Catwalk (27 page)

DEBORAH GREGORY

Muchas muchas
to Random House Delacorte Press dedicated editor Stephanie Elliott and ferocious designer Kenny Holcomb. And to Benny Ninja, the father of the House of Ninja, for keeping Willi Ninja’s legend alive and the time-honored tradition of voguing. The days of voguing at the Club Shelter and the new Loft will always be a part of my youth. It was at these underground house music clubs that I learned that to strike a pose is akin to meditation—and to finding inner balance and grace in this crazy world.

And to the most legendary catwalker of all time, Pat Cleveland, who ruled the runways back in the day from New York to Milan to Rome to Paris to Tokyo…. For the fashion record, La Cleveland, who sublimely channeled Josephine Baker into her unique runway presence, will eternally stand as the ultimate example of the saying
You’d better work, supermodel!

As an officially fierce team member of the House of Pashmina, I fully accept the challenge of competing in the Catwalk competition. I will grant unlimited access to photographers and television crews at any time during the yearlong process. I will also be expected to represent my crew to the max, to obey directions from my team leader, and to honor, respect, and uphold the Catwalk Credo.

*Strap yourself in and fasten your Gucci seat belt
. By entering this world-famous fashion competition, I acknowledge that I’m in for the roller-coaster ride of my young, style-driven life. Therefore, whenever I feel like screaming my head off or jumping out of my chic caboose, I will resist the urge; instead, I will tighten the belt a notch on my fears like a true fashionista.

*Illustrate your visions, but don’t be sketchy with crew members
. My commitment to my house must always come first. Nothing must stand in the way of my Catwalk obligations—
nada, nyet, niente
, Nietzsche! And when someone or something presents itself as an obstacle, I promise to call upon my crew to summon the strength necessary to cut off the interference like a loose, dangling thread.

*Rulers are for those who rule with purrcision
. The true measure of my success will not be how I scale the terrain to fame, but my ability to align my tasks and tantrums with those of my crew. I must always remember that grandiosity could land me in the half-price bin like Goliath—who was toppled by a tiny but well-targeted rock!

*Be prepared to endure more pricks than a pincushion
. Now that I’ve made the commitment to strive toward a goal shared by many other aspiring fashionistas, I must be prepared for catiac attacks. Therefore, I will honestly share my fears and concerns with my crew so that I can be pricked back to the reality that I am
not
alone in this not-so-chic and competitive world and will not achieve fabulosity solely on my own merits.

*Become a master tailor of your schedule
. I must face the fact that my time has now become a more valuable commodity than Gianni Versace’s gunmetal mesh fabric from the seventies. Despite the complexity of my
tasks, I must always find the time to show up for my crew and attend my weekly Catwalk meetings throughout the year. Together we can make our dreams come true, one blind stitch at a time.

*Floss your teeth, not your ego
. Now that I’m part of a crew, carrying on about my accomplishments like I’m the Lone Ranger of Liberty prints is not cute; neither is grungy grooming or having food between my teeth. I will carry the tools of my trade with me at all times, including a container of dental floss and a hairbrush so that I can be prepared for prime-time purring and on-camera cues that may come at me off the cuff.

*Ruffles don’t always have ridges
. While everyone is entitled to an opinion, I will not allow myself to become hemmed in by well-meaning wannabes outside my crew. My individual style is only worthy when it becomes incorporated into the collective vision of my Catwalk crew. I will also resist the temptation to bite anyone else’s flavor to the degree that it constitutes copying, or I will be asked to pack my tape measure and head back to the style sandbox on my own.

*Pay homage and nibble on
fromage
. As a true fashionista, I must study the creative contributions of those who came before me so that I can become the maker of my own mélange. I will also publicly give the fashionistas who came before me the props they’re due whenever name-dropping is appropriate. Despite my
quest for individual development, I must acknowledge that I will always channel influences from the past, present, and future.

*Click out your cat claws to defend your cattitudinal stance
. When others turn bitter, bring on the glitter. Competition always brings out the worst in foes—and even friends—because everyone will try to gobble the biggest slice of the fashion pie and no one readily settles for crumbs without putting up a fight.

*Always be ready to strike a pose
. Even though I may not be a model, I cannot expect to strut the catwalk without getting a leg up on the competition first and saving my best riff for last. When it’s showtime, I will be prepared to do my assigned task to help bring the House of Pashmina to the finish line.

*Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it
. I will never let the competition see me sweat. While going through this creative process, I may feel doubts about my direction. Therefore, I will bounce ideas off other crew members, but never reveal sensitive information to anyone else! Not all fashion spies have been sent to Siberia—they hide among us, always ready to undo a dart or a hemline.

*Keep your eyes on the international prize
. As a fierce fashionista, I intend to get my global groove on by sampling style and culture around the world. To show my appreciation for the global access that style
grants me, I pledge to practice a foreign language for five minutes a day and double up on Saturdays, because we’re going to win the Catwalk competition and stage our fashion at a destination—to be determined—far, far away!
Ciao, au revoir, sayonara!

Don’t get it French twisted: the number one reason I
desperately
wanted to become a house leader in the Catwalk competition this year is the chance to cinch and sparkle on the fiercest catwalk in Manny Hanny (that’s New York to nonfashionistas)—the elevated platform in Bryant Park assembled twice a year to officially unveil the Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week designer collections. But I must also confess a scintillating second reason: to get my grubby paws on the Catwalk budget!

See, the elected house leaders, aka “the fabbie five”—Willi Ninja, Jr., Anna Rex, Moet Major (who became a house leader by default after Chandelier Spinelli was disqualified; more notes on that scandal later!), Shalimar Jackson, and
ahem, ahah
, the feline fatale of the fashionable litter, Pashmina Purrstein (that would be
moi
)—are in charge of our own fashion show expenses. Of course, it’s not a straight-up shopportunity, but delegating ducats to create the purrlicious vision for the House of Pashmina is definitely a clothes encounter of the third kind. The furbulous Catwalk competition will be staged next June in front of a
panel of celebrity judges and oodles of
très important
invited guests. Today, however, we’re getting the first installment of the Catwalk budget as well as the assignment for the Design Challenge, which must be turned in to the Catwalk office in a few weeks.

This explains why, at four o’clock, I’m still perched with my kitten heels in the Catwalk competition office, waiting like an anxious game show contestant for Ms. Fabianna Lynx’s trusted assistants, Farfalla and Sil Lai, to hand each of us the “envelope, please.” Okay, the truth is I’m crouched in a far-flung corner of this wild habitat—my elbow dangerously close to the gaping jaw of the four-foot-tall stuffed leopard statue whose urban territory I’m invading because my new Catwalk rival, Moet Major, is trying to upstage me, literally.

“We’ll see who prances to a payday, that’s all I’m saying!” she boasts. Hovering too close for fashion comfort, Miss Moet flings the long asymmetrical bang on her burgundy spiked boy cut while pivoting on her left and then her right Adidas. She flexes her outstretched arms until they stress the seams on her tiny black satin baseball jacket—
HOUSE OF MOET
embroidered on the back in mustard yellow letters.

We’re all on pins and needles, because we don’t know how much we’re getting for our first installment of the Catwalk budget. We also don’t know the secret assignment for the Design Challenge, which can garner
the winning team a surprise bonus as well as make or break our chance of ultimately snagging the Big Willie trophy next June. Willi Ninja, Jr., is so anxious that he pops the cork on Moet. “The Muhammad Ali of muslin? Churl, please, may I suggest you step out of the ring before you snap, crackle,
fizzle
!” snarls Willi, who is stationed diagonally across from me, next to the closed door on Ms. Lynx’s inner sanctum.

To punctuate his
punto
, Willi renders one of his signature Ninja moves: one sharp snap with his fingers, followed by a full-circle hand movement, then a finger pointed at the object of his disdain.

“
Ding, ding, ding!
Round’s over,” Shalimar announces like a gruff sportscaster. “Yes, I said it—so put that in your blog entry for all I care!”

Everybody gets hush-hush. We’re all guilty of putting Shalimar’s pretentious platitudes on blast in our Catwalk competition blog entries. “Miss Shallow—I mean Shalimar—what else should you expect for dribbling on about a thousand-dollar Golden Opulence Sundae exploding with chocolate peaks from the undiscovered mountains of Peru?” chortles Willi Ninja, Jr. “May I suggest that on your next birthday, you do us all a favor and just blow out the trick candles on the cake—and keep your wish of global domination to yourself? Ah, Choo!” Willi pretends to sneeze at Shalimar’s Shimmy Choo burgundy calf-hair pumps.

“I wish they would burn sage in this office to clean out the negative energy,” huffs Shalimar, prissily. Meanwhile, Farfalla is having a fit of her own. “
Non ancora!
Not again!” she whispers, harshly, flailing her arms in protest at the photocopier.

“It’s time to hit the Easy Button,” suggests Anna Rex, deadpan.

I shudder, because the Staples shout-out reminds me of the technical difficulties awaiting me at home. Last night, while I was updating the master hookup list for my next Catwalk meeting, my computer froze like a Popsicle.

“That’s it,
finito
!” Farfalla moans, clearly giving up on her limited mechanical skills. I pull at my corkscrew curls, secretly praying that Ms. Lynx’s dramatic assistant doesn’t make me late for my job interview at Jones Uptown boutique, which is right about now! I can’t afford
not
to get this job. First of all, I desperately need the ducats (money at home is tighter than Betsey Johnson’s waist cincher); second, Ms. Lynx herself provided the intro, so I have to represent. That’s right—out of all the students at F. I., she referred
moi
for a job at Laretha Jones’s new flagship boutique in Harlem, because, she says, “We both share a passion for the same shade—pink.”

At the moment, Willi is feeling his own shade, or I should say
shadiness:
“Come on people, bring on the
challenge
, so I can say boo to Mr.
Benjamin and his
friends
!” he groans, confident that the TBD (to be determined) bonus is merely a twirl away. In case you didn’t know, Willi is the adopted son of the late Willi Ninja, whose voguing legacy extends from the West Side Highway piers to
le podium
in Paris.

We’re all ready for the challenge. Shalimar Jackson and Anna Rex are even analyzing plays from last year’s biggest losers. “No, see, you’re wrong. Dropping the ball on the Design Challenge is definitely the reason why the House of Barbie didn’t win last year,” explains Shalimar, coolly. She is seated by Sil Lai’s desk, her legs crossed, swinging her left foot with the calculated precision of a hockey player guiding a puck with his hockey stick into a goal.

“So Miss P. P. What say you?” Willi asks, prompting me to deliver my own analysis of the House of Barbie’s demise.

“Barbara Beaucoup made a mistake with her take on last year’s Design Challenge—turning night into day. She thought it meant to go non-coloric with her collection. In my opinion, that’s what caused the judges to go total eclipse on her house’s score,” I say, authoritatively.