“No, Cinderella, they’re not!” she quips, carefully slipping my feet into the pink mules with crystal flowers. Fabbie Tabbie is perched on a high chair so she can stay out of the way until the finale.
“Showtime!” I squeal as the music comes on.
The junior models are released toward the bright lights, and immediately we hear a roar of clapping.
“Yes!” I cheer, flooded suddenly by the welling of tears. Bobby Beat is looking right in my direction and points his big pink powder brush. “Don’t you dare, Miss Purr!” he threatens me.
I break out smiling and fan my eyes with my hands. Bobby Beat quickly comes over and fans me, too.
The junior models have finished and they come back sweating. “I’m going to be a model!” announces Stellina, like she has figured out her destiny.
“You already are!” I coo at her.
The models for the Urban Gear segment are working the runway. Benny Madina and Mink Yong are the last two to return. “It’s a full house, honey!” shouts Benny.
Now Elgamela and Fallon go out for the bathing suit segment, and this one gets the most applause so far. But Elgamela comes back in tears. “My mother fainted right in her chair!” she screams. “I can’t go back out there!”
“No, no, come on, put on the dress!” hisses her dresser, Fabunique.
We realize that Elgamela is not joking, but the show must go on. “Are you sure your mother fainted?” I ask in disbelief. The lights are so bright on the runway, how could she possibly see anybody in the audience?
“Stop that train at Petticoat Junction immediately!” barks Bobby Beat. He runs over with Mini Mo to mend the ruined eye makeup. “Pull it together, Elgamela. Your mother will survive, like Gloria Gaynor!”
I’m so nervous that I burst out laughing. So does Zeus. “At least my mother is gonna be happy,” I giggle. “I picked her favorite disco song to close our show.”
Now Elgamela laughs. “You’re right—that’s probably not my mother, but someone else wearing traditional Muslim headwear!”
The absurdity is not lost on us. Elgamela is turning pro. The models for the Chic Meets Street segment are on the runway. Elgamela gets ready for her evening outfit—the tattersall skirt and bustier. Relieved that another crisis has been averted, I can’t help but ask, “Has anyone laid eyes on Shalimar out there?”
“Oh, yes, she’s standing in the back with Zirconia, green with envy!” reports Aphro. “I glared right at her, but don’t worry, I didn’t miss one turn, pivot, or sashay.”
“Trust—I’m not worried,” I say, fretting inside.
The evening wear models head out onto the runway. “You look great!” I coo to Fallon, who was so worried about spilling out of her bustier.
“Ruffles really do have ridges!” jokes Nole, patting Fallon on her chest.
I breathe deeply, getting ready for my finale.
Fifi and the other dresser, Dominique, truss me up in my finale dress even tighter. “Oh, you look like a fairy godmother!” Fifi says, her eyes watering.
“So does Fabbie Tabbie,” coos Angora.
I stand behind the curtain waiting for the music cue, holding Fabbie Tabbie’s leash tightly. “Fabbie Tabbie—it’s showtime.”
Fabbie Tabbie scratches at her ear like the veil is bothering her.
“Oh, purr favor—not now. We’re almost there!”
Fifi bends down and adjusts the veil, patting Fabbie Tabbie on her head to calm her down.
Right on cue, the remixed version of “I Will Survive,” sung by the übertalented Alyjah Jade, cranks up, signaling my grand finale with Fabbie Tabbie. Suddenly, I wonder if Alyjah Jade is in the audience. Smiling inside, I hope she is.
Fallon is back from the runway. “We have survived!” she squeals. I beam at her, pleased that my plus-size model ripped the runway without a wardrobe malfunction. “See, I told you you could do it!” I whisper to her.
“I know!” she whispers back, excited. “Wilhelmina Plus-Size Division—here I come!”
My heart pounds in my chest as the last model returns and I stand ready to rip the runway.
When I walk out, the paparazzi are flashing their cameras like crazy and the crowd is a blur. I try not to look at the judges sitting in the front row, but I can’t help noticing Tarina Tarantino’s shocking-pink wig, which is even brighter than I imagined it. She is seated with Ms. Lynx and the other judges, and I sense that she is beaming at me brightly. The audience claps loudly with each step Fabbie Tabbie and I take. When we get to the end of the runway, Fabbie Tabbie sits on her haunches like a true supermodel. I feel tears in my eyes again, but I will them not to fall—not now. I firmly stand on my kitten heels, knowing they will hold up. Just like Fifi, Angora, Aphro, Nole, and even Diamond have, I have survived through all this. I return backstage breathless. “OH, MY GOD!!!!” I shout. “We did it!!!!”
After I recover, my models and the rest of my crew march out on the runway in a long procession. The audience goes wild. They give us a standing ovation. I walk out holding Fabbie Tabbie in my arms. I search the audience, looking for my mother. She is sitting in the second row next to a handsome older man in a gray pinstripe suit. “Bravo!” she yells. “Bravo!”
I pose for the cameras as flashbulbs pop wildly, and wave to Caterina. Now my crew turns toward me and claps. “Bravo!” they scream. I am so overwhelmed, my lower lip trembles. Fifi’s father hurries to the end of the runway and shoves a big bouquet of pink roses into her arms. “Te amo. I love you,” she says to her father. Then she turns to me and we hug each other so tightly, she crushes her beautiful rose bouquet into my bustier. “I love you.”
18
Standing still. That’s what I’m having the most trouble doing right now. Against my focused will, I shift my weight on my pink kitten heels, staring down at the jewel-encrusted cat clips slaved over by my bestest Fifi for my tootsies only. It’s Monday evening, exactly seventy-two hours after our triumphant fashion shows in Lincoln Center, and I’m on the cavernous stage in the Fashion Auditorium with the four other rival house leaders in this year’s Catwalk competition: Shalimar Jackson, C. C. Samurai, Anna Rex, and Moet Major.
The five of us are lined up in a row like soldiers of style while the Teen Style Network crew pans our every twitchy expression with their handheld cameras. Gazing up at us from their cushy position in the front-row seats are the five prestigious judges of this year’s Catwalk competition, including Ms. Fabianna Lynx, the director of the Catwalk competition and Fashion International High School’s assistant vice principal.
Also permitted on the premises for this very special judgment day: the remaining members of the five Catwalk houses, quarantined to the back rows and given a gag order by Ms. Lynx’s trusted assistants, Farfalla and Sil Lai, and two hefty security guards. Although quiet as church mice, everyone in my crew is present and purring, including my younger sister, Chenille, who didn’t join the fashion fray until the not-so-chic Liza crisis but delivered like an unbeweavable pro and will be treated as such from now on.
Forcing myself to focus, I stare straight ahead beyond the glare of the bright klieg lights onstage, but I’m distracted by Aphro, who is waving her arms wildly, trying to get my attention, forcing me to supress a tiny smile.
“Good afternoon, fashionistas. Thank you for joining us,” Ms. Lynx finally addresses us.
“Good afternoon!” we the fabbie five shout back in unison.
“I’m Fabianna Lynx, the Catwalk competition director. Joining us today is our panel of prestigious judges—jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino; posing instructor Benny Ninja; Vanna Snoot, president of Snooty Models Inc.; and Fred Sitomer, senior vice president of marketing for Federated Stores.”
The judges nod at us, and we beam back with sparkly smiles. Luckily, Shalimar Jackson, who is channeling a passenger-from-the-doomed-Titanic look—because what else could explain her wearing a slinky bronze metallic gown and long strands of pretentious but real Mikimoto pearls—doesn’t embarrass us by also releas
ing one of her signature First Lady waves.
“Today we’re here to announce the winner of the Wild Card Challenge—as well as the winner of Fashion International High School’s thirty-fifth annual Catwalk competition,” Ms. Lynx says proudly, her strong vibrato generating fever-pitch excitement. “What’s at stake? The winning team for the Wild Card Challenge will receive a Go Wild gift card from Barnes and Noble with a buy-a-book-a-week value for up to one thousand dollars. This year’s winning house will receive an all-expenses-paid two-week fashion trip to Firenze—Florence, Italy—where they will open the spring Pitti Bimbo collections by staging their fashion show. The members of the winning house will also divide the one-hundred-thousand-dollar cash prize, three one-year twenty-five-thousand-dollar modeling contracts with Snooty Models, Inc., and three full scholarships to the Fashion Institute of Technology, and last but not least, a five-piece luggage set by Louis Vuitton to carry the winning collection overseas in luxurious style.”
The five judges clap, so we join in and the Teen Style Network cameras zoom in for close-ups.
“House leaders—for the Wild Card Challenge, you were asked to introduce an element of surprise into your fashion show that correlated with your show’s overall theme. I’m delighted to report that the judges were incredibly impressed with the choices made by each of you. C. C. Samurai—the absence of footwear to underlie the warrior spirit of urban wear was a brave choice. We’ve never witnessed that before in any collection. However, we felt that message was too subtle—and was therefore lost on your audience,” Ms. Lynx explains gingerly.
“You didn’t mention this at all in your fashion show program—which means that in essence, you left your buyers barefoot and without direction,” adds Fred Sitomer.
“Moet Major, the introduction of bubbly beverages to accent your theme of Celebration was appreciated, but where was the celebration in the collection, whose overall focus was urban wear?” asks Ms. Lynx.
“Can I explain?” balks Moet Major without waiting for a response. “Urban wear, street gear, is what my generation wears to celebrate. We don’t have to dress up anymore if we don’t want to.” Moet Major shifts in her burgundy Adidas sneakers from her left to right foot, then folds her arms defensively across her chest.
Ms. Lynx nods in disagreement and keeps it moving. “Anna Rex—recyling fashion is an excellent platform, and you somehow found a way to interpret that in your Wild Card Challenge, but what you were really offering was a collection with pieces that served more than one purpose. A skirt that could be turned into a head wrap: excellent idea. The top that doubles as a shoulder bag: I loved it, but it really did not reflect recycling even in the choice of fabrics, which were not recyclable.”
“I liked the offering of a prize to customers—that’s always a great merchandising strategy in retail,” adds Fred Sitomer. “But I agree with Fabianna—what you were really offering were double-duty pieces, not fashion that’s recycled.”
A flustered Anna Rex tries to explain, “That is the point—my idea of recycling is assigning more than one duty to an item in your wardrobe.”
The judges ponder Anna Rex’s response as if they’re weighing it into their decision. Meanwhile, I can feel the perspiration beads cluster in my armpits. I press my arms closer to my torso in protest.
“Shalimar Jackson—your execution of the Wild Card Challenge was closely correlated to the theme of your collection. Bravo. Very well done. And it was an unexpected surprise. Having a style guide—The Seven Secrets of Style Success—for a customer to follow, telling her exactly the trends she should incorporate into her wardrobe this season? I loved it.” Ms. Lynx beams.
“I loved the sixth secret—‘The Structured Handbag: Lock down your look with a style guarantee.’ That’s clear advice for any customer, telling her exactly what to buy—a polished handbag. And that not only will this addition to her wardrobe complete her outfit, but it will benefit her career as well. Fabulous direction,” seconds Vanna Snoot.
Mr. Sitomer seems the most amped about Shalimar’s style mandates. “What is really genius about this concept is you could give buyers at your show a clear guideline every year—a mandate about their buying options for the season. Now, that’s a well-merchandised collection.”
“Like I said, choosing the winner for the Wild Card Challenge is very difficult,” Ms. Lynx quickly adds before turning her attention to me.
Taking a deep breath, she gazes at the index cards in her hand, then looks up at me. “Pashmina Purrstein, you took the element of surprise and gave us exactly that—a truly surprising element.”
“I’ve never been to a fashion show that had a display specifically designed for charity purposes—in this case, the Heels on Wheels cart. It was adorable,” coos Vanna Snooot.
“And it was successful—I couldn’t believe how many people actually donated shoes!” belts out Benny Ninja.
“Bravo—the color was awesome!” Tarina Tarantino says, clapping softly with a fuschia feather plume pen gripped in her left hand.
“While we adored the surprise, we weren’t completely convinced that it correlated directly with the theme of your collection.”
My face flushed with hot coals, I try to explain: “Our feline fatale theme is empowering ourselves and empowering others. The feline fatale customer is fun, flirty, and fashion-conscious, but he or she is also community-conscious.”
“Yes, we get that—it was fun, I liked it,” Benny Ninja says definitively.
“Thank you, house leaders. Please give us five minutes before we make a decision,” Ms. Lynx informs us.
While the judges whisper among themselves, Boom the cameraman breaks away from the Teen Style Network pack and steps up onto the stage, zooming in for close-ups of the five house leaders that are too close for Southern comfort, if you ask me. Alas, no one was asking. Suddenly, I feel the nerves in my jaw tensing up like I’ve eaten an overly tangy tart.
“Okay, we’re ready. We’ve made our decision,” announces Ms. Lynx.
We the fabbie five stand silent as church mice. Even our crew members in the back are collectively holding their breath.
“The winner of the Wild Card Challenge is … the House of Shalimar. Congratulations,” announces Ms. Lynx.
Shalimar shrieks, clutching her pearls like a beauty-pageant winner. “Thank you!” she gushes.
Like déjà vu, I feel my knees buckle like I’m about to go under because I am a passenger on the ill-fated Titanic. I cringe inside. I should never have made that snide comment to myself about Shalimar. I jinxed myself!
Fighting back the tears, I wait for Ms. Lynx to continue.
“Now, one of you will be the leader of the winning house in Fashion International High School’s thirty-fifth annual Catwalk competition. But please remember you are all winners—the fashion shows this year were exceptional in execution, design, and overall theme. Anna Rex—your silhouettes were classic and streamlined, and incorporating double-duty designs into your collection made it extremely utilitarian.”
“I could honestly see myself wearing the black mesh duster—throwing it over everything for work, and going out afterward,” adds Vanna Snoot.
“I thought the only element missing was the element of surprise in design,” says Tarina Tarantino.
“And color—even for the New York customer there was too much black, gray, and ivory—it made the collection too heavy,” claims Benny Ninja.
“Yes, color was definitely needed—the tube knit dress, for example, could have easily been offered in a teal or burgundy option,” suggests Mr. Sitomer. “Customers don’t crave that level of simplicity. Every silhouette was so simple it could easily be used as something else. While that type of utilitarian element is commendable, it doesn’t appeal to the customer’s desire to own it—or to buy it right now.”
“And the average consumer already has a black dress, skirt, top, and leggings in her closet,” adds Vanna Snoot.
“Okay. Moet Major. Your theme was Ce
lebration—the celebration of hip-hop style,” Ms. Lynx clarifies. “But it was obvious to us the only things you were celebrating were slouchy, unflattering silhouettes for a lazy customer.”
Benny Ninja interrupts, “Even the urban customer, the street kid, wants an option for that one night they’re gonna break out to the prom or a birthday party. It’s ridiculous to think they would actually show up to a special event dressed in a hoodie and baggy pants.”
“I found the overall collection to be a celebration of one look—and you didn’t bring any design elements to that look, either. Even urban gear has bouncy style elements—where were they?” says Mr. Sitomer.
Moet Major shifts back and forth on her Adidas again, holding her arms captive across her tiny chest.
“Pashmina Purrstein—you exhibited a lot of fun in your collection, and lots of color,” commends Ms. Lynx.
“I loved the color—I could have drunk the neon pink catsuit with a straw!” squeals Tarina Tarantino.
“Oh, we know you loved it,” jokes Benny Ninja. “What I loved were the design surprises—the faux-leather skirt with the tiered ruffles paired with a satin bomber jacket. It was as cute as anything I’ve seen on the runway in Paris.”
“The flutter-pleated evening dresses nailed it—any woman, young or older, could wear that dress to a special occasion and feel, well, feminine—which is in keeping with your theme of feline fatale,” Vanna Snoot says with a nod.
“Shalimar Jackson—the collection, as we mentioned, was highly conceptualized with its themes—the military influences, chic outerwear to wrap up your career choices, capes, ponchos. Luxurious choices. A real career woman’s wardrobe. What we didn’t see was that surprise design element,” claims Ms. Lynx.
“It was all predictable—but very pretty,” agrees Tarina Tarantino. “I loved the elegant appeal, even though I wasn’t sure the clothes would be flattering on the average woman—only a specific body type, extremely slender. Same with Anna Rex’s collection.”
“C. C. Samurai, your collection was innovative. Kimono wraps over trousers is a fresh sporty option that I’ve never seen. But again, like Anna Rex, you shied away from color, providing customers with safe options,” explains Ms. Lynx.
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