Catwalk (14 page)

“
Por que no
? Why not? You’re gonna show them the leaks in the ceiling! All you wanna do is embarrass Mr. Darius! Why shouldn’t I show them my cracks? Pudgy,
pobrecita gordita
Felinez! Your best friend
—por vida
!”

“Fifi Cartera, I cannot cope right now. Can you please put a baste stitch in your ego until we can mend it properly later?” I beg my best friend.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and I’m so relieved to be off kitty pity duty that I lunge for it. I fling it open only to see my favorite zebra-striped mink hat. Zeus catches the kaflustered expression on my face. “I’m still invited to be a member, right?” he asks, smiling.

“Abso-freakin’-lutely!” I say, flopping my arms around his carved muscular torso, which is hard as stone, probably from his skateboarding antics out on Monyville, Long Island. I get my blush on—again. The rest of my crew senses my seismic reaction like they’re earthquake experts, so I try to render their reading inaccurate by turning the dial to Lite FM: “How did you get up here without ringing the intercom?”

“Oh, right,” he says, wondering if he did something
wrong. “These two little girls let me in. They ran up to me in the courtyard, and asked if they could feel my hat!”

It figures. Everybody wants a piece of Zeus for conservation. “Don’t tell me: Stellina and Tiara, right?”

“Yeah. They’re really hyped,” Zeus says, nodding.

“They are our resident models-in-training,” I explain, then babble on about my plans to open the House of Pashmina fashion show with trot-ready guest tween models.

Zeus keeps nodding, then looks at me like he didn’t see me earlier. “I dig this look. It’s different from the other day?”

“Yeah, this is my Diehard-Dutch-Girl look,” I say, blushing, then patting the front of the cotton flowered kerchief tied on my head.

“By the way, how’d your interview go at Betsey Johnson?”

I freeze. So does Aphro. We look at each other like,
Where’d he get this tiddy from?

“Ice Très told me,” Zeus pipes up, sensing static. “I guess Shalimar told him?”

“What
what
in the butt?” Aphro blurts.

Zeus doubles over laughing from Aphro’s outburst.

“Um, I think what Aphro is trying to say is, we did not have an interview at Betsey Johnson. Chandelier got that job, anyway,” I say, trying to keep the situation
static free. Zeus nods, puzzled. Now the intercom rings. I answer it and hear Caterina’s voice. “I’ll be right down,” I inform her chirpily.

As I walk out the door, Angora comes to close it behind me. “I can’t believe Ice Très isn’t here yet.”

Angora purses her lips. “He’ll be here.”

“Handle her,” I whisper, this time nodding toward Felinez. Angora winks and nods. Fifi is definitely stressing. But she’s right about one thing: maybe I
am
more interested in pulling a prank than taking care of business. Suddenly, I start having second thoughts. Well, they’re here and I have to explain somehow why my building looks like the “before” shot on
Extreme Home Makeover
while Shalimar’s looks like the “after.”

My neighbor, Mrs. Paul, walks out of her apartment and joins me at the elevator bank, clutching the faux tortoiseshell handle on her vintage purse like she’s carrying a pitchfork inside. Mrs. Paul never smiles, at least not at me.

When the elevator comes, Mrs. Paul gets in first. “It’s hot in here. Or is it me?” I ask, flapping my crocheted babydoll tee against my chest for ventilation.

“Don’t get lippy with me,” Mrs. Paul mumbles.

“Right,” I say politely, fleeing from the elevator as soon as the door opens to the lobby. I can’t help it; my clunky wooden clogs clop heavily onto the faux marble floor. Stellina and Tiara bolt to the front door
and announce to the camera crew, “Pink Head taught us how to vogue! You wanna see?”

“Who’s Pink Head?” Caterina asks, amused.

“Me. It’s my nickname,” I explain. “It means a friend of felines who worships at the altar of pinkdom.”
Pink Head, Blue Boca
. Now the nicknames that Felinez and I annointed ourselves when we were hot totties seem radickio. But Caterina beams, so I stop blushing. She then instructs the camera crew to start filming the tiny fashionistas in action. “How old are you?” she asks Stellina.

Striking a pose, Stellina bats her lashes and replies, “I don’t give out
that
information.”

I shrug, and grin in approval. Some of my neighbors gather around to see what’s going on. “Lord, what they giving away?” Mrs. Watkins asks, rushing over. She works at the supermarket across the street and becomes so excited at the prospect of a freebie that she almost drops one of the three grocery bags she’s juggling.

“We’re primping for prime time,” Tiara explains matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Watkins beams with pride. “Shoot, I ain’t too old to be a model. Y’all should have me in the competition. I would tell them people at Piggly to get Wiggly cuz I’m gone!”

After a few minutes of clicks and more cackling, Caterina motions for the crew to head to the elevator.
Mrs. Watkins follows us. “Heard someone in Queens won sixty-three million yesterday,” she announces to anyone who’ll listen. Mrs. Watkins is referring to the New York Mega Millions lottery. She buys tickets every week. “How come nobody in Harlem ever win?” No one answers her. Meanwhile, Boom the cameraman pans the lens across the graffiti-lined walls. “Oh,” I say nonchalantly, “we’ve been trying to get that cleaned up forever, but our landlord, Mr. Darius, won’t do anything.”

Caterina quickly changes the subject. “Of all the supermodels, who do you like?” she asks, shoving the microphone in my face.

“The ones who personify feline fatale,” I quip.

“What about Tidy Plume?” Caterina asks, which makes me realize she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“Um, no, she’s more like couture confection.”

Caterina goes blankety.

“A Barbie doll. Too perfect,” I explain, sounding calm, but I’m sweating profusely and worried my underarms may start venting despite the extra applications of Arrid Extra Dry that I glommed on for this uncertain occasion.

“Um, I think that Tyra Banks or Moona—” I start in, but I can tell Caterina’s gone blankety again.

“She’s the model from Somalia, the SNAPS cosmetics spokesperson? I think she has feline fatale appeal,” I continue, realizing that my teacher Ms. London is right. Black models don’t get the hype that white models do, or Caterina would be up on Moona, too.

The silence is thick in the elevator, but I’m grateful for the small things at the moment. “Thank gooseness it’s working, because yesterday it wasn’t,” I say, smiling apologetically. When the elevator door opens onto my floor, I shut my mouth like a Venus flytrap at the sight of Chenille. True to her stoic nature, she ignores the camera crew and glumly announces, “I’m going down to Reesy’s.”

I nod approvingly like a good older sister and quickly usher the film crew inside: Chenille can make her coins, but she is
not
stealing my camera cues.

Once inside, I secretly hope that Ice Très has beamed himself up to my apartment like Scotty in
Star Trek
while I was gone. One look at Angora, however, tells me that’s not the case, so I go into my Catwalk house leader mode, initiating introductions all around. Then I hesitantly inform everyone. “We’re having a few, um, technical difficulties but hopefully Mr. Darius, the landlord, will keep his appointment to remedy the bathroom situation soon,” I say emphatically into the camera.

Suddenly, I feel embarrassed, but Zeus switches on his brilliant smile. “The fashion show must go on,” he declares, snapping his fingers.

“I heard that,” Aphro seconds as we all head over to the dining room table to get down to Catwalk business.

Zeus takes a black portfolio emblazoned with a zebra lightning bolt decal from his backpack.

“Fabbie Tabby, time to start the meeting!” I yell.

On cue, Fabbie hops onto the table and plops down. Boom and Caterina let out approving yelps, and two cameras zoom in for a close up on Fabbie’s whiskers.

“I love the color contrast—turquoise and lime green,” I comment on Zeus’s skateboard graphics. “No animals in the mix?”

“We’ll be getting to that,” Zeus says confidently.

After we finish goospitating over Zeus’s portfolio, I pass around Xeroxes. “I need your input to create the Catwalk Credo, which will serve as guidelines. Here’s what I’ve scribbled so far.”

I watch Zeus’s face as he reads my outline: “I dig that: ‘As an officially fierce member of the House of Pashmina, I solemnly swear to abide by the directions of my team leader, to represent my crew to the max, and to honor, respect, and uphold the Catwalk Credo.’ ”

“We also have to make up a list of all the positions we need to fill for our house,” I continue.

“Photographer,” Zeus says. “I mean, we should be documenting our whole Catwalk process along the way.”

“Brillante,”
coos Felinez.

“I know somebody lethal—he’s in my visual display class,” Zeus lets on.

“Explain?” Angora asks.

“Lupo,” says Zeus, shoving a handful of pink popcorn into his mouth. “Lupo Saltimbocca. He’s hyped about becoming the next Francesco Scavullo. He’s outta sight.”

“Got it,” I say, recognizing the name of the famous fashion photographer from the seventies. Scavullo was a star in the
Vogue
magazine stable back in the day. “Okay, so we’re gonna set up in Studio C for Tuesday from four to six for interviews. Please let Mr. ‘Salt in the boca’ know so he can be there or be square.”

“
Saltimbocca
—it means ‘jump in the mouth,’ an expression to use when something is supa-tasty.” Zeus chuckles.

“I heard that. Just what we need,” adds Aphro.

“That reminds me,” I say. “Not everyone is down with our cause. So I think the flyer should put it right out there: ‘Only cat lovers need apply.’ ”

“Let’s take a vote,” Angora seconds.

“I’ve also written down the definition of feline fatale style—‘adorable and playful but fiercely clever, and
pays homage to our catty companions regardless of sex.’ I mean gender,” I say, blushing.

“Brillante!”
Zeus says, imitating Felinez. “I’ll put a pink cat illustration on the left of the flyer.”

“That’s outta sight!” I say, imitating Zeus.

“Awright—let’s talk about models!” Aphro yells out.

“We’re gonna need to sign up seventeen more models,” I say. “So far we’ve got three. And figure ten kids as guest models to open the show.”

“One lead designer, one assistant designer,” adds Felinez, then explains to Zeus, “I’m the accessories designer, and Aphro’s the jewelry designer.”

“What about Nole Canoli?” Zeus suggests.

“Nole is down with Chandelier Spinelli,” I say pleasantly, since Ms. Lynx has warned us to “behave instead of beehive”—even though I’d like to sting Chandelier.

“Maybe Ice Très—for the second designer?” adds Zeus, swinging his second fashion strike.

Angora’s blue peepers rise above the rim of her cat’s-eye glasses, and I feel the gnawing disappointment from Ice Très’s dis full force. Not that I’m about to drop that tiddy right about now.

In the meantime, Caterina has her own recipe for “reality” television. “How did Chandelier enlist the most talented designer at FI for
her
house?”

Note to fashion self: Caterina’s khakis may not be
“crisp,” but her behind-the-scenes snooping is bona fried.

“Chandelier is a Gucci hoochie. Some people are impressed by that,” Aphro says, venting.

“I, um, don’t think Nole Canoli is the only digable designer in school,” I offer feebly.

Everyone looks at me like they’re waiting for me to drop the winning Lotto numbers.

“Um, I think Diamond Tyler is purrworthy, too,” I add.

“Oh, she’s the one stressed about her cat, right?” Zeus asks with concern.

“Who don’t you like?” Caterina interjects.

“
Miss
Jackson. She’s such a Fendi fiend,” Aphro blurts out.

“What Aphrodite is trying to say is …,” I begin, pausing to formulate my thoughts.

“She can runway, but she can’t hide!” Aphro says with a sneer.

Boom chuckles, lightening the situation.

“We have our own definition of what ‘fashion-forward’ is.” Now I decide to look directly into the camera. “Not everyone is down with that. There are competitors who would rather stick with the tried, even if it’s
not
true. We believe when it comes to fashion trends, sometimes you just have to drop it like it’s hot. Now drop that
—boom!
”

Suddenly, there’s a loud rapping sound on the door. Everybody shrieks with laughter at the timing of the interruption. I shoot Angora a look, however, like
It better be Ice Très
. Much to my chagrin, however, the first face I see when I open the door is the sullen one of Mr. Darius. Amazingly, he is with a repairman, who is carrying a toolbox and a plunger.

I usher them in like they’re dethroned royalty. “Kats and Kitties,
this
is Mr. Darius, my landlord.”

Mr. Darius steps inside, and once he sees the cameras, his eyes start rolling like pool balls.

“Don’t mind the film crew,” I say sweetly, regaining my nerve for Operation: Kitty Litter. “They’ve been filming the building, too! Isn’t that exciting?”

Mr. Darius starts mumbling to the repairman, and they hurry to the bathroom. I follow them so that Boom, Jay, and Caterina will follow me.

“The toilet’s broke and the hot water hasn’t been working,” I lament.

Mr. Darius mumbles to me, “Please go.”

I trot back to the living room and wait for Mr. Darius to come back with a prognosis, but he proceeds to leave in a hurry, without saying a word.

“Mr. Darius, is the toilet fixed? Oh, did you see the crack in the ceiling?” I ask pleadingly.

“No, no. My wife wait in car. She get angry, I keep her waiting,” he says, eager to get away from me.

“Well, maybe she could come up,” I suggest. “Have some pink poporn?”

Mr. Darius’s kernel of patience with my on-camera charade finally pops, causing him to let out a minor explosion in the hallway.