Catwalk (75 page)

When we park the Heels on Wheels cart in the lobby of the fashion tent on the appointed Friday afternoon, four hours before SHOWTIME in capital letters, we’re still not sure who is going to helm it.

“I’ve left Ruthie
mucho
messages. What else can I do?” I complain about my assistant, who is MIA.

“You should have told her sooner she was exiled to Siberia,” hisses Nole, panting as he pushes one end of the cart.

“I was still singed from her last fire-breathing blast, so forgive
moi
for waiting,” I retort. “Besides, I don’t need her backstage—I need her in the Wild, and that’s what being a team player is all about, okay?”

“You know I’d do it, but then you’d get disqualified,” offers Ice Très.

“Aw, how sweet—sickeningly sweet. Now I’m going to be ill,” grunts Nole, letting go of the cart handle and panting.

Ice Très stares at our groovy charity creation with his artist’s eye, then maneuvers it perpendicular to the entrance for maximum exposure to incoming traffic.
“Wow, this really is a kickin’ cart,” he says, satisfied, examining Fifi’s hand-painted shoe illustrations. “She’s got serious skills.”

“I know. Fifi really put her foot in it!” I boast. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a team of security guards and Farfalla milling around the entrance for the other fashion shows; Farfalla is talking into her headset and holding a clipboard. Eyeing the cart, I order: “Cover it up!”

Ice Très drapes the dropcloth over the cart pronto. “And you gotta go.
Now
. Stop quacking.” Only the members of my team are allowed backstage, and I don’t want Ms. Lynx, or the beady eyes of her spies, spotting any irregularities on my already blemished—okay, bruised and battered—Catwalk scorecard.

“I’m gone—like graffiti. But I’ll resurface right when you need me. You’ll see,” Ice Très says, planting a kiss on my forehead.

“Right, Houdini. In my dream? You appear backstage floating out of the curtain folds like that psycho in the movie
When a Stranger Calls Back.
” I giggle.

Ice Très’s dimples deepen. “You just gave me an idea.”

As he darts off, I squinch my nose, puzzled. “Okay, but I hate that movie.”

Sally G., one of our designated dressers, also has an idea. “You guys head backstage for the run-through, and I’ll wait here till you need me for the rehearsal.”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” I say, snapping into leadership mode.

Zeus zooms into the lobby with Lupo, both with their respective equipment. I hand them the package of House of Pashmina programs to place on the guests’ chairs. “Make yourselves useful—and don’t miss a chair!” I coo.

“Will do. See you in a few,” Zeus says, winking. Some habits die hard.

“See, the pep talk worked,” adds Angora with a wink, imitating Zeus.

“Thank gooseness something is working!” I fret. “Do you think Diamond is really gonna go to the other fashion shows and spy for us? I hope she doesn’t blow us off to attend a rhino rally.”

“Stop it, Miss Purr. I spoke to D.T.—she’s already ‘in play,’ as the operatives say in the CIA,” barks Nole. Giggling, Felinez, Nole, Angora, and I head backstage with our precious cargo—the clothes and accessories, which have been kept under tighter wraps than the ancient Egyptian artifacts at the Metropolitan Museum.

Once backstage, Nole and I place the clothes on the two long racks in the order they’ll appear in the show. Meanwhile, Felinez and Angora clip the Xeroxes of the line-up sheets above the garments in each segment. Each outfit has been given a number, and next to each number is the model who will be wearing that outfit.

“Okay, our first segment,” I say, pointing to the kiddie-wear clothes. “We line up the graffiti T-shirts and pants for the boys and the ruffled sundresses and ruffled pants and tops for the girls.”

“Where are the umbrellas?” Fifi panics.

“I thought you had them!” I shriek.

Fifi looks tearful. “No, I don’t!”

“I have them, remember me?”
shouts Aphro, barreling backstage with a huge plaid Chinatown shopping bag.

“Oh, right,” I say. “We put them with the jewelry.”

Aphro takes out the umbrellas and hands them to me, then plops down the cellophane bags holding the jewelry for each designated outfit. For the girls, pink ribbon bow necklaces with cat pendants get placed in bags and hooked on the back of the three junior girl models’ hangers. Meanwhile, Fifi places the girls’ neon pink sneakers and the boys’ black sneakers at the base of the rack. Because Tracy Reese didn’t have any children’s footwear, we sprang for the sneakers at Daffy’s. “I’m pleased as punch that we’ve still come in under our eighteen-hundred-dollar budget and three-hundred-dollar Design Challenge bonus.”

“I don’t believe that Shalimar has. Her reports are rigged,” professes Aphro.

Zeus pops in. “My deck is set up. Need anything before we begin rehearsal?”

“Look who’s so helpful now,” I tease him.

“Not now, Miss Purr!” snaps Nole. Nole takes the two down vests—one pink and one green—for the Urban Gear segment from a garment bag and fluffs them out. They get paired with the graffiti-stenciled pink leggings and T-shirts. I hold up a long stenciled tank top, which gets paired with the pink velour capris stenciled up the side with our slogans.

“Billboard
borsas
and knapsacks, please!” I shout at Fifi. For the Urban Gear segment, the female models carry totes with our faux ads inside them—my favorite is the fake movie poster for
Run, Pussycat, Run!
The male models have billboard bowling bags. For jewelry, Aphro inscribed bangles with our slogans—to be worn by the armful with each outfit in the Urban Gear segment.

“Next segment—Cinch and Sparkle!” I shout. Nole hands me the skinny mini-T-shirt dresses with our slogans printed on them—
STYLE SHOULD MAKE YOU PURR
and
MEOWCH FOREVER!
—to be worn cinched at the waist with superwide vinyl billboard belts.

“Why are there four billboard belts?” Nole asks.

“We decided the black and pink catsuits will be worn with the wide belts, too, and long over-the-knee boots.”

“When did we change that?” balks Nole.

“Not now, Mr. Canoli,” I bark at him. “It’s been
done. Elgamela is up with Fallon in the bathing suit segment after that—it’s easier for her to slip out of the T-shirt dress and sandals than the catsuit and thigh-high boots!”

“Oh, right,” he says, imitating me.

“God, I love those boots. Can we keep them?” Angora jests.

“Let’s just say we owe Tracy Reese our first-born fashions from Purr Unlimited,” I predict, taking the two inscribed cuff bracelets for the bathing suit segment and bagging them. Next, I place Elgamela’s black maillot with high-cut thighs and cat-appliquéd booty on a hanger. Fallon will be wearing a tankini beneath a hot-pink and black flowing cover-up with a cat appliqué on its sheer nylon back.

My phone rings. “Omigod, it’s Diamond!” I yelp, answering.

“Um, I know I maybe shouldn’t tell you this, but I saw Willi Ninja—sorry, I mean, C. C. Samurai—unloading. He said to tell you he doesn’t appreciate that you broke your promise,” Diamond says, squeaking.

“What?”
I respond, the blood draining from my face. Then it hits me like two tons of flubs! C. C. must think someone from my crew leaked that Wild Card barefoot tiddy posted on the blog.

“You tell him I didn’t. We didn’t!” I blubber. “A deal’s a deal. I would never renege!” After an awkward
silence, I realize that Diamond gets the drift. “Awright—hit me with a report.”

“Okay. It’s true—the House of Moet served fake bubbly in plastic flutes to the attendees,” she reports. “Four attendants walked around—two guys, two girls—wearing black satin jackets with
House of Moet
in mustard yellow letters embroidered on the back. The guests were each given napkins—white ones—that had the image of a champagne flute on it and
Celebrate!
in black letters. Oh, and the napkins were paper.”

I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the good part, and notice the two floppy straw hats in the corner getting buried. Flailing my arm at Felinez, I point and mouth,
Hats for the swimwear—clip to the hangers!

“Are you there?” asks Diamond.

“Yes, with bated breath!” I respond.

“The predominant colors were yellow and black—actually, there was too much black in the show,” Diamond says, digressing. “But I really liked the eye shadow the models were wearing—navy blue shaded to the lid and below. Sorta eighties-looking.”

“Wait—the judges—who are they?” I interrupt.

“Vanna Snoot from Snooty Models.”

“Right, I knew that.”

“Tarina Tarantino—she looked bored sometimes, but she’d catch herself. I swear I saw her checking her pink iPhone in her lap. And um, Benny Ninja—which
you know—and Ms. Lynx—and um, sorry I forgot his name, but he’s vice president at Macy’s, or maybe president?” Diamond says apologetically.

“What? That’s not fair! Macy’s is owned by Federated Stores, and Anna Rex’s father is an executive there!” I yelp. “So, no Betsey Johnson?”

“Nope, no Betsey Johnson.”

“Oh, we are deep-fried,” I predict, my armpits suddenly sautéing in perspiration.

“Do you want to hear about the clothes?” Diamond asks, hesitating.

“Yes—that’s the main course!”

“Two short-short overall jumpsuits—no, three, one each in white, black and yellow, with polka-dot hankies tied around the neck, or hanging out the back pocket. Cotton hankies tied around the head went with jean leggings—lots of studs and grommets in the whole collection. Up the sides of the denim skirts and leggings. Baseball jackets that said
Majorette
on the back. The collection was very sporty—even the evening outfits, long denim strapless dresses with grommets. And a denim wedding gown with a veil. No pets.”

“So, did you like it—not the part about no pets, obviously,” I joke nervously.

“Yeah—I thought it was kind of one-note—very strong, um, sporty element. But I think it was supposed
to be a statement about hip-hop—because—
Oh
, she played hip-hop songs through the whole show. But they closed with the song ‘Celebration’ by Kool and the Gang—you know, the white denim strapless bridal gown with calf-high white patent-leather boots.”

Farfalla steps into the backstage area. I hurriedly get off the phone, whispering to Diamond, “Okay, call me back!”

Farfalla scans the area and I wonder what she’s looking for. She glances down at the clipboard clutched in her hands and smiles officiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yes!”
I squeal.

“Good. The Teen Style Network is coming your way to tape some footage of your rehearsal,” she reports. “Just want to make sure everyone will be decent?”

“In every way!” I assure her. “We begin our run-through in one hour. Maybe they want to come then?” I ask, sweating profusely.

“I’ll tell them,” says Farfalla. “If you need anything, just have one of the security guards come look for me or Sil Lai.’ ”

“Yes, thank you, Farfalla,” I coo. After she exits, I mutter under my breath. “Sil Lai? No thank you!”

While we finish lining up the looks, I’m dying to know what has been unveiled at the other fashion shows, but Nole wants an update now about Moet’s. I
fill him in while we finish lining the garments up in order. “Anna Rex’s show finished now?”

Nole looks at his watch. “Almost.” He rubs his weary, bulging eyes before he gazes steadily at the faux-leather miniskirt with tiered ruffles that I’m so proud of.

“Green with Gucci Envy?” I ask.

“Can’t wait to see that one on,” he admits. “You did good. My mother will be proud of us.”

“My father won’t,” barks Fifi.

Fearful of another Fifi fretfest, I quickly shoot, “None of this could have been done without you.”

“She’s a genius,” seconds Nole.

“Okay, Chic Meets Street segment—satin bomber jackets with chiffon miniskirts and one faux-leather skirt for Aphro,” I read off the run-through sheet. Then I put the ruffled purple tank top with Aphro’s skirt. One orange and one neon pink bandeau top for each of the jackets.

Nervously, I look at my watch. Where is Diamond’s next call? “Where is she? Anna Rex’s fashion show is over, isn’t it?” I fret to Fifi.

“No, it isn’t, Pash,” reports Angora.

“Yes, it is. Just ended,” claims Ruthie Dragon, entering backstage and the fray.

I glance at my AWOL assistant, trying to read her like the
New York Times
. Is she open or closed? The
answer comes like lightning. “I went to Anna Rex’s show—boring!” she reports, not showing an ounce of remorse for disobeying a direct order from a superior style officer.

Clenching my teeth, I force myself to acquiesce: “Tell me, Ruthie, we’re dying to know.”

Ruthie pulls out her notebook like a buyer or fashion reporter with oodles of notes taken for professional purposes. “You are not going to believe what Anna Rex did for the Wild Card Challenge. Well, I think it was for the Wild Card Challenge—or maybe that was her Design Challenge concept?”

While Ruthie ponders a point she didn’t consider during her unassigned spying spree, I repeat myself. “Tell us what you saw.”

“Well, here is the House of Rex program,” Ruthie says, shoving the pale gray program into the palm of my hand like it’s the Holy Grail.

Angora rushes to my side to peruse the program with me: “The Double Duty Roster of Rex: Every woman wants to own fashion that works as hard as she does. The shirt that doubles as a tote. The jacket that can be transformed into an evening skirt. Each of our models is wearing one item that can be transformed before your eyes. Your guess is as good as ours. To prove it, the guest who picks the ten items out of ten will win an
item from Rex’s Double Duty Roster collection, to be claimed after the show.”

“Wow, that’s quite a gimmick—more contrived than the Easter egg hunt at the White House,” Angora says, pursing her lip.

“So what did Rex turn into—a rooster purse?” I ask impatiently.

“She didn’t model in the show at all. Just came out at the end and bowed. Oh, someone from the audience gave her a bouquet of white roses. She waved like a vampire Miss America.”