Catwalk

by Deborah Gregory

  “Oh, really?” Zeus asks, surprised.

  “Yeah, Kite Walker—he’s a senior there. She’s a sophomore now, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” Zeus responds, still fidgeting.

  “Wow—look who else is here,” Ice Très announces, motioning across the room. “It’s an F.I. reunion.”

  We all turn around to witness Sil Lai and Farfalla being seated in the cushy love seat directly across from us.

  “The spies have arrived,” jokes Ice Très.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, paranoid.

  “You know, they work for Ms. Lynx, boo kitty—but it’s a joke,” Ice Très clarifies upon noticing the freaked-out expression on my face.

  Zeus seems freaked out, too. “Listen, I have to take care of something, but I’ll see you two in a few.”

  Zeus smiles as he exits but refrains from winking at me like he usually does. I feel crushed. No way José did I have any intention of hurting him. Now I’m sure. I like Zeus mucho.

  After Zeus bounces, Ice Très exhales, like he’s relieved. “He was acting a little weird, wasn’t he?”

  “Um, yeah,” I reply guiltily.

  Upon dispensing his observation, he wastes no time getting back to his own agenda: impressing me. “I’m glad you came,” he says sweetly. “It means a lot to me.”

  “Um, yeah,” I repeat, still perplexed. “But what were the odds of running into Zeus? They had to be one out of two hundred sixty-nine million—just like the chance of winning the New York Lottery Mega Millions jackpot.” (My mom isn’t the only one who can ply innocent bystanders with statistics, okay?)

  “I want you to check this out,” Ice Très says, like a man on a mission. He pulls out a rumpled sketch pad to show me his latest graffiti art—charcoal abstracts with shadowy words in the background: Black. Born. Bred.

  I examine Ice Très’s art, and for the first time, I really look at his interpretations and the complexity of the designs, the moody subtext. “Wow, these snap, crackle, pop,” I critique honestly.

  “This is part of my new series called ‘Black and White.’ I’m gonna put them on canvas, and on the back of white denim jackets,” he explains proudly.

  “Wow—Urban Thug. I can see your whole concept now,” I observe, examining the graffiti-inspired art. “I see the whole collection: wearable art from the street. I dig it.”

  Ice Très peers at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I really like his work, so I reassure him.

  “This is really amazing. You have such a gift for tactile realness,” I offer, trying to run it through my mental art catalog. “It reminds me of something.”

  “Basquiat?” asks Ice Très.

  “What?” I respond.

  “Jean-Michel Basquiat,” he repeats.

  I conjure up an image of Jean Paul Gaultier and respond, “Is he a designer, too?”

  Ice Très looks alarmed. “You’re sleeping on the greatest graffiti artist of the twenty-first century. Jean-Michel Basquiat.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, suddenly remembering snippets about the late legendary artist from Brooklyn who ran with the Andy Warhol crowd. He was the darling of the eighties art scene. “Please forgive me. I got confused.”

  “Forgiven,” he says. “Basquiat is my idol. Brooklyn-born—and an integral part of the New York art scene. He ran with Julian Schnabel, too.”

  “Brooklyn-born. You dig that,” I tease him.

  “Well, artists born anywhere in New York, actually—like you. You take it for granted, being raised here. As for me, I’m soaking it up.” Ice Très beams at me intensely. “Washington State? Nothing like this. Only thing I miss is that overpass on Highway Twenty, where I drew my first tag. That’ll always be my touchstone.”

  “Yeah, I know. Now tell me something about you that nobody knows,” I say, squelching the déjà vu feeling from my date with Zeus. And the guilt.

  “Oooh, boo kitty, that’s a good one. Awright. I was going to enroll in Dalmation Tech High, which is how I came across Fashion International on the other side of the street. My father wanted me to be an electrical engineer, just like him.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yes, I’m most gifted in the electrical arena, just like my dad—but I have the soul of an artist,” he humbly explains. “I still always have my tools with me, though, just in case.” Ice Très opens his messenger bag to show me a melton cloth holding some tools. “Always be prepared for life’s emergencies. That’s what my Dad drilled into me.”

  I chuckle at his pun. “Wow, you’re amazing. And it’s so amazing how you draw. It really is.”

  “You’re amazing, too,” Ice Très adds.

  “Not being able to draw well is the reason why I could never call myself a legit fashion designer. Call me old-school, but sewing or draping is one thing. Capturing the architecture of a garment in an illustrative blueprint—now, that’s paramount,” I explain humbly. “I see myself more as a modelpreneur, because I can bring all the elements together.”

  “Wow. You broke that down—just like an artist,” Ice Très assures me.

  “Really?” I ask, gazing into his eyes for approval while still trying to hide my guilt.

  Ice Très senses my discomfort. “What’s on your mind?”

  Suddenly, the lights dim. “I was thinking that either I’m going blind, or the lights are getting dimmer in this joint,” I joke, deflecting from my internal drama.

  A waitress in a slinky red Lycra minidress comes over and smiles. “Bonsoir. Can I get you anything?” she asks.

  “Two Pinktinis,” orders Ice Très.

  “Merci,” she says as she smiles and walks away.

  “You’re going to have one?” I ask, grinning.

  “Why not? When with Pink Head, I should drink pink,” he quips.

  “How did you know my nickname is Pink Head?” I ask, surprised.

  “I know a lot of things about you,” Ice Très informs me, pleased.

  “Like what?”

  “That you don’t trust me because you think I was playing you—but I wasn’t. I liked you from the very beginning, but Shalimar was gassing me up and telling me that she was going to help me with my Urban Thug line as long as I didn’t have any contact with you,” explains Ice Très candidly. “But I was stupid, so I listened to her. I figured that way I wouldn’t get the two of you caught up in a catfight. I thought I could keep the two things separate—business and realness.”

  “Too late about the catfight,” I say, miffed, because now I have another piece of corroborating evidence about Shalimar’s espionage intentions.

  Ice Très comprehends the catty situation. “Shalimar is jealous of you. Maybe it’s that hair,” Ice Très says with a smirk, stroking my curls.

  “Yeah, real hair—and a real mess,” I giggle uncomfortably.

  “And a realness, period. She was constantly talking about you,” he reveals.

  I suppress the urge to ask what Shalimar said about me while Ice Très continues breaking it down.

  “She’s got the big-time backing, no doubt, because of her father, but you’re a lot more honest—and adorable. And trust, she knows that.”

  I smile, basking in Ice Très’s compliment. Nervously, I can’t help glancing around the room, secretly wondering whether Zeus has returned, but I don’t see him. “I wonder where Zeus had to dash to that was so important,” I say nonchalantly, trying to keep my concern Lite FM.

  The music pipes up over the loudspeaker—a song by the artist Pink. I smile at Ice Très and he smiles right back.

  Now our red waitress returns. “Pour vous,” she says chirpily, placing two menus in front of us.

  “Do you speak French?” I ask her, impressed.

  She keeps smiling. “A little. Un peu.”

  While scanning his menu, Ice Très asks me, “Do you really like my work? Your opinion is important to me.”

  “Yes, I do,” I say, nodding.

  Ice Très grins, sliding his precious notebook into his sleek black
carrying case.

  “I really do,” I repeat. “You’re really talented.”

  “So are you.”

  The room is completely full now, and Alyjah Jade appears center stage in front of the microphone with a guitar in her hand. A band joins her, assembling in the background.

  “Awright now,” says Ice Très. “Nothing I dig more than real instruments.”

  Alyjah Jade starts strumming the guitar and singing a beautiful song. Her voice is pure, sparkling clear, like Swarovski crystals line her throat. Suddenly, I realize that I know that voice. “That’s the girl singing the remix of ‘I Will Survive’ that Zeus produced for our fashion show!” I whisper to Ice Très.

  He nods approvingly while I get a creepy feeling inside that I can’t shake. Why didn’t Zeus tell me that the singer on the track was Alyjah Jade? I would have been so impressed.

  Ice Très smiles at me, quieting the chatter of so many questions in my head. I’m hypnotized, listening to Alyjah Jade singing and basking in the presence of true artists—both her and Ice Très. After she quietly finishes the song “One Bright Penny,” she talks to the audience, letting us know that she writes all her songs. She also points out her father—one of the musicians accompanying her in the background. I feel a twinge of sadness in my chest for my unknown father. Ice Très looks at me seriously, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  Now Alyjah Jade coos into the microphone, “This next song, ‘He’s Mine,’ which I wrote last fall when I began my freshman year, is dedicated to my one true love—my boyfriend, Zeus.”

  Ice Très smiles, nodding his head in a eureka moment, as if he finally grasps what brought Zeus to the Lipstick Lounge tonight. “Oh, I got you.”

  Meanwhile, I freeze inside like a Dominican Popsicle, wondering if maybe I heard Alyjah Jade wrong. No way she said what I think she said. I’m so stunned that I can’t even speak without my voice cracking to ask Ice Très if Alyjah Jade just said “my boyfriend, Zeus.”

  I look around furtively in the dark, desperately trying to spot the mink zebra hat that I’ve come to know stripe by stripe. Ice Très looks around, too, like he wants to give the Mad Hatter a shout-out.

  “Where’d he go?” Ice Très asks.

  I sit frozen, my mind floating above me; then I stare down at my puzzle-piece pants, trying to piece together the puzzle of Zeus. I rack my brains, trying to remember whether I ever asked Zeus if he had a girlfriend. Meanwhile, Alyjah Jade has just finished the song she dedicated to her one and only, and she proceeds to melt into another one of her original songs. “Now, this song, ‘These Lies,’ I wrote for my old boyfriend,” she chuckles, then strums the guitar slowly, introducing a haunting melody. And as she sings, her voice is filled with layers of disturbed emotion.

  “Pinocchio, it’s time to shrink your nose—

  It’s stretching across the universe.

  And don’t, don’t you know if you don’t let go

  These lies will break the curse?

  These lies. These lies. These lies. These lies.”

  Against my will, I become unfrozen, the torrent of warm tears streaming down my face melting away the icicles of shock. How could Zeus hurt me like this? I try to remember every conversation we ever had. Suddenly, I remember his shark collection. Now I know why he likes sharks—because he himself is a girl-eating, flesh-tearing, predatory shark. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter whether I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He should have told me all about his girlfriend with the ruby locks and the achingly beautiful voice. He should have told me! As Alyjah’s singing strikes more chords of dissent within me, I recall my fashion frightmare. Zeus left me backstage—he wasn’t there for me when I needed him. I shriek now, thinking about the Catwalk competition. What am I going to do?

  Alyjah Jade continues singing, strumming my pain with her verses:

  “You can only keep a perfect straight face on for so long.

  You’re about to lose it. Is this all a joke,

  Just a hoax? I don’t know, but the pieces fit.

  And you don’t see that it’s so obvious, and I know, I know.”

  Tears continue to pour down my face like a never-ending faucet. Not a dribbly faucet like the one in my house, but one with full hydraulic force. Out of my Niagara Falls stream, I can see Sil Lai and Farfalla looking over at me curiously, but I don’t care. Ice Très reaches over and touches my hand, squeezes it hard. He probably thinks I’m deeply moved by the song, which I am, but not for the reasons that he assumes. After Alyjah Jade finishes, everyone claps in appreciation. Everyone except us, because Ice Très won’t move his hand from on top of mine. I don’t move his hand away, either. I turn and look at him, my eyes wet with tears. He smiles at me. I smile back at him.

  “Please don’t lie to me anymore. I can’t take anyone else lying to me,” I say, breaking down into another round of fresh sobs.

  “I promise. I won’t lie to you ever again. You mean a lot to me,” whispers Ice Très.

  I can’t stop sobbing, and Ice Très doesn’t try to stop me or flip out about my freak-out. He just sits there, steady as a rock with his hand on mine, until the show is over, and so are my tears.

  15

  The fashion grapevine at Fashion International has more thorns than a vampire’s rose garden, so I wasn’t surprised that my Catwalk rivals—and everyone else at school except my immediate crew—had a field day with my embarrassing episode at the Lipstick Lounge. As for me, I’ve refused to clog or blog the Catwalk channels with tart grapes of wrath. For the next few weeks, I keep my exchanges with Zeus to Catwalk business.

  “Honey, you should have known, Zeus is on the endangered species list: a shark in a zebra-striped mink hat,” warns Nole, flicking the salt from his fingers each time he dips them into the bag of potato chips with vinegar. “Feline fashionistas, beware!”

  “Why don’t you say it a little louder so he can hear you,” I hiss at Nole, who is sitting near me in Studio C.

  Right now, Zeus is staring at me from across the room. He can’t stand that I’ve put him on deep freeze.

  “If it wasn’t for Zeus, we wouldn’t have trumped the Wild Card Challenge. Otherwise, I would have burned him like a frittata,” I whisper to Fifi.

  “I know, the Heels on Wheels cart turned out amazing,” she responds.

  “He should still apologize,” insists Nole. Aphro can’t resist—she reaches over to take a few chips out of Nole’s bag.

  “Yeah, like right about now,” I decide. We’ve just finished our last runway training session before the fashion show, and enough time has passed since I got smeared at the Lipstick Lounge by the shocking discovery that Zeus has an übertalented girlfriend, Alyjah Jade, who has been strumming his übersized ego since seventh grade.

  Of course, Angora tries to talk me out of confronting the Mad Hatter. According to her Rules, you’re never supposed to let a guy see you perspire. “Pash, you’ve been ignoring him for weeks—and see how obsessed he’s become with you? Guys love being ignored,” claims Angora.

  “Who cares?” warns Fifi. “Don’t say anything to him about it, because he’s going to squeeze the life out of you like an octopus!”

  “No, he won’t, because he’s already given me a shark bite,” I profess calmly. “He does owe me an apology, and now I’m ready to listen.”

  Meanwhile, Ruthie Dragon is vying for more attention, too. I told her I have something to discuss with her, and the truth is I can’t put it off any longer, but I know she’s not going to be a happy kitty after our convo. “Gimme a sec,” I tell her.

  I edge my way over to Zeus just in time to catch that familiar glint in his dark dreamy eyes.

  Ignoring the sparks, I announce my agenda. “Listen, I just want to clear the air so we’re on point next Friday at the fashion show.”

  “Awright,” Zeus agrees, grinning slyly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that you have a girlfriend?” I ask bluntly.

  “You never asked me if I have a girlfriend,” h
e insists, upon being catty-cornered.

  “You never asked me if I wanted you to kiss me, but that didn’t stop you from doing it!” I retort, grinding my teeth. “I just wish you had told me you’ve had a girlfriend since your sandbox days, okay? Can you dig that?”

  “You know how much I dig you,” Zeus coos, his eyes twinkling, trying to soften my serious stance.

  But I’m not budging. “I dig you—not so much that way, okay? Soooo, just be on the premises three hours before the show and that will be the end of our gory story.”

  Zeus nods, smiling like he’s impressed. It’s obvious he still appreciates my diggable digs, if you catch my swift drift.

  “So you’ll report for triple duty for the run-through three hours in advance?” I confirm again.

  Miffed, Zeus nods. He’s so used to getting his charming way he can’t understand why I won’t let him butter me up. “Yes, I’ll be there. And I still care about you. Deeply.”

  To keep my emotional distance, I purse my lips instead of puckering them. Amazingly, this self-help trick works better than a cold shower. “I should really thank you, because if it wasn’t for you betraying my trust, I would have never allowed Ice Très to show me his true colors. And that would have been my loss.”

  Zeus flinches against his will. Now I realize he didn’t know that inside tiddy about my Ice Très hook-up. Too bad.

  “Oh. And you know what I dig about Ice Très—deeply? He doesn’t divide his ‘deep feelings’ in half so he can share them with two girls!” I add for good measure.

  Zeus starts to say something but backs off, leaving me to fumble with my Catwalk folders so I can wrap up this horse-and-phony show like a Venus flytrap.

  Fifi, who has been hovering, helps with my paper trail. “At least you found out sooner rather than later,” she offers as a booby prize, carefully placing the glossy magazine pages of selected hairstyles into the appropriate folders.

  “C’est vrai. That’s true,” seconds Angora.

  “Is it true you like these hairstyles?” I ask, changing the subject back to the fashion track.

  Angora gazes at the chignon tear sheets I’ve collected. “Pash, bravo on the hairstyles. Only you would have thought of putting pink extensions in the ponytails and chignons,” commends Angora.