Catwalk (68 page)

A week later at our runway training session, Aphro finally spills the refried beans about locking lips with Lupo. “Okay, so we kissed once,” Aphro confesses.

“I knew you were feeling the Firenze flavor!” I squeal. “How was it, bella bronzina?”

“His nose kept getting in the way.”

“Ooh, you’re bad.
Très mal
,” Angora protests.

“I said I like him, but I can’t be seen in public with him. Okay?” balks Aphro.

I look at her, surprised. “Lupo is goospitating over you. And what are you giving in return?”

“The truth, that’s what. Oh, I’m supposed to pretend I don’t notice Lupo’s shorter than me?” Aphro challenges, leveling her Bed-Stuy stare at
moi
. “You wouldn’t be fawning over Zeus if he wasn’t ‘a tall Tasti D-Lite.’ ” Aphro renders her best kitten imitation of
moi
.

I throw my Catwalk notebook down on the chair next to me. “You’re the one who told me to ‘stop acting like the Princess of Pink in my Chicken Little Castle and get with Zeus already.’ And that’s a direct quote!” I
retort, twirling my finger Aphro style. “Now you’re insinuating that I’m sticking to him like a pesty puffer?”

“You’re always on the dribble-drabble about your agenda. After the competition is over, you should get a talk show on the Teen Style Network and tell the world!”

“The world is not enough,” I giggle.

Angora scavenges for her own reality scraps. “Fifi says you kissed him in the basement when the three of you were decorating the Heels on Wheels cart.”

“That was
before
the Teen Stylers got there!” I admit, blushing. “I relish—um—the hot dogs we ate. Awright, I could kiss him till the break of dawn.”

“You might get to do that, Sleeping Beauty, if we don’t find some shoes for our fashion show!” warns Aphro.

“
Oh
. It’s not enough that I brainstormed a Wild Card Challenge guaranteed to earn us purr points?
And
have been working around the clock on its feline fatale execution?”

“Don’t take all the credit. Zeus and Fifi helped hook it up.
And
Lupo is the real inspiration behind it!” counters Aphro. Now she stands up for her
huomo
.

“If I hadn’t gone out with Zeus to the pig trough, I wouldn’t known Mr. Saltimbocca had a shoe factory that donated shoes for every pair they sell! You never told me!” I balk.

Aphro levies a lame retort. “You never asked.”

“Look, you don’t have to huff and puff like the magic dragon,” I insist.

Ruthie Dragon, my fire-breathing assistant, throws me a look like
Hold on to your hot sauce there
.

“Sorry, Ruthie,” I apologize politely, then turn my attention back to my blustery BFF. “I handed in the one-pager for our Wild Card Challenge to the Catwalk office today.”

“What’d Ms. Lynx say?” Aphro asks, wide-eyed.

“Well, she was standing by Sil Lai’s desk, so I put it in the in-box—I mean, she didn’t say anything, but I saw her glance at it and she looked pleased.”

“Oh,” says Aphro, disappointed.

“Look, I’m on kitten-heel patrol twenty-four seven searching for signs of available soles. Okay? Fifi is even asking the publicity director at Ruff Loner.”

Aphro sucks her teeth. “Ruff Loner wouldn’t loan out a bedtime story to a foster child. Felinez couldn’t get a day off during spring break!”

This is true. Fifi snagged an intern gig at the Ruff Loner showroom, and her boss is
ruff
around the edges.

“We’re also sending out letters this week to all the showrooms,” I add authoratatively.

“You might as well send out good vibrations to the Travelocity roaming gnome!” Aphro snarls at our efforts.

Fifi flinches at Aphro’s sole attack.

“Awright, I’m gonna shut up.” Aphro backs off in fear of Fifi’s fragile state over her parents’ separation. At least for a
segundo
. “But that does not mean I’m gonna stop worrying until I see some lizard slingback sandals to go with the chiffon multi-tiered ruffled skirt and bomber jacket, for starters.”

“Lizard. Really?” I glaze blankly at Aphro like
Keep hope alive!
That is, until I’m hit by good vibrations of the design nature. “OMG—I just got a fashion zap. Fifi, the faux leather we got for the tote bags? We can use it to make a tiered ruffled miniskirt to set off Aphro’s bomber jacket!”

“No way, José!” Fifi says, stomping her foot. “We’re behind in our production schedule already!”

“I know, Fifi—I’m sorry,” I spurt. Now I back off. What was I thinking? But I can’t help it when it comes to my fashion zap attacks.

Neither can Fifi. Her bushy eyebrows rise to high noon. I know what that look means: Fifi loves a texture tease. “I really like that combination,” she admits.

Even Angora goes into fashion reportage mode: “I can see the two different textures glistening under the bright lights. And the colors—yum, yum—black faux leather in contrast with the gunmetal gray satin, sublimely set off by the hot pink tank underneath.”

“Yes, yes, can’t you just taste it—I mean, see it?” I goof, trying to whet my crew’s appetite.

Aphro digs it, too. Even though she acts nonchalant. “Chiffon. Or faux leather. They’ll both set off the lariats wrapped three times around the neck.” Aphro primps like a peacock because she has already finished her allotted task: making the jewelry for our show.

Fifi senses it, too. “You should stop showing off like a factory worker who finished first on the assembly line!”

“Well, I did finish,” Aphro boasts, twirling the purple lariat wrapped around her neck.

Now my stickler assistant wants a bauble breakdown. “So what do we have?” Ruthie Dragon asks. Officiously, she takes out her notebook to record the jewelry sequences even though we’re filling out the “run of show” sheets next week.

“Well, we’ve got the long multicolored seed-bead lariats for the Chic Meets Street segment, dangling crystals for the Belle of the Fur Ball evening wear segment, and the inscribed bangles for the graffiti Urban Gear segment, which opens the show after the junior guest models take their twirl on the runway,” Aphro reports.

“That’s all?
Está todo?
” attacks Fifi.

At that moment, Zeus and Lupo enter the fashion fray. Lupo’s camera is already hanging around his neck as if he’s ready for action. I wink my left eye twice at Aphro and Fifi—our Catwalk code to zip it. Lupo smiles wildly, like he’s glad to be in the mix so he can click
away
pronto
—and squeeze in a cuddle or two from his
bella bronzina
, his unofficial nickname for Aphro.

“Hi, Dr. Zeus,” Angora says warmly. “We were just talking about your hatness. When are we going to see our Heels on Wheels charity creation? I can’t wait!”

I refrain from reminding Angora that the mold and other mildew mayhem in the dank dungeon could aggravate her asthma.

Oblivious to Angora’s sensitive nose, Zeus answers, “Come over anytime. Wait till you see the graphics and Felinez’s illustrations. I mean, we hooked it up. Seriously.”

“Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if that spooky basement was reserved for smooching?” quips Aphro.

I jab Aphro in the ribs, but I should have saved it for Nole Canoli. He saunters in out of breath and chirps like a parrot. “When am I gonna see this Heels on Wheels cart? I have to approve it, too!”

Following Zeus’s lead, I crack: “You can come over anytime to my Tomb Raider basement. We’re open twenty-four seven, like any respectable sweatshop.”

Zeus beams at me, curling up the corners of his lips like a court jester.

“Awright, let’s get down to business.” I whip out my
Teen Elle
magazine so I can babble about Babette Epaulette, a designer on Long Island making audacious shoulder ornaments.

Aphro gazes curiously at the fringes, chains, and feathers that can be harnessed onto the shoulders of jackets. “Now, that’s what I’m squawking about,” she says approvingly.

“Good—because I’m putting them on the bomber jackets! Chic Meets Street. Seriously.”

My trio of BFFs gaze curiously in my direction like they’re watching a drunk sailor about to flotsam and jetsam a ship’s entire cargo overboard by accident.

Nole decides to haze instead of gaze. “Whoa, Miss Purr—enough with the last-minute design choices. I need a minute to digest this—cat appliqués on the back of the jackets, fringes on the shoulders? The only thing you’ll need is two canaries perched on the front pockets!”

I can’t resist returning an uppercut. “Look who’s still sore about his perils with Penelope.”

“I don’t know, I kinda like it. I don’t think it’s too
mucho
,” Fifi interrupts, raising her eyebrows again in approval.

While I smile victoriously, the seven remaining models and five kiddie guest models pile into the expansive conference room for our first runway training session. Stellina is bouncing off the walls. “I don’t know why you want me to come. I am
trained
!” Tiara doesn’t even smile. I fret, doubting my decision. Can Aphro really turn Tiara into sashay material?

“I like your outfit,” E.T. says appreciatively.

“Thank you,” I say. “Wait till you see your outfit at the fitting next week. You’re gonna love it.”

E.T. grins like he is genuinely grateful for another golden opportunity to get away from his grandmother Mrs. Paul’s clutches.

I clear my throat to deliver my motivational model mantra. “Awright, everyone, it’s back to the business of the show,” I order. “The time is almost near—for our highly anticipated function at Petticoat Junction.”

“Well, I’m not wearing any petticoats. Let’s clear up that confusion right now!” Fallon mouths off. Lupo lets out a nervous round of laughter. He points his camera and clicks photos of Fallon in her sassy posturing mode. She’s wearing a red leather jacket and leopard leggings covered by a short black Lycra skirt. At a size eighteen, Fallon is representing the higher end of my every-size philosophy, which is essential to my fashion vision. That’s why I ignore the fact that Fallon gives us grief at fittings.

As usual, Angora is the first to reassure. She gently caresses Fallon’s plump arm. “No petticoats
pour vous.
”

I continue to sashay through my speech. “I know all of you—except for our junior models, of course—are quite familiar with walking the runway. And if you’re like
moi
, you’ve probably dreamed about it since you were in designer diapers.”

“
Mija
, what are you talking about—we were six!” Fifi blurts out, giggling.

“Oh, right,” I say, shaking my head. “Um, like I said, during the sandbox reign. Anyway, we’ve called this session today to show all of you how to represent on the runway for the House of Pashmina.”

Everyone claps. “Yeah!” squeals Stellina, flapping her arms like a chicken. Actually, she looks like a buttercup about to be plucked in her yellow cotton turtleneck and olive-green leggings.

“The feline fatale concept behind the House of Pashmina collection must be conveyed every time you step out on that runway. The junior models will open the show, and the rest of the models each have three assigned outfit changes,” I explain carefully. “Aphro, as you know, is one of the models, but she’s also our runway choreographer, so today she will show us how to work the runway to represent our theme.”

Aphro comes up and stands next to me to walk the run of the room. We pushed aside the conference table so that we have plenty of room to conduct our runway training.

“I want everyone to memorize the tenets of our feline fatale concept: fun, flirty, fierce—the latter is imposed to convey our catlike prowess. What this means in terms of practical application is—there will be no trotting like horses on the runway!” I emphasize.

I do a quick exaggerated demonstration of the gait that I despise, up and down the length of the conference room. “I don’t care how hot this style of walking is on the runways in Paris right now. You can save that galloping gait for Gaultier, okay? That is, if you’re lucky enough to get booked in his show—and from what I can see, every male and female model I’ve handpicked in this room would be Gaultier-approved.”

“What’s Gaultier?” asks Juanito, confused.

“He’s a con artist!” shouts Stellina.

“Okay, Miss Buttercup?” I scold Stellina. “Jean Paul Gaultier is a revered French designer. He even designed costumes for Madonna’s worldwide tours and Britney Spears—and he designed the costumes for the movie
The Fifth Element.
”

“Fierce cult classic,” Nole shouts out. “If you’ve never seen the movie, rent it!”

“Anyway, he’s not the only one. A lot of designers have their models working this equestrian style of walking in their shows,” I explain. “All you need to know now is, it’s the exact opposite of feline fatale.”

“So we’re supposed to be slinking down the runway, too?” asks Benny Madina, a hot chocolate model with shoulder-length dreadlocks and brilliant white teeth. (He was Aphro’s pick.)

“Look—I know we have a lot of haters,” I admit, sensing the uneasiness among my models. “They think
our whole feline fatale concept is too frilly. Let our haters be our motivators. We are participating in this competition for our shot at fashion stardom. And don’t think for a second we’re going to misfire because of cyberbullying.”

Everyone claps. “That’s right, bring it,” Benny says, regaining his confidence.

“So back to serving what
we
do. I want all my male models to think of yourself as male cats. So, Benny—you’re a black male cat. Can you envision how he walks? Slow, graceful, with purpose—and the exact opposite of a ninja warrior, okay? We’ll leave those moves to C. C. Samurai’s models!” I explain, in an effort to motivate my Catwalk models to think outside of the litter box.

I look at Benny’s and Zeus’s faces and can tell that my motivational speech is sinking in. “Now Aphro is going to guide each of you through the training.”

Aphro walks up and down the run of the room, demonstrating the feline fatale style of runway modeling we approve of. She loves walking the runway, so she can’t resist unleashing a tiny smile.

“Work it,
bella bronzina
!” coaxes Lupo.