Catwalk (38 page)

Liza missed a week of school, but today I got wind of her return and decided to corner her after last period, since both our science classes are in the same corridor. I sneak out of chemistry class early and crouch by the door of the biology lab, waiting to see her guilty face. As soon as the house music pipes up over the loudspeaker, signaling the end of the period, I nervously pull my fuchsia felt cloche over my eyes, preparing for my attack. The door flings open and students pour out, a few giggling at my frenzied, furtive-looking state. Liza darts her eyes in my direction like I’m a test-tube baby that got away—in other words, something she shouldn’t see.

“Hold up,” I order as she tries to flee from me.

“Hi, Pashmina. I was going to call you,” she offers weakly, surrendering like a shoplifter caught red-handed.

“Well, you could have e-mailed me from cyberspace,” I blurt out against my will, “since I got your
last
e-mail, which luckily I did not circulate to anyone else.”

Liza registers shock. “What?”

Ignoring her reaction, I barrel through my spiel: “I didn’t know you live by Mr. Willi.”

“Yeah, I do. Well, no, I don’t exactly,” she says, nervously.

“So you live by him, or you don’t? Make up your mind.” I grill her, hoping if I stay on the possible prankster, she’ll fold like it’s laundry day.

“We both live in Rego Park, but it’s a big area. It’s not like he lives near my house. That’s what I meant,” Liza clarifies, but she’s on the verge of confessing. I can feel it.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“That you never see him?”

“No, Pashmina. I never see him.”

“Then why didn’t you come to the meeting?” I ask, bluntly.

Liza stalls for so long that I can see her formulating a fiberoni. “I couldn’t make it.”

“Why—too busy plotting in the palace to dethrone me?” I yelp.

Finally, Felinez arrives at the scene. She stands next to me with her arms folded defensively.

“I couldn’t make it because I had to go to my job—at Vidal Sassoon!” Liza confesses.

“You didn’t tell me about any job,” I bluster.

“Yes, I did. I knew there was going to be a conflict
with my schedule—and there is—but I’m trying to work it out.” Now Liza is close to tears. “I’m sorry. Dame already put me on blast, okay? I’m sorry. I can’t do everything!”

“I’m watching you,” I threaten, squinting my almond-shaped eyes into menacing slits to make my point.

Liza looks terrified and scurries away. I grab on to Felinez and we head outside. “I think she’s twirling me like a sponge roller.”

“She did tell us about the internship at Vidal Sassoon,” recalls Felinez.

“She did?” I balk, frustrated.

“Yeah, she did,” says Felinez, holding my arm to steady me.

“Now let’s see what Aphro has to say,” I sigh, amping myself up. We’re meeting everyone outside to head on our fabric foray. “This is more exhausting than Watergate. And by the wigglies rotating in my stomach, I can tell the plot is about to thicken.”

Aphro greets us with the deadpan expression she’s adopted as of late. I decide to play a clueless catalyst like Helen of Troy so I can figure out if she is indeed behind the Trojan trickery. “Oh, I didn’t thank you. I got the e-mail you sent me with the Fashion Week designer contacts.”

Aphro looks at me blankly.

“Remember?”

“No, cuz I didn’t send it,” declares Aphro.

“But the e-mail said it was from you,” I say, nonchalantly.

“Yeah, and the tooth fairy is real,” retorts Aphro, tapping her foot impatiently. “I gotta go.” Aphro decided to opt out of our Mood Fabrics rendezvous, because she wants to go to Twenty-eighth Street to buy jewelry supplies instead. Since I don’t have any proof, I refrain from putting her on blast and simply hold out a twenty-dollar bill so she can snap up bangles, which will be engraved with quotes and slogans to implement our Design Challenge.

“Don’t forget to bring me back all the receipts,” I remind her, much to her chagrin.

“I’m not Shamu at SeaWorld, so you don’t have to train me,” Aphro snaps, jumping at the Jackson in my hand.

I want to snap and snatch the crispy bill right back but Felinez pokes me in the side for me to chill.

Before Aphro evaporates, Diamond manages to innocently ask her, “You’re gonna embellish some of the letters with crystals, too, right?”

“You got crystal money?” retorts Aphro, letting out one of her obtrusive snorts.

Funny how I used to think Aphro’s signature snort was
très
adorable, and now I just want to stick her head
in a trough to relieve her sassy sinus condition. Felinez pokes me again for good measure. Chirpily, I pipe up, “With the next Catwalk installment we will be able to dig in for, um, the extras.” Felinez is right: I have to squash the beef jerky with Aphro, at least publicly, or else I’ll look like a hater, because everybody knows that Aphro needs a job, too—even if I suspect it’s to fund her cruel campaign to outrank me.

Luckily, at least someone seems ready to stroke Aphro’s ego: “Congratulations on your job—again, Miss Aphro,” squeals Chintzy, rushing up to join us.

Aphro beams proudly while twirling the peacock tails on the emerald beaded lariat wrapped around her neck. “You’re always so bootylicious,” she coos, approving of Chintzy’s tall lace-up butterscotch leather boots with clunky high heels. Chintzy always wears boots but at least these are an improvement over the white go-go ones she wore all fall.

Nole stares at her boots, too, no doubt trying to decipher the designer. “Those are Michael Kors?”

Chintzy nods, running her hand quickly over her slicked-back hair, which is perched in a thick ponytail as always. “The mane is flawless, as usual,” observes Nole. “Is it yours?”

Chintzy blushes, then nods again.

Aphro looks at Chintzy’s sixties-style do approvingly but is more interested in deciphering my dates.
“So, you going out with Ice Très later, I hear.” I feel a tinge of paranoia coming on as I ponder her position: how is she gathering her intel? I haven’t told her about the date, because it’s not like she and I have been kanoodling over frothy cappuccino and convo lately.

“Yes, I am, tonight,” I say, proudly. This way, I put Aphro on notice:
I may dig Dr. Zeus, but I definitely have options, okay?
For emphasis, I add, “Can you believe Chris—pardon me, I should call him by his preferred nickname—
Panda
asked me out, too? To go to some cyber shuttle in outer space, or something.”

“No, you did not say
Panda
?” Nole Canoli asks in disbelief, stroking Countess Coco’s wild fiery hair like a lion tamer.

“Who is he?” Diamond asks curiously.

“A lifesaver, that’s who,” Angora interjects, then informs everyone of our brave trip across the continental divide.

“His friends need to watch a few more episodes of
Meerkat Manor
—cuz he looks more like a raccoon than a panda if you ask me. The circles under his eyes are deep,” I cut in, circling my own with a half-moon gesture. “But that’s just the teaser of his circus act. His last name is Midgett and it suits him to a centimeter!”

“Miss Purr—that was shady even for you!” howls Nole.

“I’ll tell you what’s shady—someone sending me a
computer virus. I don’t care about losing my schoolwork, but my Catwalk competition files?” I say, pulling the reins on my pink paranoia. “If I find out who cyber-jacked me, I’m gonna be so shady astronomers will be reporting on the eighth total eclipse this year instead of the usual seven for
eons
to come!”

“I’m out,” blurts out Aphro, bidding us all good-bye.

Nole looks at me, seeming puzzled. “What’s up with her, now that she has a job?”

“It’s not
that
job I’m worried about,” I say, suspiciously, as I watch Aphro sashay down the block, all legs and attitude. “It’s her new sideline that has me worried.”

“What sideline, or do you mean side dish?” giggles Nole.

“Sideline—as in
espionage
, that’s what,” I say, exhaling. There, I said it—out loud.

Nole purses his lips. So does Countess Coco.

“Come on, Nole. Figure it out. Why would anyone send me a virus—that I was supposed to circulate to all the members of my crew? To shut me down, okay? And who better than someone inside my house?”

“Are you suggesting one of us?” Nole asks, looking offended. He glances over at Ruthie Dragon, who is barely containing her disdain.

“No, not you!” I say, exasperated. “I’m thinking Liza or Aphro, or maybe it’s Dame. That’s it—he’s just
setting up his assistant hairstylist to take the fall—and I don’t mean the synthetic ones!”

“Right,” Nole replies, nodding and looking at me like the pink paranoia has finally gotten the best of me. He strokes Countess Coco’s head gently, then glances at his shady assistant, Ruthie,
again
.

I glare at Ruthie Dragon, daring her to defy the chain of command. The time has come for a counterattack. “Chintzy, I want you to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. And I do mean anything. And keep an eye on Aphro
and
Liza
and
Dame for me. You got that?”

“I got it,” Chintzy says, confidently, which already makes me feel at ease.

“Look, I know you have to go take care of your father,” I say, realizing that I’m hogging my assistant’s personal time. She already told me that she has to bail to handle her situation at home.

“Yes, I have to go now,” Chintzy says, apologetically. “I can go with you, though, if you need me to.”

“No, handle your business.”

“I didn’t know you knew your father,” blurts out Nole, being insensitive, since the topic of fathers is a touchy one for me too. I may not know my father, but Nole does—and not only is he MIA; he’s clearly missed.

“He left when I was little. But he just got back from
working for the Save the Children Federation in Malaysia and was feeling run-down, so he is staying with us, but since my mother is working all the time at the hospital, I take care of him,” Chintzy says, sadly.

“Wow, there’s a lot of viruses going around lately,” Felinez says.

“Well, go ahead, then. We’ll walk you to the subway,” I offer, to counter Felinez’s unnecessary sarcasm.

Chintzy hesitates, then smiles. We all walk to the Seventh Avenue subway entrance together and Chintzy heads toward the stairs for the downtown trains.

“I thought you lived by Gunhill Road,” says Felinez. Both Felinez and Chintzy live uptown in the Boogie Down.

“Thank you, I wasn’t thinking!” Chintzy says, but when she looks up, I see that there are tears in her eyes.

Suddenly, I realize she must be more upset about her father’s situation than she’s letting on. “I hope your father gets better,” I say, honestly. “Don’t worry—I’ll show you the swatches Monday at lunchtime.”

“I’m just so worried about him. I’m sorry,” she reveals, then smiles sadly.

“I know, I’m sorry!” Felinez gripes, watching Chintzy cross the street.

“A computer virus is not funny. And if your father got sick, you would give birth to five purses,” I scold her.

“Well, at least her father is back. Mine might as
well be in Malaysia, since he travels all the time and I never see him!” says Felinez.

She is right: her parents are on the road most weekends out of the year, performing on cruise ships and at festivals.

Angora slides her arm into mine—her way of telling me to squash it. We keep our caravan moving, and as usual, the sidewalks are Subway-sandwich thick with bustling action. Everybody is trying to get ahead in the Big Apple—in more ways than one. A group of gruff-looking shorties shoving a rack packed with plastic-covered garments almost runs us over like Mad Max. “Move it, cupcakes!” one of them bellows out.

“Awright,” Angora says, blinking and swiftly moving her blue suede bootees out of the path of a wheel threatening to run over her foot, and bumping into mine.

Meanwhile, Nole Canoli spots an oncoming obvious fashion offense. “Oh, no. Herve would not approve,” he mutters.

We all turn to witness a woman with wild matted hair strolling down the street wearing nothing more than a black garbage bag. It’s wrapped around her body like a bandeau dress and tied with a string around her waist. She even has bags tied around her feet. No one in the fast-moving crowd even stops to look at her—but us.

“That wouldn’t be part of a Design Challenge, would it?” Felinez asks feebly, reminding us that two years ago, recycling materials was the mandate for the Design Challenge in the Catwalk competition.

“I don’t think so,
chérie
,” comments Angora, sadly, shaking her head. “My mother would make me move back home—tomorrow—if she saw this,” she confesses, clearly relieved that Ms. Ava is back home in Baton Rouge, where she belongs. “I wish we could give her some clothes.”

“But we gave clothes to the Christmas drive,” Nole points out. Last week, all the students at F.I. brought in clothes and stuff that will be donated to the shelters. Of course, a lot of the design majors donated stuff they’d made themselves—real works of art, if you ask me.

“I know,” says Angora.

“Your mother has never been here to visit you?” blurts out Felinez.

“She would lie down in a bed of begonias naked in her backyard before she came to this ‘bug-ridden manifesto in need of a makeover,’ as she calls New York,” offers Angora. “Just because you have a parent who is around doesn’t mean they care about you.”

“Well, she does care about you,” I counter. “She lets you live here with your father because you want to.”

“And if my father was not doing so well, she
wouldn’t stand for it. I would be forced to attend Tulane ‘Tulip’ High School,” Angora says, ungratefully.

“Is it really called Tulip High?” asks Diamond.

“No, but all the girls wear flower corsages to gym class, so it might as well be,” Angora explains, sounding exasperated.

As we approach the corner of Fortieth Street to head to Mood Fabrics in the middle of the block, I can’t believe we spot my snobby rival, Shalimar Jackson, standing near the curb with her outstretched arm, waving desperately for a cab.