Catwalk (73 page)

The music pipes up over the loudspeaker—a song by the artist Pink. I smile at Ice Très and he smiles right back.

Now our red waitress returns.
“Pour vous,”
she says chirpily, placing two menus in front of us.

“Do you speak French?” I ask her, impressed.

She keeps smiling. “A little.
Un peu.
”

While scanning his menu, Ice Très asks me, “Do you really like my work? Your opinion is important to me.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, nodding.

Ice Très grins, sliding his precious notebook into his sleek black carrying case.

“I really do,” I repeat. “You’re really talented.”

“So are you.”

The room is completely full now, and Alyjah Jade appears center stage in front of the microphone with a guitar in her hand. A band joins her, assembling in the background.

“Awright now,” says Ice Très. “Nothing I dig more than real instruments.”

Alyjah Jade starts strumming the guitar and singing
a beautiful song. Her voice is pure, sparkling clear, like Swarovski crystals line her throat. Suddenly, I realize that I know that voice. “That’s the girl singing the remix of ‘I Will Survive’ that Zeus produced for our fashion show!” I whisper to Ice Très.

He nods approvingly while I get a creepy feeling inside that I can’t shake.
Why didn’t Zeus tell me that the singer on the track was Alyjah Jade? I would have been so impressed
.

Ice Très smiles at me, quieting the chatter of so many questions in my head. I’m hypnotized, listening to Alyjah Jade singing and basking in the presence of true artists—both her and Ice Très. After she quietly finishes the song “One Bright Penny,” she talks to the audience, letting us know that she writes all her songs. She also points out her father—one of the musicians accompanying her in the background. I feel a twinge of sadness in my chest for my unknown father. Ice Très looks at me seriously, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

Now Alyjah Jade coos into the microphone, “This next song, ‘He’s Mine,’ which I wrote last fall when I began my freshman year, is dedicated to my one true love—my boyfriend, Zeus.”

Ice Très smiles, nodding his head in a eureka moment, as if he finally grasps what brought Zeus to the Lipstick Lounge tonight. “Oh, I got you.”

Meanwhile, I freeze inside like a Dominican
Popsicle, wondering if maybe I heard Alyjah Jade wrong. No way she said what I think she said. I’m so stunned that I can’t even speak without my voice cracking to ask Ice Très if Alyjah Jade just said “my boyfriend, Zeus.”

I look around furtively in the dark, desperately trying to spot the mink zebra hat that I’ve come to know stripe by stripe. Ice Très looks around, too, like he wants to give the Mad Hatter a shout-out.

“Where’d he go?” Ice Très asks.

I sit frozen, my mind floating above me; then I stare down at my puzzle-piece pants, trying to piece together the puzzle of Zeus. I rack my brains, trying to remember whether I ever asked Zeus if he had a girlfriend. Meanwhile, Alyjah Jade has just finished the song she dedicated to her one and only, and she proceeds to melt into another one of her original songs. “Now, this song, ‘These Lies,’ I wrote for my old boyfriend,” she chuckles, then strums the guitar slowly, introducing a haunting melody. And as she sings, her voice is filled with layers of disturbed emotion.

Against my will, I become unfrozen, the torrent of warm tears streaming down my face melting away the icicles of shock.
How could Zeus hurt me like this?
I try to remember every conversation we ever had. Suddenly, I remember his shark collection. Now I know why he likes sharks—because he himself is a girl-eating, flesh-tearing, predatory shark. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter whether I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He should have told me all about his girlfriend with the ruby locks and the achingly beautiful voice. He should have told me! As Alyjah’s singing strikes more chords of dissent within me, I recall my fashion frightmare. Zeus left me backstage—he wasn’t there for me when I needed him. I shriek now, thinking about the Catwalk competition. What am I going to do?

Alyjah Jade continues singing, strumming my pain with her verses:

Tears continue to pour down my face like a never-ending faucet. Not a dribbly faucet like the one in my
house, but one with full hydraulic force. Out of my Niagara Falls stream, I can see Sil Lai and Farfalla looking over at me curiously, but I don’t care. Ice Très reaches over and touches my hand, squeezes it hard. He probably thinks I’m deeply moved by the song, which I am, but not for the reasons that he assumes. After Alyjah Jade finishes, everyone claps in appreciation. Everyone except us, because Ice Très won’t move his hand from on top of mine. I don’t move his hand away, either. I turn and look at him, my eyes wet with tears. He smiles at me. I smile back at him.

“Please don’t lie to me anymore. I can’t take anyone else lying to me,” I say, breaking down into another round of fresh sobs.

“I promise. I won’t lie to you ever again. You mean a lot to me,” whispers Ice Très.

I can’t stop sobbing, and Ice Très doesn’t try to stop me or flip out about my freak-out. He just sits there, steady as a rock with his hand on mine, until the show is over, and so are my tears.

The fashion grapevine at Fashion International has more thorns than a vampire’s rose garden, so I wasn’t surprised that my Catwalk rivals—and everyone else at school except my immediate crew—had a field day with my embarrassing episode at the Lipstick Lounge. As for me, I’ve refused to clog or blog the Catwalk channels with tart grapes of wrath. For the next few weeks, I keep my exchanges with Zeus to Catwalk business.

“Honey, you should have known, Zeus is on the endangered species list: a shark in a zebra-striped mink hat,” warns Nole, flicking the salt from his fingers each time he dips them into the bag of potato chips with vinegar. “Feline fashionistas, beware!”

“Why don’t you say it a little louder so he can hear you,” I hiss at Nole, who is sitting near me in Studio C.

Right now, Zeus is staring at me from across the room. He can’t stand that I’ve put him on deep freeze.

“If it wasn’t for Zeus, we wouldn’t have trumped the Wild Card Challenge. Otherwise, I would have burned him like a frittata,” I whisper to Fifi.

“I know, the Heels on Wheels cart turned out amazing,” she responds.

“He should still apologize,” insists Nole. Aphro can’t resist—she reaches over to take a few chips out of Nole’s bag.

“Yeah, like right about now,” I decide. We’ve just finished our last runway training session before the fashion show, and enough time has passed since I got
smeared
at the Lipstick Lounge by the shocking discovery that Zeus has an übertalented girlfriend, Alyjah Jade, who has been strumming his übersized ego since seventh grade.

Of course, Angora tries to talk me out of confronting the Mad Hatter. According to her
Rules
, you’re never supposed to let a guy see you perspire. “Pash, you’ve been ignoring him for weeks—and see how obsessed he’s become with you? Guys love being ignored,” claims Angora.

“Who cares?” warns Fifi. “Don’t say anything to him about it, because he’s going to squeeze the life out of you like an octopus!”

“No, he won’t, because he’s already given me a shark bite,” I profess calmly. “He does owe me an apology, and now I’m ready to listen.”

Meanwhile, Ruthie Dragon is vying for more attention, too. I told her I have something to discuss with
her, and the truth is I can’t put it off any longer, but I know she’s not going to be a happy kitty after our convo. “Gimme a sec,” I tell her.

I edge my way over to Zeus just in time to catch that familiar glint in his dark dreamy eyes.

Ignoring the sparks, I announce my agenda. “Listen, I just want to clear the air so we’re on point next Friday at the fashion show.”

“Awright,” Zeus agrees, grinning slyly.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you have a girlfriend?” I ask bluntly.

“You never asked me if I have a girlfriend,” he insists, upon being catty-cornered.

“You never asked me if I wanted you to kiss me, but that didn’t stop you from doing it!” I retort, grinding my teeth. “I just wish you had told me you’ve had a girlfriend since your sandbox days, okay? Can you dig that?”

“You know how much I dig you,” Zeus coos, his eyes twinkling, trying to soften my serious stance.

But I’m not budging. “I dig you—not so much that way, okay? Soooo, just be on the premises three hours before the show and that will be the end of our gory story.”

Zeus nods, smiling like he’s impressed. It’s obvious he still appreciates my diggable digs, if you catch my swift drift.

“So you’ll report for triple duty for the run-through three hours in advance?” I confirm again.

Miffed, Zeus nods. He’s so used to getting his charming way he can’t understand why I won’t let him butter me up. “Yes, I’ll be there. And I still care about you. Deeply.”

To keep my emotional distance, I purse my lips instead of puckering them. Amazingly, this self-help trick works better than a cold shower. “I should really thank you, because if it wasn’t for you betraying my trust, I would have never allowed Ice Très to show me his true colors. And that would have been
my
loss.”

Zeus flinches against his will. Now I realize he didn’t know that inside tiddy about my Ice Très hook-up. Too bad.

“Oh. And you know what I dig about Ice Très—deeply? He doesn’t divide his ‘deep feelings’ in half so he can share them with
two
girls!” I add for good measure.

Zeus starts to say something but backs off, leaving me to fumble with my Catwalk folders so I can wrap up this horse-and-phony show like a Venus flytrap.

Fifi, who has been hovering, helps with my paper trail. “At least you found out sooner rather than later,” she offers as a booby prize, carefully placing the glossy magazine pages of selected hairstyles into the appropriate folders.

“
C’est vrai
. That’s true,” seconds Angora.

“Is it true you like these hairstyles?” I ask, changing the subject back to the fashion track.

Angora gazes at the chignon tear sheets I’ve collected. “Pash, bravo on the hairstyles. Only you would have thought of putting pink extensions in the ponytails and chignons,” commends Angora.

“Thank you,” I say, pleased, remembering the source of my inspiration—Alyjah Jade. Her burgundy locks sparked my own color cues. “What can I say? Inspiration really does come from everywhere—even during our darkest hour.”

“You’re so dramatic,” snorts Aphro. “But I love the
I Dream of Jeannie
braid.”

“Yes, I know—purrfect look for you, Miss Chiseled Cheekbones,” I sigh.

“I’m just happy the pillbox hats came out. Making a pyramid would have been easier,” Nole says, sweating. He takes out his monogrammed hankie to wipe his forehead. By instinct, Dame Leeds comes over, peeved, his spadey sense working overtime.

“I’ll give you that—the pillbox hats are cute. But we still could have gone with the bob for the Chic Meets Street segment,” he says belligerently.

“That’s too much work—putting the hair up in braids, then removing the braids for a bob,” I counter. Truth is, I vetoed most of Dame’s butch-looking hairstyles because I didn’t dig them.

Now Dame’s second hairstylist in command, Liza
Flake, comes over to put in the same three cents. “Bobs would have looked cute.”

“Ponytails are cuter,” I insist.

The two breathe venom in my direction, which I ignore. “I’ll see you two next Friday?”

“I guess so, even though I don’t know why you don’t just do the hair yourself since you don’t listen to our opinions!” mumbles Dame.

“I absolutely need the two of you next Friday—will you be there?” I reiterate.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dame says, relenting.

“We can’t wait till next Friday,” seconds model Mink Yong, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. She picks up her ever-present green Juicy drawstring tote and slings it over her shoulders like a sack of potatoes.

“Everybody ready?” I squeal. Now that all the models are ready to leave, I realize that it’s time for my final pep talk. “This is our last meeting before our run-through on the day of the fashion show,” I announce, hyping my models. “And we’re ready as we’re ever gonna be. Aren’t we?”

“Yeah!”
scream Kissa, Elgamela Sphinx, and Mink Yonk.

“So. Come next Friday, everyone must be at our designated tent in Lincoln Center three hours before showtime. Okay?
Tutti capito?
”

All my models nod. “You heard that—three hours before?” Nole says, nudging Zeus.

I smile tersely at the Mad Hatter, who stands in place—obviously he won’t leave without an acknowledgment from me. Thankfully, my house leadership skills automatically kick in despite myself. “I’ll see you next Friday—and thank you for everything. Without my models and my crew, I’ve got nothing but clothes on hangers.”

Zeus nods in approval. “No, thank
you
,” he says humbly.

I smile at Zeus and bite my tongue. I need him for next Friday night. And luckily, not before, thanks to Ice Très.

As if reading my mind in reverse, Zeus offers, “You sure you don’t need me to come over and move the Heels on Wheels cart with you?”

“Nope. We got it under control—and thanks to you again, it’s gonna be the Wild Card surprise of the evening,” I spin confidently. “Ice Très’s uncle Ray-Ray is coming by with his van to help us load.” I neglect to mention to Zeus that this particular set of wheels also comes with the faint smell of skunk juice. Nonetheless, I love the sound of having my own personal transport. Zeus not so much, because he twitches nervously. Kinda the way I did right after I found out about Alyjah Jade.