Catwalk (30 page)

“Why you keep asking me that?” she retorts, defensively.

“Because I know the dealio,” I say, not backing down. Her foster mother, Mrs. Maydell, is really nice, but Mr. Maydell is gruff around the edges. Aphro senses
what I’m thinking: “Yes, he’s always on Lennix, but he leaves me alone.”

Nonetheless, I can see the tears welling in Aphro’s eyes behind the usual bluster. She shakes her head, then pats the bangs down on her bob as if she’s trying to straighten out something. We walk silently to the front of the Jones Uptown boutique, which is obviously under construction, judging by the brown paper–lined windows. “Ms. Lynx says Laretha can be a handful,” I warn Aphro, then repeat Ms. Lynx’s advice in my head like a mantra:
If you can’t handle a designer’s roar, then you’ll never survive in the fashion jungle
.

“Well, I hope she’s got some talent—to go with that noise,” Aphro says, ringing the loud buzzer of the mystery boutique. We stare at the windows, trying to get a peek inside, to no avail. “I wonder when this place is gonna open.”

“Not soon enough,” I say, sighing. “The only thing I need more than a job is a job right now.”

“I hear that,” Aphro seconds, then rings the buzzer again. We both get quiet at the sound of jingling keys being inserted into the lock on the other side of the door. Seconds later, open sesame, the glass door swings and a brown-skinned lady with a purple head wrap sticks her head out.

“Can I help you?” she asks. I shriek inside, wondering if I screwed up my appointment. When I called
earlier, I told the lady on the phone that I was referred by Ms. Lynx. She rushed me off before I could elaborate but I heard commotion in the background, so I didn’t push it. Now I can see that all the commotion is probably construction-related.

“Yes, I’m Pashmina—”

“Lord, I forgot,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “I thought you wasn’t coming.”

“Oh, you said before closing, so I came as soon as I could,” I start in, noticing she looks supa-stressed—probably about opening her store on time. I know the drill: store announcements are mailed at a bulk postage rate; trunk shows are planned; opening discount incentives are given. We covered it all in my Retail 101 class.

“That’s fine—I got so much going on in here, I don’t know what day it is,” she says, shaking her head, then opening the heavy door wider to let us in.

“I’m Laretha Jones.”

I smile back at her warmly. Aphro is too busy gaping at the iridescent violet moiré wall treatment. “Oh, this is
major
,” she squeals.

Aphro releases a few more oohs and aahs at the purple tiered shelves and racks, next to a lilac wood display case. A man on a ladder is painting an into-the-woods-type mural on the wall near the dressing rooms, but apparently it’s not to Laretha’s liking. “Those are not trees, those are twigs!” she complains. While the two
have a heated discussion about forest foliage, I examine the layout carefully, but I can’t help feeling puzzled pink. Ms. Lynx said that Laretha and I shared a shade in common. I shake my curls, trying to recount the encounter in Ms. Lynx’s office.

“Would you like to see the rest of the store?” Laretha asks me.

“Yes!” I say, enthusiastically. “This really
is
major.”

Laretha shows us the back area, which is packed with inventory covered in plastic. “This is where the sewing machines are going to be,” she explains, “and the cutting table.”

“Is this your first boutique?” I ask.

“Yes, indeed, but I worked for years on Seventh Avenue, which is how I know Ms. Fab,” Laretha explains. “She modeled for Adolpho. Back then, I was his design assistant.”

“Oh, I remember seeing one of the Adolpho ads in her office,” I say, recalling the photo of Ms. Fab in a pink and gray tweed suit holding a large Saint Bernard on a gold chain leash by her side.

“Ooh, yes, Ms. Fab was something fierce—she still is, just bigger and I’m sure feisty as ever,” Laretha chuckles.

“That’s for sure,” Aphro blurts out, but I pinch her in the side.

Laretha beams at Aphro. “So who are you?”

“Oh, my bad,” Aphro says, putting her hand over her mouth like she’s embarrassed. “I’m Pashmina’s best friend.”

“Well, that’s nice. But what is your name?”

“Oh, Aphro. Aphrodite Bright.”

“That’s a very interesting name,” Laretha says like she’s intrigued.

I’m wondering why Aphro left out the Biggie—maybe she didn’t want to appear too gangsta, even though I think her adopted moniker suits her perfectly.

“Well, take a peek at my collection. It’s sort of early spring,” Laretha says, motioning to the racks.

“Ooh, look at this!” Aphro says, lifting the plastic on one of the suits on the rack, a purple mohair duster with fringes. “You know, purple is my favorite color.”

“Mine too,” Laretha says, ending the color-wheel mystery.

“Oh, um, it is?” I ask, weakly.

“After my sojourn to Africa, I had a spiritual awakening and wanted to embrace the royal colors of the motherland,” Laretha informs us.

Laretha gazes at my pink outfit and smiles. “I used to love pink before my spiritual awakening but sometimes you have to let go of childish things. Now the only pastel I can be around is lavender. It’s so serene and peaceful.”

“Pashmina is a hard-core pinkaholic!” snorts Aphro.

Suddenly, I feel immature, wondering why Laretha
and my best friend are being so shady with me, but soon Laretha offers an explanation.

“It’s funny how something starts out as a color, but ends up an attitude,” she says.

“That’s what I always say. Pink is not just a color, it’s a cattitude!” I blurt out, without thinking.

Laretha smiles at me absentmindedly, because she is gazing at the lavender seed-bead lariat around Aphro’s neck like she’s just found herself another piece of serenity. “Now
that’s
interesting.”

“Oh, I make them,” Aphro says, humbly.

“Is that right?” Laretha asks, rhetorically. “Well, then we have to get some of your stuff up in here.”

“Really?” Aphro asks, bringing the rhetoric full circle.

“Aphro’s company is going to be called Aphro Puffs,” I offer, proudly.

“I like that. I almost started making jewelry when I was back in high school. My parents wouldn’t hear of me going to a school like y’all do, so I had to go to Bed-Stuy High School right around the corner from us—”

“Bed-Stuy High! I live four blocks from there!” exclaims Aphro.

“Get out of here. I grew up there. Been in Harlem since I got married, though. Who’s your family?” Laretha asks, staring at the dusty haze on a counter’s surface.

Aphro hesitates before she calmly announces, “Mr. and Mrs. Maydell—they’re my foster parents.”

Laretha stops swiping dust from the counter in midair. “My mother raised lots of foster kids. Ain’t that something. I wonder if they know each other,” she muses, then looks closely at Aphro. “Are they treating you right?”

“Oh, Mrs. Maydell is real cool,” Aphro says, refraining from revealing the tenseness between her and Mr. Maydell. “She works for Mos Def sometimes.”

“Really?” Laretha says, clearly impressed by Mrs. Maydell’s association with Brooklyn rap royalty. “What does she do?”

“She’s a domestic,” Aphro says, nodding. “She used to work in Eartha Kitt’s estate in Connecticut. May she rest in peace—Eartha, I mean, not my foster mother.”

Now Laretha is further impressed. I can tell by the way she nods. “Now you’re bringing me way back.” She breaks out into a grin that makes the gap between her front teeth appear wider. “When I first started designing for Adolpho, we’d take buyers out during market week to the piano bar at the Carlisle Hotel when Eartha Kitt was performing there, cuz we always knew the buyers would come back to the showroom the next day, and place bigger orders!”

“That’s the power of the purr,” I say, chuckling.

“Oh, y’all too young to know about Miss Eartha,” Laretha says, shaking her head.

“I have a poster of her as Catwoman in my bedroom. Mrs. Maydell got it for me!” I share excitedly.

“Ain’t that something. Lord, there will never be another Eartha,” Laretha says, staring at me, like she is noticing me for the first time. “Is that all your hair?”

I’m not sure which answer will grant me access to Laretha’s royal treatment, so I opt for the truth. “Today it is,” I giggle.

“Well, that is some head of hair,” Laretha says, beaming at me.

“I know. It’s unbeweavable,” I giggle.

Laretha beams at me again, then quickly announces, “I could stand here all day with you two, but I have a store to open—and I’m still sitting here under construction.”

“I hear you,” I say, nodding and looking around in amazement. I can’t wait till I have my own store one day. “You know, I major in fashion merchandising and buying.”

“Oh, so now you tell me,” Laretha says, nodding.

For good measure, I throw in another career cachet: “And my mother is assistant manager at Forgotten Diva.”

Laretha, who must be about one Reese’s Piece away from a size 18, stares at me blankly.

“The plus-size boutique—on Madison?” I say, hesitating. My mom already hipped me to the reality about women and sizes: sometimes they act like they don’t know anything about plus-sizes so it doesn’t look like they shop there.

Sure enough, Laretha says, “Oh, I don’t know that store.”

I decide to tell Laretha about my plans to open a retail chain called Purr Unlimited.

“You know, unlimited—as opposed to all the limits everybody places on women’s sizes?” I add for good measure.

Now Laretha looks at me with newfound respect. I take a deep breath, waiting and hoping she’ll offer me a job. Despite our shady difference, I would still like to work for her. Aphro takes the words right out of my mouth.

“You know you should give Miss Pashmina a job,” blurts out Aphro, swinging the ends of her lariat as if to punctuate her point.

“I know that’s right,” Laretha chuckles.

Suddenly, the crashing sound of a paint can falling off the ladder in the back interrupts our exchange.

“Now you did it!” yelps one of the construction workers.

Laretha hurries to the back of the store to survey the situation. While we wait, Aphro stares inside the
empty display case. “I wonder what kind of jewelry she’s gonna have.”

“Obviously yours,” I say with pride.

“I hope so,” Aphro says.

Seconds later, Laretha rushes to the front of the store, sweating. “We have a real crisis. The construction worker knocked over the varnish and that is definitely going to set us back a few hours.”

“Well, thank you for taking the time to see me,” I say, nervously.

“Pashmina, it was truly a pleasure. And Miss Aphro, we are definitely going to have your jewelry up in here,” she says, politely.

“Oh, trust, I will definitely be making my way uptown more often now that you’re here!” Aphro says, excitedly.

Once we’re outside, Aphro declares, “You definitely got the job. Don’t sweat it.”

“I hope you’re right, Miss Aphro
Biggie
Bright,” I say, walking her to the subway.

Aphro seems less stressed, but still preoccupied about something. Still, I decide to flip the switch to my own drama.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do if my computer isn’t working. I have to print out the hookup list,” I say, thinking out loud. For the past month, all my team members have handed in every connection they have
that could be useful for our Catwalk fashion show committee purposes. Now I have to compile them into a master list and make photocopies to hand out at our Catwalk meeting tomorrow after school. Aphro flinches but then reassures me: “Why you sweating? There’s probably nothing wrong with your computer.” Before she descends the downtown stairwell of the subway, she turns around and declares, “I know you like to put me on blast, but you know we’re tight, right?”

“I know,” I say, truthfully.

“We’ll be ruling the runways—for real,” she says, regaining her usual cocky composure.

“I know,” I say, matching her energy level. “But right now I’d be happy if I could control my computer!”