Catwalk (42 page)

My clanking the knocker full strength activates Countess Coco’s shrill bark. But she’s not the only one agitated: I hear someone scurrying to open the door, then yapping, “I’m so sick of all these newspapers! Why don’t we just open up a newspaper stand!” The choppy tone belongs to Nole, who maneuvers the door until it is slightly ajar. Sight unseen, he orders, “Come in—and don’t trip!”

I heed the command and enter. Countess Coco pops out, pawing furiously at my leggings to get my attention.

“Were you talking to me?” I ask, peering at Nole squished behind the half-opened metal door.

“Is there someone else coming in?” Nole asks.

“No,” I respond, gingerly picking up the poofy, persistent Pomeranian, who weighs a fraction of Fabbie Tabby’s “fluffy weight.”

“Then obviously I was talking to you,” he says, gently rubbing his hands together, releasing a waft of freshly applied Kiehl’s hand lotion into the overheated air.

“In that case, I’m all ears to business propositions,” I continue.

“Huh?” asks Nole, his big brown eyes bulging big-time, probably because he’s been up all night working on the samples.

“The newspaper stand—with backdated editions?
Gen-i-us
, if you ask me,” I say enthusiastically while staring at the mile-high stacks of newspapers behind him. They’re lining the entire stretch of the narrow, dark hallway inside his apartment. “Who woulda thunk underneath all that Gucci garnish was all the news fit to print on the planet?”

“Don’t wear out my nerves, Miss Purr. I was talking to my mother, who must think there are winning lottery numbers inside these freakin’ papers—
why else wouldn’t she throw them out!
” he shouts loudly, obviously unraveling.

I wince in embarrassment for his mom. I know she works in the real estate biz, so she probably has her reasons for hoarding the newspapers—despite Nole’s protests.

Nonetheless, I hop on his whiny bandwagon: “I hear you. I’m definitely over my kitty litter limit today. The ‘notorious tagger’ stood me up Friday night. I think that’s who sent me the virus. And Felinez is coming over pronto.”

“What, what? Why don’t we just hold the Geneva convention in my hallway? After all, who needs chairs when there are newspapers to sit on!” hisses Nole.

“What—so far all we have is Aphro coming, and now we’re talking about Fifi the foodie. She doesn’t sit—she noshes. Just whip out the chorizo pan,” I shoot back.

“You didn’t ask me if Aphro could come,” Nole hisses.

“I know. I’m sorry,” I say. Nole is being so hypersensitive about the designs. He doesn’t want anyone to get a whiff until they pass our high standard of approval. “She insisted. I had to relent, since we’re on real shaky ground, thanks to her cyber crime.” So what, I’m embellishing, but it’s partly true.

“I thought you said Ice Très did it,” Nole says, confused.

“I know, but at this point I don’t know what to think anymore—maybe they’re in cahoots,” I say, furrowing my brow, because I’m supa-tense. And Nole is, too.

He pats his forehead nervously. “Listen, pink panther, you’re wearing me out like Inspector Clouseau. I can’t think anymore.”

“I know, but
you
might want to double up on the Secret today. I certainly did,” I advise, then put down Countess Coco, bend my arms to flap them like a chicken, and sniff my aromatic pits for good measure.

Nole lets out one of his infectious frilly giggles—destined to land him a CFDA Fashion Award if nothing else does.

“You are sooo shady—I do
not
use Secret!” he squeals. “You know I’ve been working on these samples like the Red Devil hot sauce demon!”

“I know. I can
smell
—oops, I mean, I can
tell
,” I giggle, hugging Nole’s pudgy frame, soaking up the dampness radiating from beneath his white Gucci T-shirt.

“Speaking of secret—the only one you need to know about a busy bee is you’re gonna get stung by proximity, okay?” warns Nole.

“Huh?” I ask, puzzled pink.

“Who do you think Shalimar was shimmying with in her Jimmy Choos from dusk till dawn Friday night?” asks Nole, dramatically folding his pudgy arms across his chest.

Now it’s my turn to stammer: “What, what?”

“Miss Purr, I don’t know how you manage to maintain your 3.5 grade point average sometimes. Hello—the Ice Man cometh—and wenteth, in this case with Shalimar. And they were cozily chomping together on conch fritters at Native Friday night!”

Now I go into deep freeze. “Native—the restaurant?” I ask, mindlessly taking one of my spiral curls hostage.

“Hello—not Native the teepee!” quips Nole, insensitive to my kaflustered state.

“He double-booked?” I say, shocked.

“Exactly. Wake up and smell the catnip—and stop yanking!” orders Nole, smacking my hand like my mom used to do when I was little to get me to stop my annoying habit. “The notorious tagger from Highway 20?”
Nole mutters, shaking his head. “Puhleez, I bet he’s probably still using his first box of Crayolas!”

“How do you know about this?” I ask, standing frozen until Nole motions like a design sergeant for me to follow him into the cramped living room.

“Never mind. Just let that shady scribbler go
poof
into the night, so you can focus on the real grand prize—the Big Willie trophy—okay?”

“Awright,” I say, resigned. “How could I fall for Ice Très’s graffiti game—
twice
?” I’m so distracted navigating the newspaper piles and trying to avoid stepping on Countess that I stumble, falling face-first onto the bold headline
2,000-YEAR-OLD EARRING DISCOVERED!

Countess scurries away like the Road Runner while Nole kneels to my rescue, fretting. “That was not a sashay. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” I moan, massaging my jaw. “I just hope the Jerusalem jewels will survive.”

Nole quickly scans the newspaper headline in question. “Don’t worry about them; they’ll be on the bidding block by high noon,” he declares, rearranging the toppled stack of newspapers with the story about the precious emerald and pearl antiquities on top of the heap. Wistfully, he adds, “I hope they find one of my designs buried under Egyptian ruins two thousand years from now. That would be fitting—for Chic Canoli.”

“Speaking of Egyptian ruins and treasures, have you talked to Elgamela?” I ask, gingerly. I wanted her to come, too, since three fitting models are better than one, but Nole vetoed the idea. Like I said, he’s supa-anxious about who sees the samples before they’re feline approved—and about safeguarding against leaks in our intel.

“Stop asking me so many questions,” quips Nole.

“Well, I need answers—so who told you?” I ask, knowing that Nole follows my nosy drift.

“I’m not telling you,” he retorts. “Let’s get back on the weave track. We need that three-hundred-dollar bonus.”

“Right,” I second, glancing around his living room, which looks like a cross between an old Chinatown sweatshop and a preview to a costume exhibit at El Barrio museum.

“This is nothing. Wait till we really crank it up,” claims Nole, shrugging his shoulder at the cluttered chaos.

“Looks cranked up to me,” I tease. For starters, the expansive faux marble table jutting out of the dining room has been turned into a cutting table, covered with patterns; then there are the numerous bolts of fabrics leaning helter-skelter against the walls, scraps littering the hardwood floor like confetti from a birthday blast. Nole’s prized fashion sketches are taped everywhere on
the walls and lamp shades, and one is even dangling from the corner of a framed Etta James poster.

“I dig the poster,” I comment.

“My dad gave her that,” shares Nole, referring to his mother. “He knew Etta back in the day,” he adds, nonchalantly, but I can still tell that he’s mystified by his father. Nole’s dad is an old-school black jazz musician—not famous or anything, but he was definitely in the game.

“Do you ever see him?” I ask, because I can’t help being nosy.

“No, but he left behind his prized collection of vinyl records,” he says, pointing to the impressive rack lining the top of a console. “Got everybody from James Brown to Martha Reeves and the Vandellas.”

“Purrfecto,”
I coo in approval. “I’m anxious to get my pose on to a few old-school tracks.”

“He’ll probably come back one day to get them. I mean, they were the only thing he ever cared about,” Nole sighs, taking the two front panels of muslin off a dress form with a flourish. “If this fits you, then we’re good to go on the bustier front.”

“I hope my, um, dad does, too,” I say, stumbling over the word uncomfortably.

“Do you know him?” asks Nole, his bleary eyes widening.

I know Nole’s brains are fried by seams and dreams,
so I ignore the fact that he obviously forgot my searing saga.

“No. And it fries my frittata that Miss Viv won’t tell me who he is,” I admit, following Nole’s and Angora’s lead by calling my mother by her first name.

Nole, whose edit button is more busted than Aphro’s, doesn’t disappoint. “Maybe that’s because she doesn’t know who he is, hello?” he blurts out.

“Could be,” I say, flinching. I’m not trying to hear that. “I think he’s gonna just show up one day, like if I—I mean, we—win the competition and he sees me on TV and thinks, Ooooh, she’s so
purrlicious
, I can’t even believe she’s my daughter!”

“Yeah, the losers always come running when you’re too
furbulous
—and it’ll be too late,” predicts Nole, motioning for me to get undressed with a dramatic hand gesture.

“Why does my father have to be a loser?” I ask.

“Do you think it’s gorgeous that I have to go to the store with her chasing after me in the produce aisle like the Terminator in that chair if I don’t pick out the ripest tomato? Losers—that’s what they all are for leaving us!” declares Nole, holding his hostile ground.

Now I feel friv for blurting out my untold tiddy like a preschooler. I haven’t even told Felinez that one. Queasily, I ask, “Should I go into the bathroom to change?”

“No, Penelope and Napoleon are in there licking each other’s paws. It’s their Sunday-morning ritual,” he explains. Penelope and Napoleon are Nole’s prized Persian cats—so prized, in fact, that they had an official wedding ceremony that cost more than Kibbles ’n Bits.

“Even though Penelope already has experience portraying the blushing bride, I’m definitely angling for Fabbie Tabby to close our fashion show,” I quip.

“Not gonna happen,” snipes Nole like he’s delivering a pedigree prediction. “I take verbal contracts very seriously, so don’t think you can renege on our original agreement!”

To lure Nole into the divo design position in my house, I agreed that Penelope could close the show. “I guess I’m becoming a true fashionista,” I coo proudly. My favorite teacher, Ms. London taught us “In fashion, everything is negotiable, then renegotiable.”

But right now, Nole is not in a negotiating mood. “Today, Miss Purr!” he orders.

“Awright,” I snap, to mask the fact that I feel funny peeling off layers in the middle of his living room. Leaving my pink leggings in a puddle, I stand like a dummy in my Hello Kitty bloomers and pink mesh bra. After all, this is what I’ll be expected to do at designer fittings in my not-so-distant future.

“Well, hello, kitty,” Nole says, leveling his stare at the iconic cutie on the front of my pink cotton briefs.

Countess Coco rests on her hind legs, cocks her fluffy head to the side, and squints, seemingly staring up at my small chest.

“Don’t look, Countess—or they’ll shrink!” I say sheepishly.

“Hold still,” Nole orders me as he pins the seams of the muslin to fit my bodice. Muslin is a designer’s best friend—and any worth their weight in Gianni Versace gunmetal rely on it to sculpt the shape of the design
before
they take a “bite” out of the actual fabric the garment will be made from. See, sketching is one thing—but putting it to the muslin test is another.

“Your mother doesn’t mind you taking over the living room?” I ask. At home, I’m not allowed to work in the living room—and I have to keep my “projects,” as my mom refers to my modelpreneur enterprises, confined to my bedroom.

“She minds, but the Catwalk competition is war, so I’ve declared a hostile takeover,” snorts Nole.

Nole’s mom’s ears must be burning, because the whir of her Hoveround power chair signals her approach before she enters the war zone.

Although I know from reading one of Nole’s Catwalk blog entries that his mom desperately needs hip surgery, I’m startled when I see her squeezed uncomfortably into the iron chair responsible for most of her mobility. She’s also much bigger than I pictured her—
probably about a plus-size 24. Her piled-high frosted blond hair with wispy bangs reminds me of the retro dos favored by girl groups back in the day.

“Hi, Mrs. Canoli!” I say, my voice squeaking against my will because of my naked state.

She studies me blandly, then orders, “Don’t call me Mrs., just call me Claudia. Canoli is my maiden name.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, even more embarrassed, because I forgot that Nole had told me his mother and father weren’t married. Now I wonder what his father’s last name is. I rest my weight on one bare foot instead of both, like I’m taking up too much space or something. “I’m Pashmina.”

“I know,” she responds, her lips finally curling into a lazy smile. “I like your boots. Magenta looks good on you.”

“Wow, thank you,” I say. “That’s amazing you knew what color this is. Most people think it’s fuchsia or pink.”

“Most people are color-blind,” Ms. Canoli says. Then she asks, “You want something to eat?”

“Um—no,” I say, even though I’m hungry.

“I’m waiting till everybody gets here, okay?” Nole informs his mother, like he’s annoyed.

“Who’s everybody?” his mother asks.

“Never mind,” snaps Nole.

“Felinez—she’s our accessories designer,” I say,
because I feel bad that Nole is being so snappy with his mom. If I talked to my mother like that, she would shorten my career’s life span.

Nole shoots me a look and says, “Models should be seen and not heard!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t just rip the runway, I rule it,” I quip back. “I’m the house leader.”