“Thank you,” I say, pleased, remembering the source of my inspiration—Alyjah Jade. Her burgundy locks sparked my own color cues. “What can I say? Inspiration really does come from everywhere—even during our darkest hour.”
“You’re so dramatic,” snorts Aphro. “But I love the I Dream of Jeannie braid.”
“Yes, I know—purrfect look for you, Miss Chiseled Cheekbones,” I sigh.
“I’m just happy the pillbox hats came out. Making a pyramid would have been easier,” Nole says, sweating. He takes out his monogrammed hankie to wipe his forehead. By instinct, Dame Leeds comes over, peeved, his spadey sense working overtime.
“I’ll give you that—the pillbox hats are cute. But we still could have gone with the bob for the Chic Meets Street segment,” he says belligerently.
“That’s too much work—putting the hair up in braids, then removing the braids for a bob,” I counter. Truth is, I vetoed most of Dame’s butch-looking hairstyles because I didn’t dig them.
Now Dame’s second hairstylist in command, Liza Flake, comes over to put in the same three cents. “Bobs would have looked cute.”
“Ponytails are cuter,” I insist.
The two breathe venom in my direction, which I ignore. “I’ll see you two next Friday?”
“I guess so, even though I don’t know why you don’t just do the hair yourself since you don’t listen to our opinions!” mumbles Dame.
“I absolutely need the two of you next Friday—will you be there?” I reiterate.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dame says, relenting.
“We can’t wait till next Friday,” seconds model Mink Yong, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. She picks up her ever-present green Juicy drawstring tote and slings it over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
“Everybody ready?” I squeal. Now that all the models are ready to leave, I realize that it’s time for my final pep talk. “This is our last meeting before our run-through on the day of the fashion show,” I announce, hyping my models. “And we’re ready as we’re ever gonna be. Aren’t we?”
“Yeah!” scream Kissa, Elgamela Sphinx, and Mink Yonk.
“So. Come next Friday, everyone must be at our designated tent in Lincoln Center three hours before showtime. Okay? Tutti capito?”
All my models nod. “You heard that—three hours before?” Nole says, nudging Zeus.
I smile tersely at the Mad Hatter, who stands in place—obviously he won’t leave without an acknowledgment from me. Thankfully, my house leadership skills automatically kick in despite myself. “I’ll see you next Friday—and thank you for everything. Without my models and my crew, I’ve got nothing but clothes on hangers.”
Zeus nods in approval. “No, thank you,” he says humbly.
I smile at Zeus and bite my tongue. I need him for next Friday night. And luckily, not before, thanks to Ice Très.
As if reading my mind in reverse, Zeus offers, “You sure you don’t need me to come over and move the Heels on Wheels cart with you?”
“Nope. We got it under control—and thanks to you again, it’s gonna be the Wild Card surprise of the evening,” I spin confidently. “Ice Très’s uncle Ray-Ray is coming by with his van to help us load.” I neglect to mention to Zeus that this particular set of wheels also comes with the faint smell of skunk juice. Nonetheless, I love the sound of having my own personal transport. Zeus not so much, because he twitches nervously. Kinda the way I did right after I found out about Alyjah Jade.
“Oh, right,” he says. “The Ice Très factor.”
Frankly, I couldn’t have gotten through the Zeus ruse without Ice Très stroking my fur and wounded ego every step of the way, every day. See, I finally broke down and told Ice Très what had happened. Ice Très was so upset, one day during lunch period in the Fashion Café he had to refrain from zapping Zeus with a chilled glass bottle of Nestea. But after having gotten suspended once for tagging the stairwell with that stupid cupid professing his love for me, Ice Très learned one thing: how to keep his cool in school.
“Awright, I gotta wrap this up like a falafel,” I sign off. I motion around the room to all the paper cups and disarranged chairs.
“Finally!” shouts Nole. For once, I don’t mind his boisterous attitude. I’m just glad he has recovered from the shock of not dominating the fashion: Penelope is out; Fabbie Tabbie is in. But the truth is, now that I’ve slayed one dragon, it’s time to deal with another. Ruthie Dragon sidles over, bright-eyed and bushytailed. Angora senses that fire-breathing tactics may ensue, so she motions for Aphro and Fifi to come to my defense.
“This is so exciting,” coos Angora, smiling warmly at Ruthie. I love Angora for always knowing how to prime the fashion pump.
“I was thinking maybe we should have regular Coca-Cola backstage, too, in case anyone wants it?” queries Ruthie Dragon, pen in hand, notebook poised.
“No way, José!” vetoes Fifi. “I’ll drink it by the gallon—and I’m already going to be nervous enough!”
“Um, Ruthie, we’re going to stick with water and Diet Pepsi for now. And I’ve got that all covered. It’s at my house,” I inform her, stalling.
“Oh?” she says, making a checkmark on a list in her notebook.
“Um, but I was thinking—you know, we’ve got enough dressers backstage, and Fifi is going to take over assisting me for the run of the show. So you know what would be the most awesome responsibility I can give you?”
The blood drains out of Ruthie’s face like she’s recovering from a slap. A hard one. “You’re not telling me that I’m not going to be backstage to help with the fashion show?”
“I want you to have the honor of manning the Heels on Wheels cart in the lobby,” I announce.
“Why would I want to be in the lobby instead of backstage!” she yelps.
“Are you serious? It would be an honor. You would be representing the House of Pashmina—meeting all the important guests and judges up close and personal, while we’ll be in the back slaving away,” I spout, trying to sell my position.
“And our charity angle for Heels on Wheels is so important,” seconds Nole. “You’ll be collecting all the footwear for the homeless shelter—that’s such an important cause. I’d want to be hobnobbing with the guests if I could!”
Ruthie Dragon interrupts our sales spiel. “If it’s so important, then why can’t Felinez be out there in the lobby?”
“I need Fifi,” I blurt out, before realizing how unimportant that makes Ruthie sound. “Fifi is a designer—if something goes wrong, we need her backstage to help!”
“Well, if you don’t want me backstage, then you obviously don’t need me,” Ruthie fires off.
“Hold up—I thought the whole point of being on a team is to be a team player,” Aphro interjects.
“The only thing the so-called team is doing is ganging up on me!” shouts Ruthie Dragon. “You can do that to Chintzy Colon, but you ain’t doing that to me, okay?”
“Oh, Ruthie, that’s not fair. Chintzy was a spy—we had no choice,” balks Angora.
“Well, I’ve been treated like one,” Ruthie Dragon confesses, finally revealing the root of the tension between us. “If Nole Canoli didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t even have put me on the team.”
“And you were hired as an assistant, so why aren’t you assisting?” needles Nole. “You saw The Devil Wears Prada—you’re lucky none of us asked you to fetch us ice cream cones from the North Pole!”
“Well, I’m not a dog, so I’m not about to roll over,” hmmphs Ruthie Dragon. “If I can’t be backstage, then I’m not doing anything.”
“S-so you’re not coming to the fashion show,” I stutter, my cheeks burning from her fiery attack.
“I didn’t say that. Do I have to repeat myself?”
“No, you don’t,” I relent.
Ruthie leaves us singed.
“What are we going to do?” Fifi frets.
“Light one of your candles,” I sigh, defeated. �
�Then pray for a miracle.”
“Meanwhile, can we please just go to Staples and pick up the Xeroxes of the program?” offers Angora.
“Oh, right,” I say, flustered. That’s what I love about Angora—she always knows how to press the Easy Button.
On Wednesday, Angora comes over my house so we can email the House of Pashmina fashion show invitations to the guests from our combined crew lists. Then we fold the three hundred House of Pashmina programs in half. They’ll be placed on the seats for the guests at our fashion show. “Oy, what a bummer we can’t have goodie bags like Betsey Johnson has at her fashion shows,” I gripe.
“Well, when you have Betsey Johnson money, you’ll do just that,” my mother yells from the kitchen. “And aren’t you two going to eat with us?”
Chenille is already seated at the table. “Oy, she could have helped us fold the programs,” I whisper to Angora, but motion with my eyeballs to tense Chenille, who has her arms crossed on her chest like she’s guarding against any incoming requests.
“We’re almost finished, and it was fun,” Angora whispers back. “This neon pink really makes a statement.”
“I know,” I say gleefully, reading one of the programs for the millionth time. “The Heels on Wheels charity statement on the bottom makes the program look so much more, well, important.”
“C’est vrai. It’s true. Très important.” Angora says sweetly.
The phone rings and my mother picks up the extension in the nook to answer it.
“Pashmina, it’s for you,” she yells.
“Oh, maybe it’s Ice Très,” I say, smiling. “Now, there is someone who wants to help every step of the way.”
After a few moments on the phone with Dame, I realize that’s exactly what I’m gonna need—help!
“This can’t be happening!” I scream into the receiver. “It’s not happening!” My knees buckle, so I plop down in a chair at the dinner table with my mom and Chenille, who suspends her forkful of green peas in midair, looking at me like I’m the cuckoo she always suspected.
“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.
Ignoring her, I press my forehead with an open palm like I’m trying to rearrange my brains. “So what does this mean?” I ask sharply, demanding that Dame provide further clarification on this unexpected, unanticipated, unwanted Code Pink call.
“What part of ‘Liza Flake fell down a flight of subway stairs’ don’t you understand?” Dame Leeds snarls back.
“So you’re telling me she can’t come to the fashion show—not even on crutches?” I shriek in disbelief. I feel my face flush with rage, and my left eye instantly starts twitching.
“Houdini couldn’t come to the fashion show with a broken leg—hello!” snaps Dame Leeds.
At last, the levee has broken and the dam of tension that has been building up between Dame and me since day one is flooding the phone wires. “We have a fashion show to put on and no assistant hairstylist. Get a replacement!” I scream hysterically.
“Pashmina, you don’t have to shoot the messenger!” snaps Dame Leeds.
“If I had a BB gun I would!” I snap back, twirling my hair uncontrollably.
“I’m going to ignore your unprofessional behavior like I always do,” snarls Dame Leeds, “and I’ll try to find a replacement. But it’s not going to be easy. I don’t like amateurs.”
“Who does!” I snap.
When I release the phone back to its cradle, I try to explain to my mother what just happened, but as soon as I open my mouth, I burst into tears.
Angora rushes over. “What happened?”
Chenille resumes shoveling forkfuls of peas, releasing a sly smile. My mom waits patiently for me to regain my composure so I can tell her. “That was Dame Leeds, my lead hairstylist. He claims that Liza Flake, his second in command, has fallen and she can’t get up,” I say, releasing another round of sobs.
“What?” my mom asks, still not clear.
“She took a tumble on the IRT and missed her stop—at fashion stardom!” I start in. “I knew she was going to be a problem—I just knew it! But I had to hire her because Dame insisted. He also claimed she is the snap-in extensions queen, but the only thing I ever saw her snap was her Wrigley’s gum, which annoyed me to no end!”
“So what are you going to do?” asks my mom. I should be used to her pat response after I whine about a problem, but it still jars me. In my mother’s world, when there is a problem, all she wants to know is: what’s the solution?
“I told him to find a replacement!” I blurt out defensively. “Oh, I knew that Liza Flake was going to be a problem. Maybe I’m psychic, too, like Fifi, because I swear I knew it!”
My mother brings me back to more practical matters. “You sure you want to leave something so important for him to do? I know when one of the salespeople flakes out—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to use that word.”
“Oh, please, any word at this point is helpful,” I say tearfully.
“Well, when one of the employees at the boutique doesn’t show up for work, I don’t wait for Roni to tell me what I know has to be done. I handle the replacements myself if I can,” my mom explains.
The room gets quiet. I sit pondering my mother’s advice. Racking my brains, I try to think of a qualified hairstylist who isn’t already in another house, but I can’t.
Angora has other ideas. “Why don’t we let Chenille do it?”
I dart my eyes at Angora like Why don’t you stick to the dating advice, please!
“I’ll do it,” pipes up Chenille. “Show me the hairstyles.”
My mom looks at me like Don’t even think about saying anything stupid.
“Okay,” I agree. I go get the sketches for the hairstyles. “We’re slicking back the hair, then mixing the ponytails with pink hair extensions,” I explain carefully.
“I can do that,” Chenille says confidently.
“For the Chic Meets Street segment, the models are wearing pillbox hats,” I add. “Then for the evening segment, we’re leaving in the pink extensions but turning the ponytails into chic chignons pinned under.”
“I can do that, too,” Chenille says in the same deadpan tone.
“You sure?” I squeak.
My mom looks at me sternly.
“I’m sure,” says Chenille.
I pick up the phone and dial Dame back to let him know the Code Pink has been handled.
“Now tomorrow I have to file a member replacement form with the Catwalk office,” I say to him, still in shock. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ll need more than that,” admits Dame Leeds.
This time I don’t snap at him, because he’s right.
The next day when I go to the Catwalk office to file a replacement form to officially record Chenille as Liza Flake’s replacement, I can’t help but notice the smirk on Sil Lai’s face, even though she is trying to suppress it.
I get paranoid, wondering if she knows about the Diamond drama or the run-in with Ruthie Dragon.
Luckily, Sil Lai tips her hand like a bad poker player. “Did you have fun at the Lipstick Lounge?”
Leave it to slippery Sil Lai to dredge up month-old drama. “Yes, I thought Alyjah Jade was amazing,” I report, taking the high fashion road instead of resorting to refried gossip, which Sil Lai craves like leftovers. “But not as amazing as the House of Pashmina fashion show is going to be.”
As I race out, Farfalla coos behind me. “Good luck. Buona fortuna!”
“Thank you!” I shout back, because luck is exactly what I need.
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!
WILD THINGS
Next Friday, the place to be will be watching the five fashion shows in the Catwalk competition. Yes, all bets are on: in the biggest pot so far, the winner snags a BlackBerry Torch. Luckily, not everyone in New York City knows about th
is hot ticket happening, otherwise F.I. fashionistas would not be able to vie for front-row seats (all right, second-row) in the fashion tents at Lincoln Center.
As in all coveted contests, however, you can always count on a few leaks. We thrive on leaks. So here’s the leak of the week: everybody is trying to figure out what each house is doing for the Wild Card Challenge. Each house was told to incorporate an element of surprise into their fashion show that reflects their theme. Huh? Ms. Lynx was working those spots overtime to come up with that one. Anyway, we hear one house is gonna pop the fake fizzy for guests to sip while the models serve fashion on the runway. (Serving bubbly style, get it?) Another house has lost their shoes (or their mind), because their models are going to be barefoot. Now, this one we don’t get—and maybe it would be a good idea if the fashion shows were still held at Bryant Park instead of Lincoln Center. (Barefoot in the park, get it?) Frankly, it sounds too Into the Wild for our stylish tastes.
Of course, everyone wants to know what that certain overfunded house is going to incorporate into their show, because frankly, they’re a “shoe-in,” but so far the intel has been shaky. We do hear it has something to do with ambition, possibly to go with their theme. (Step on Everyone to Get Ahead?)
That brings us to an update, since one contestant is out of commission and won’t be fulfilling her duties in the Catwalk competition. Apparently, Liza Flake is in traction, holed up at her house in Never Again Land. The question is, how did Liza Flake break her leg? We hope the rumors are not true—that someone sent Liza flying down a flight of subway stairs. (So much has been going on in that catty house, we don’t know what to believe!)
That’s it for now—except you know that expression break a leg? Let’s not jinx anyone else by using that expression at the Catwalk competition, okay? So, to all the contestants, we’ll see you on Friday, and please, don’t break a leg!
Posted by Givers and Takers at 05:07:10
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