics, phonics, and gadgets in concert. Fifi, of course, is always putting the pedal to the metal on her sewing machine. Her younger brother, Juanito, plays his keyboard or video games, and practices his ninja antics. As for Michelette, she keeps the apartment amplified with the simultaneous blare of Latin music and Spanish telenovelas.
Today, however, the Mardi Gras mood, along with Mr. Cartera, is absent from 5555 Grand Concourse. In its place, a tension you can cut with a chorizo knife. Determined to make our final fittings fun, however, Mrs. Cartera has been cooking up a carnival in the kitchen, even though right now she’s taking a break and hovering over Fifi in her bedroom with a purple paisley blouse in her hand.
Seated in front of her sewing machine, Fifi screams: “Mami, stop bothering me. No me jodas mas! I told you I have to get the stuff ready for our fashion show! Why don’t you wear the yellow jumpsuit and fly away like Big Bird!”
Fifi’s reference to the costume she constructed for her mother’s Las Madres persona doesn’t go unnoticed. Mrs. Cartera flinches, becoming embarrassed that her paisley request is for our eyes only. Nonetheless, she continues to grovel: “I know, la mia preciosa—just two little darts? I look like a sack of papas fritas in this. I’ll love you forever.”
“I know. That’s what worries me,” moans Fifi, blowing stray strands away from her face.
Mrs. Cartera waves off Fifi’s faux foreboding with a flick of her tiny wrist, which is weighed down by wide wooden bangles hand-painted with delicate flowers. I’ve witnessed this tango between the two mucho times before. Fifi caves and her mother hands over the blouse. Humming softly, Mrs. Cartera waits patiently, shifting the weight on her fuchsia stiletto slides with tinted hydrangea flowers on the toes. When it comes to her accessories, Mrs. Cartera is always in full bloom.
“I have such a headache,” says Fifi, rubbing her forehead. Fifi won’t admit it, but she’s so stressed about her parents’ separation and our fashion show, she has nothing but headaches and stomachaches most of the time.
“I’ll get you some vinegar,” her mom suggests.
“Vinegar?” I ask curiously.
“It’s an Andean remedy—lowers your blood pressure, gets rid of the headache subito,” she explains, snapping her fingers. I watch as Mrs. Cartera sashays out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
Fifi relents to the pounding pain, cradling her head in her hands until her Mom returns with a bottle of white vinegar and a tablespoon. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the scale out of the oven so I can cook, está bien?”
“Just put it back after you finish—without any grease stains, por favor!” orders Fifi. She keeps the scale hidden in the oven, but takes it out every morning, moving the scale around on the linoleum like a Ouija board, searching for the spot where the indicator is tricked into showing she weighs less than 150 pounds.
“You’re coming to our show?” I ask Mrs. Cartera rhetorically. Why’d I do that?
Mrs. Cartera puts her hands on her hips defiantly. “Oh, I will be there, but he won’t.”
Fifi snaps again. “Mami, párate! Just stop.”
“Why don’t you tell him that? I wasn’t the one in the Coco Loco Lounge in Santo Domingo in front of everyone taking pictures with her!” Mrs. Cartera shoves a spoonful of vinegar into Fifi’s reluctant mouth. Fifi swallows, squinting disapprovingly.
Now it’s Mrs. Cartera’s turn to cave on cue. “Okay, mija—I will stop.”
Fifi shoves the blouse back at Mrs. Cartera, who walks over to the full-length mirror on the door and holds the blouse to her chest, pleased. Humming a little louder, Mrs. Cartera gets starry-eyed, like she’s fantasizing about serenading guests on a cruise ship, but at least this afternoon she will have a captive audience with us.
Involuntarily, I blurt out a compliment. “Purple makes your complexion snap, crackle, pop!”
Mrs. Cartera nods knowingly, then plants a kiss on Fifi’s throbbing forehead: “I thank you, my daughter, in the name of the rumba, the mambo, and the cha-cha-cha!”
With that, Mrs. Cartera cha-chas out of the bedroom, happy for a fleeting moment.
“She’s addicted to alterations,” swears Fifi.
“And we’re addicted to purrfection,” I utter. “Everybody needs something to get them through the day—that’s what Miss Viv always says.”
Fifi gives me a knowing nod that secretly communicates Thank gooseness we have each other. Then she resumes sewing the cotton drawstring pants to be worn by our two boy junior models. While my hands are busy cutting the strips of fabrics for the ruffles on the girl junior model’s tiered sundresses, my nose is being treated to the intoxicating aromas of fresh fritangas sizzling in cauldrons of oil—grilled beef and chicken, pigs feet, leg of lamb, ribs, and different types of chorizo sausages, longaniza, murcillo blood sausages, and chunchullo—fried cow intestines—with mini potatoes and arepas.
“She is making enough comida for the Spanish Inquisition,” moans Fifi, licking her lamb-chop lips.
“We’ll go down in Catwalk history as the one house that always fed our models,” I snicker, reflecting on Zeus’s DON’T FEED THE MODELS T-shirt. “Oy. I wish the Mad Hatter was coming over today.”
<
br /> “You’re going tomorrow night to the Lipstick Lounge. I wish I could go there,” confesses Fifi.
“I wish you were going, too,” I admit. “I’m psyched about seeing this singer, Alyjah Jade.”
“That’s nice Ice Très is taking you. I like Ice Très more than Zeus. He’s better for you.”
I know better than to argue with Fifi’s Santeria sense. “Awright,” I concede. I glance quickly at all the candles Fifi has perched around her bedroom. Lately, she’s been burning them at night, searching for guidance. “I don’t know. Ice Très is so goofy. He kinda reminds me of my bathrobe with the cat’s head falling off the back—I know I should sew it back on, but I don’t want to mess with its tattered charm.”
“All you have to do is put him back together like Humpty Dumpty!” prompts Fifi.
“Yeah, right. Where’s the faux faux?” I ask, referring to the last precious piece of faux leather.
Fifi points to the battered rustic wooden crates branded with the words Arancias de Colombia that are stacked in the corner. I remove the top crate and spot the huge pile of postcards in the crate beneath. These were sent by Mrs. Cartera from all over the world. I glance quickly at some of the postmarks—Guadeloupe; Nassau, Bahamas; Lima, Peru. I put the postcard-filled crate on the floor and dig through the third crate until I find the supple black faux leather, which I need to make the tiered ruffles for my furbulous new creation.
Cutting the strips perfectly straight, I get jagged feelings about Ice Très. “Ice Très makes me feel comfortable. When he isn’t lying.”
“He told you the truth—Shalimar was using him. Did you tell Zeus you’re going to the Lipstick Lounge?”
I shake my head. “No way, José.”
Suddenly, Fifi bursts into tears. “I wonder if Mami will ever be happy again like she was when she and Papi were performing together around the world.”
“I wonder if my mom will ever be happy again, too. Why didn’t Ramon just pick a mermaid in Coney Island instead of flapping his fins in Brighton Beach with Lonni, her best friend?”
Fifi giggles. I giggle, too. I didn’t even realize I was so upset with Ramon until now. “And he didn’t even fix the bathroom ceiling. Now all I hear is drip, drip, drip!”
We giggle again, sitting at the sewing machine to stitch the strips of ruffles, which will be adhered to the sundresses after the fitting. Fabbie Tabbie meows like she’s grateful we’re making progress. She is plopped in the center of Fifi’s bed, while Fifi’s prized Bengal cat, Señorita, is crouched on the floor below. “Fabbie Tabbie! Get off the bed!”
I pick up Fabbie Tabbie’s white chiffon wedding dress for the finale and put it on her. Fabbie paws at me in protest, but I tap her head to stop it and slip the dress over her wide girth. “Oy, Fabbie. You should concentrate more on the bits and less on the kibble.” I pat her pudgy stomach. “Maybe I should put her on a diet like a model right before Fashion Week?”
Fifi doesn’t respond. She is basting the gathers on the chiffon ball skirts. I tighten the elastic in the middle of the wedding gown and contemplate whether the train could use more ruffles. “Do you think the train is long enough?”
Fifi glances over and nods.
“You sure? I want that train to screech to the finish line. You only get to be a bride once,” I coo.
“That’s not true,” Fifi winces. “Daddy is going to marry that tango tramp and she’s already been married three times. I heard Mami talking about her on the phone to Nona!” Nona is Fifi’s grandmother in Colombia, who takes out her false teeth at night but keeps her common sense close to her heart.
“Fifi! You don’t know that,” I chide her.
Fifi puts down the skirts and parks herself in front of a candle, lighting it, then closing her eyes. I don’t say a word until she finishes and resumes sewing. Two hours later, we’re finally ready for the model fittings—and ready to chow down. While we wait for the models to arrive, I carefully press the shutter pleats on Mink’s and Yong’s fuchsia evening dresses.
My cell phone rings. “Aarrgh, it’s Panda,” I moan, staring at the screen. “Why can’t he just send a text like a normal person?”
“You should talk to him,” advises Fifi.
“Fifi, come on. I can’t talk to him now,” I protest.
I put the phone down on Fifi’s dresser.
“Have you called Diamond?” Fifi asks.
“I will,” I say, sighing.
“She’s probably trolling the slaughterhouses looking for sheep to rescue,” snipes Fifi, shaking her head. Once Diamond Tyler came to a Catwalk meeting upset because a sheep with a USDA clip hanging off its ear escaped from a slaughterhouse on Tremont Avenue. The sheep was running on the Grand Concourse, causing a traffic jam.
“Wait till Diamond hears about Señorita’s pedigreed Bengal lineage—then she’ll get her rough hide over here,” I decide. Never mind that Fifi secured Señorita from the ASPCA. I dial Diamond’s number, but she doesn’t answer, so I leave a message, dangling the Bengal pedigree like bait.
“Knock, knock,” yells Juanito from the bedroom door. He has pried himself away from his ninja games so he can be fitted for his Catwalk outfit.
“You’re going to dig your outfit,” I tell him.
We cart all the junior models’ outfits to the living room to prepare for the model stampede. Juanito can’t wait to try on his graffiti T-shirt with DON’T MAKE ME PURR printed on the back and the matching cotton pants. “This is cool,” he says, letting loose with a disciplined kick. “They look like karate pants.”
“They’re not!” cautions Fifi.
“Okay, help me put the food out,” shouts Mrs. Cartera from the kitchen.
“Tell Michi—I’m busy!” snarls Fifi, exasperated. Michelette senses the incoming disturbance and rises from the couch and saunters into the kitchen. Turning to Juanito, Fifi snaps, “And you can’t wear these before the fashion show, so don’t ask! Entiendes?”
Juanito doesn’t answer his sister. Instead he keeps practicing his ninja poses.
“Don’t worry,” I soothe Fifi.
We’re keeping all the clothes for the fashion show at my house in plastic garment bags to protect them. I motion for Juanito to cut it out so I can pin the bottom of his pants to make them shorter. Juanito is tame compared to Stellina. She’s so excited when she sees the sundress, she jumps up and down like she’s on a trampoline.
I show the girl junior models the matching umbrellas they’ll be carrying. “And when you get to the end of the runway, each of you will open your umbrella and twirl it so everybody can see the slogan stamped on it.”
“Oh, that’s fierce!” exclaims Stellina, gazing at hers, which says I’M FELINE GROOVY.
I’m struck by another idea. “As you pass each other on the runway, you cross paws, okay?” I show them the Catwalk handshake. Even Tiara giggles.
“Do we have to do that?” groans Juanito, obviously disappointed he won’t be doing any ninja poses.
“Yes, you have to do it, Juanito!” exclaims Fifi.
“Awright. I’ll do your stupid boring handshake.”
“Juanito, we worked really hard on your outfits. The least you can do is appreciate it!” screams Fifi.
Like a mother hen, Mrs. Cartera zooms from the kitchen with a spatula in hand. “Que paso?” she asks, her heels clacking on the wooden floor.
“Nada. Nothing,” I pipe up. “It’s time to eat!”
Fifi cracks a smile. I hug her and we all sit down at the big dining room table. The doorbell rings and I jump up to get it. The rest of the troops have arrived. I glare at Aphro like Where were you when we needed you?
“What’s up with you?” she snarls.
“Fifi is having a cheddar cheese meltdown—so please, be nice to her,” I warn Aphro.
“I’m always nice to her,” she responds bluntly.
“Oooh, good, I’m hungry,” says Fallon, following her nose to the dining room table. She sits down and dives in.
&n
bsp; Elgamela is equally happy with the feast. “Oh, Mrs. Cartera,” she coos. “The food is so good. I’ve never eaten anything so delicious!”
Mrs. Cartera beams with pride and explains in detail how she prepares the fritanga. If there is anything she loves more than dressing up, it’s cooking and eating. Like mother, like daughter, because after Fifi polishes off the platanos, she regains her sweet nature. That is, until Juanito asks the wrong question.
“Is Papi coming to the fashion show?”
“No, he is not,” barks Mrs. Cartera.
“But I want him to see me on the runway!” Juanito says in protest.
Fifi starts bawling again and jumps up from the table. Now Aphro’s eyes soften, like she finally gets why I was fretting. She jumps up and follows Fifi. The rest of us eat our lunch in silence.
After we finish, Fifi and Aphro come back out so we can finish our agenda: the fittings. I figure it’s best to get Fallon’s fitting out of the way first. I hand her the pink bustier to put on, and just like we imagined, she has a hissy fit at the sight of her abundant cleavage, which isn’t even spilling over. “I told you I do not want to leave my tatas on the runway!” she exclaims.
“Fallon, I’m adding a ruffle at the top of the bustier—you’re not going to see anything,” I assure her. “This is just a fitting—the bustier is not finished!”
“It better not be—or you can let Fabbie Tabbie shake her tail feather in this one, okay?” she hmmphs.
I smile sweetly and keep pinning Fallon, because I’ve learned my biggest lesson as a house leader: when others fret, keep your lips sealed. Fallon loves getting the last word in edgewise and otherwise.
Alas, it’s a lesson that Aphro hasn’t caught on to yet. “Miss Fallon, no one is interested in ruffling your feathers,” she adds.
“Oh, so now I have feathers like Big Bird?” she asks defensively. “You don’t know what it’s like to wear a size 40D bra and have guys staring at your tatas.”
“I know what it’s like,” counters Fifi. “I hate it!”
“Oh, awright,” Fallon says, giving in. “Just don’t start crying again, please.”
Catwalk Page 54