Catwalk (4 page)

Chintzy, on the other hand, doesn’t have a dad—I don’t mean like my situation, because she has met her dad—but I know he doesn’t visit—and her mother is a secretary at Avon and raising four kids solo. (On Career Day, we all had to go around and share, but afterward Chintzy kept the 411 flowing like true confessions.) Nonetheless, Chintzy has me worried. Obviously, she’s not as crafty as Zorro with an X-Acto knife, but she knows how to sprinkle on that Splenda smile to land enough votes to edge me out of the top five. Suddenly, I fast-forward: I can already see Chintzy during our election campaign, her table crowded with jumbo pans of juicy chorizos—Latin sausages—and glass pitchers of Puerto Rican virgin sangria in an attempt to get everybody punchy enough to put her name into the ballot box. Maybe I should be taking notes, because Chintzy’s affable nature worked like a
brujería
spell on our fashion marketing teacher. Even after Chintzy bungled her
brochure for her business plan for ChicA Public Relations, she still snagged the same grade I got for mine—a disappointing B-plus. My ego was squashed like mushed plaintains.

“Wazzup, Miss P.P.! Work your initials, Churl. That sweater is off the hinge-y!” Willi squeals, posing like a prom queen, since he cut the line courtesy of his girl, Dulce, who is five Prada pumps ahead of me. Dulce turns to glare at me with her Spadey sense; if you see Dulce, you see her red patent-leather Kate Spade tote bag clutched to her side like a life preserver.

“Thank you, Mr. N. You are what’s up, okay?” I hurl at the sneaky Ninja.

“
Soooo
, inquiring minds need to know. Are you in?” Willi taunts me.

“In there like swimwear,” I shoot back with my best poker face, even though I don’t know whether Mr. Twirl Happy is referring to the Catwalk competition or voguing classes—both of which he thinks he has locked up. And he freakin’ does. Willi Ninja, Jr., is, after all, the adopted son of voguing legend Willi Ninja, who brought the fun underground modern dance form to our school curriculum. Suffice it to say, I’m green with Gucci Envy that his heir apparent was born with a pose at his elbows instead of a pacifier in his mouth. Mr. Willi is luckier than Miss Piggy: I mean, they both get to be the ham and eat it, too! I, on the
other hand, don’t even know my father’s name. Sometimes I think: How am I ever gonna compete with that kind of legacy?

“Pobrecito,”
Chintzy announces sadly. She’s eyeing J.B., who is wearing a white satin cape draped around his tiny shoulders as he exits with Shalimar, who has finally given in to Flex’s command to step off. Another round of snickers emanates from the crowd in approval of Shalimar’s grand finale. J.B.—James Brown—is Shalimar’s hyperactive Maltese. He’s aptly named for his fast-moving, feverish footwork, reminiscent of the late Godfather of Soul himself. Unfortunately for Shalimar, J.B.’s jaws are just as quick as his feet: last June, he chomped on Ms. London’s Fendi briefcase, prompting his ban from school. What a psycho Twinkie he is.

“Take a bow,” I mutter under my breath, secretly eyeing the dynamic duo’s exit while I pretend to be staring at the prominent square lime green sign perched on the wall directly to my right:
NO VOGUING IN HALLWAYS, PLEASE
.

Obviously, Fashion International isn’t like any other school. That’s why exchange students from all over the world vie for admittance to this fashion mecca, where there are more perks than the Mega Millions lottery: the coolest guest lecturers, a Fashion Café with an international menu that prohibits split pea soup because of its dreadful color, and a hands-on
curriculum that includes model appreciation and voguing classes. Properly behaved purse-size pets are even permitted to attend with their student owners as long as they pass the only tests they’re required to take: a charm barometer and weigh-in by Principal Confardi, who then grants a Limited Access Fashion Pass, which means the pets are allowed everywhere in school except in physical education classes or the Fashion Café. During those periods, pets must be checked into the Petsey Betsey Annex downstairs—an animal lounge with trained attendants funded by designer Betsey Johnson.

But not all pets are deemed acceptable, as witnessed by another prominently placed sign in the hallways:
NO PET SNAKES PLEASE
.
The only reptiles we want to see are on your purse!

At long last, I feel the tickly paw scratch on my neck (my crew’s secret Catwalk salutation) that I’m craving. I turn around to see Angora, who has slithered into the line behind me. Chintzy doesn’t seem to mind, because she just shoots me an apologetic look, like she’s used to making way for budding supermodels.

Like me, Angora has got her own agenda. That’s why she majors in fashion journalism: so she can become a model
and
fashion personality; in other words, a bona fide “model-blogger.” I can already picture her frame by frame on a
Rip the Runway
–style show like the
one supermodel Tidy Plume hosts on the Teen Style Network. If you don’t know who Tidy Plume is, then just hand in your All Access Fashion Pass
pronto soon
, okay. Tidy is a
major
Victoria’s Secret model, so major that it’s written into her contract that she must
always
close their annual fashion show wearing the blinged-out Fantasy Bra—diamond-encrusted, sometimes to the tune of eight hundred karats and $6.5 million.

“What’s the matter,
ma chérie
?” Angora asks, seeing the pained look on my face. Angora may be nearsighted, which is why she always has her glasses—baby blue cat’s-eyes trimmed with a delicate scattering of crystals—perched on her upturned nose, but she registers everything like a human scanner. Like right now. I gently tug at my fishnets, but she intuitively deciphers that I’m feeling kaflustered about the tall task ahead of me today—that is, getting nominated as a house leader.

“You need a tutu to do ballet, but anyone at any time can
wiggle
,” Angora snickers, yanking my fishnets up after we walk past the security checkpoint. Angora loves to talk in sound bites—obviously honing her fashion-hosting skills.

“
Meowch, mijas!
Sorry I’m late,” screeches Felinez, bouncing toward us, her wild dark hair flapping as much as her red cheerleader-style pom-pom purse. Although she is clutching the new looseleaf notebook she crafted over the weekend, husky Felinez still manages
to ensnare me in an octopussy grip. “I missed you, Pink Head,” she coos.

I giggle because we just saw each other, but that’s just the way Felinez is. “Lemme see,” I say, peering at the cover of the red vinyl–bound looseleaf on which she decoupaged a Barbie postcard framed in red crystals. “ ‘Every morning, I wake up and thank God for my unique ability to accessorize,’ ” Angora coos, reading the inscription. “That is
très
adorable.”

Obviously, the postcard speaks volumes about Felinez’s career goals. She couldn’t breathe unless she was making something—and for me, Felinez is the ultimate accessory. We met in kindergarten at P.S. 122 on Tremont Avenue in the South Bronx. Even back then we were a couple of funky fashionistas—making fun of all the wee wee wannabes, snapping on their corny outfits like I was baby Dolce and she was Goo-Goo Gabbana, when we were just budding style gurus still nibbling on Gerber’s. I had trouble pronouncing Felinez’s name back then, so I started calling her Fifi, and the nickname has stuck ever since. By the time we were nine, Felinez could already turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse with all the stuff she found in the garbage. To this day, Felinez would prefer to take a Dumpster dive in a back alley than a trip to a shiny shopping mall. I hate that we’re not in the same grade anymore because I got skipped, but I stop myself from saying it. Instead, I hold
her tight and mumble, “Nothing is gonna tear
us
apart, Miss Fifi!”

“This is what you two spent all weekend doing?” interrupts Angora, eyeing our matching shoulder bags and pleated skirts. Her blue eyes are opened so wide, they look opalescent.

“
Oui, oui
, croissant!” I say, imitating Angora. She’s from Baton Rouge, and I just love the way she lays on her Southern drawl like greasy sweet peppers in a French flambé. Angora herself is a tasty mélange of French Canadian and Choctaw Indian, with a dash of Cajun thrown in for spicy seasoning.

“Well, I figured we’re gonna need more than a few cheers to get those votes today,” Felinez says, wincing while she tries to pull her skirt down because she’s self-conscious about her adorable chubby legs. Felinez is my inspiration—
por vida
, for life. But I know why she stresses so much. It was just a few years ago that we were shopping on Thirty-fourth Street at one of those tiny boutiques—as in the sizes were too small for Felinez and she couldn’t fit into this pink thermal top with cute red cherries on it that I had also tried on. I will never forget the hurt expression on her face: it was the first time Felinez felt more like a float in the Puerto Rican Day Parade on Fifth Avenue than a yummy sundae with cherries on her top.

“Tell me you didn’t weigh yourself again this morning,” chides Angora.

Felinez pauses for a second—like she’s Chintzy and going to give us the PR version (as in publicity, not Puerto Rican, which is half of what Felinez is)—then realizes that she’s talking to her crew and lets out a fart as well as the truth.

“
Sí, sí
, I did,” she says, embarrassed.

I know my best friend’s ritual by heart: every morning after she pees, she takes the scale out of the oven in the kitchen and puts it on the floor and weighs herself naked—but not before she moves the scale around on the floor like an Ouija board until she finds that magical spot that tips the indicator to a lower number. Then she puts the scale back on the warm grate in the oven, slamming the oven door in disgust, vowing never to weigh herself again.

“Did your parents leave yet?” Angora asks. Felinez’s parents are in a band called Las Madres y los Padres, a Latin hippie group that pays homage to the love-and-peace music from the sixties. They’re always on the road, doing gigs on cruise ships and wherever else they can pocket a groovy paycheck.

“That’s why I’m late!” Felinez says, exasperated. “My mother kept me up all night, changing her mind a million times about her costume! First it was a pink
ruffled top with purple paisley bell bottoms, then she was like, ‘No,
nena
, make me a yellow top to wear with a miniskirt!’ I was like, ‘Yellow is not
lo mejor color
this year unless you’re Big Bird on tour,
esta bien
?’ Oh, she drives me
tan loca
!”

Of course, Felinez is the one appointed to make the “freebie” costumes for Las Madres y los Padres. Luckily, her father and the other male band member aren’t as outfit-obsessed as Felinez’s flamboyant mother, who calls herself Madre Cash and is
muy
demanding. Madre Cash wears the kookiest hippie-style costumes you’ve ever witnessed, and when they return from their world tours, she works Felinez like Spinderella on her overworked sewing machine.

“
I can’t believe she kept you up like that, when she knew you had to go to school,” I say, flopping my purse on the floor so I can dig for one of my gooey gloss wands.

Felinez gasps. “
Mija
, you know it’s bad luck to do that! If you wake up broke tomorrow, you’ll be sorry!” she scolds me.

“Yeah, well, I have a news flash for you, Senorita Fifi. Your
brujería
prediction must be retro, cuz I woke up broke
this
morning!”

Felinez laughs nervously. She takes
brujería
very seriously. I also know that she’s so happy to see her parents
when they come back between their gigs that she’ll do anything to keep her mother in stitches—literally.

“I know,
mija
, but that’s not what made it worse. You’d think Michelette would help. No, she’s sitting there watching the same episode of
Betty la Fea
a million times!” Michelette is Felinez’s older sister, the one who actually takes care of Felinez and her seven-year-old brother, Juanito. Michelette works in a video store and can rent all the movies she wants, but instead she’s obsessed with the Colombian soap opera. Their cousin in Bogotá tapes the new episodes of
Betty la Fea
and sends them to Michelette at least once a month. In return, Michelette tapes the episodes of the American version—
Ugly Betty
—and sends them to her.

“Should we wait for Aphro?” asks Felinez.

“Nah—I’ve got to get inside a bathroom stall
pronto soon
to fix my twisted fishnets so they can stop cutting off my circulation because they’re not long enough, which is the short story of my five-foot-ten life!” I say, unleashing a mouthful. We’re all nervous about today.

“Okay, let’s get ready to Tanqueray,” Angora says, pushing open the hot-pink door to the Fashion Lounge, then sniffing the air. “New Stick Ups.”

I smell the fresh aroma, too, even though I can’t place the scent.

“Orange blossom with a tinge of
santal
. Perfect for
moi
. God, I’ve missed this place!” Angora says, staring at our favorite sign on the freshly painted hot-pink wall, adjacent to the row of pale pink porcelain sinks with shiny gold faucets. Unlike most of the signs around our school, this warning is delivered in three languages so there can be no misunderstanding:

WEAR A SCARF, BUT DON’T BARF, PLEASE!

POR FAVOR, USA LA BUFANDA, PERO NO GRUNYAS!

S’IL VOUS PLAÎT, PORTEZ DES ECHARPES, MAIS NE VOMISSEZ PAS!

“This weekend, Daddy and I went to the
supermarché
—and finally got an odorizer for my room. Now I can smell magnolias every morning,” Angora informs us.

I love how she makes a trip to the supermarket sound like a Parisian experience. Unlike me, Angora has a dad she loves. It took a lot of wrestling, but her mother unwillingly let her only daughter come live with her dad, Beau Le Bon, in the Big Apple. He is a supa-cool cartoonist and creator of Funny Bunny—you know, the goofy rabbit that tells jokes when you press his stomach.