Catwalk (9 page)

“Well, so much for Ben and Jerry,” I muse out loud.

“
Chérie
, she’s gonna vote for you,” Angora says.

“She’d better do my hair—for free!” Aphro chortles.

“If I were you, I’d spend my ducats on a
real
hairstylist,” I hiss back. The magic hour is upon us and I start packing up our toys so we can go home.

Aphro senses my discomfort and throws a fur ball at my head. “I’m just gonna
weave
that one alone!”

The next day I sniff my underarms and detect the distinct smell of Swiss poodle. In one hour, the names of the five elected house leaders will be posted outside the Fashion Café. I’m bouncing off the walls worrying about the results, which is why I shimmied out early from physics so Felinez and I could rendezvous in the Fashion Lounge.

“How come walking up and down the bathroom doesn’t make time go faster? Newton was a
fig
,” I complain nervously.

Felinez is more concerned with fashion reality than the laws of motion. “What is that stain,
mija
?”

She is pointing to the ashy white ring on my brown suede fringed moccasins. “I can’t believe it!” I shriek.

“You stepped into water with alkaline properties,” Felinez says in her distressed Boricua accent.

“Alka-what? The toilet in my house overflowed this morning!” I cry in disgust. “I
had
to sop up the water so I could take a shower. If I waited for Mr. Darius to come, we would have floated away in a tsunami!”

Felinez knows firsthand the fringe benefits of living in a brokedown palace. “Really,
mija
, he is the worst landlord. You should report him,” she advises.

“To whom?” I counter. “Note to fashion self: shower with sheep in my sleep instead. It’ll be safer!”

Right now, I hope Felinez also knows how to remedy my ruination. I was psyched about debuting my Power-to-the-Prairie outfit today, from the brown faux suede fringed miniskirt to the beaded ceremony necklace. “All this in the hopes of snagging a pow wow in Zeus’s tepee,” I moan, stroking the embroidered succotash headband I tied around my forehead after I tamed my frizzy hair with Elasta QP Glaze, which is Miracle Whip for girls like me who are knotty by nature. Trust, it’s the only way I’m able to work my native plaits.

“I knew you liked him!” Felinez squeals.

“Oy, wait till he sees me. He’s gonna call me Dances in Toilet Water!” I predict.

“Don’t worry, I got the Nu-Hide cleaner from leather class in my locker. I can fix it,” Felinez assures me.

“Thank
gooseness
my best friend is such a
GENIUS
!” I quip in my goofy voice. “Let’s go by your locker, then hit the job board before the zoo lets out.”

Speaking of animals, Chandelier barges into the bathroom with Tina the Hyena. Chandelier, however, is acting more like an anxious antelope. She gallops to the sink and stands so closely to me that the blast from
her breath opens my pores. “Who needs Bioré strips when you’re around,” I mumble under my breath. Instead of apologizing, she stares at me wide-eyed like her pupils are adjusting to the reality of competing in the food chain.

“I thought of you,” she says, rubbing lipstick from her teeth, “when I was getting a root canal yesterday.”

“Silly me. I thought having capped teeth made excavation a moot point,” I counter.

Chandelier stares down at the ring around my footsies, then cuts to her Gucci loafers, then to Tina, like she’s doing a Woodbury Common outlet commercial. “Exclusive edition,” she declares to Tina.

“
Puhleez
. They grind those out like Parks sausages!” I retort angrily. Felinez snickers loudly as we flee the Fashion Lounge. “God, she’s such a primping
predator.
”

After we zap the water stains, we dash for a ducat alert at the job board. I send a text message to Aphro and Angora to meet us outside the Fashion Café later for the “showdown at the okie-dokie.”

Meanwhile, Felinez is fretting about her Italian homework.
“Io sono malata,”
Felinez says, reading from her notebook. “
‘Malata’
means ‘sick’ and not ‘mulatto’?”

“Mos def.”

“How do you say ‘mulatto,’ then?”

“I don’t know, but I bet you in Italian they say something less slavery-oriented,” I shoot back. Every
Black History Month, my mom makes us watch
Roots
together, and inevitably she blurts out, “I hate that word, ‘mulatto.’ ” Probably because that’s what I am, even though she never told me.

“God, I can’t wait till we go to Italy,” Felinez says, psyched, then cringes. “If we win, I mean.”

“We’d better,” I retort, echoing our Catwalk Code:
Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it
.

Felinez smiles assuredly.

“Let’s sashay by Ms. Fab’s office,” I whisper to Felinez, in an effort to quelch my own anxiety.

“
Por que?
What for?”

“Maybe we’ll get first whiff of the It List,” I say sneakily. Creeping closer, we get a whiff, all right—of a conversation not meant for our ears. “That’s a good idea for reaction shots,” advises Ms. Lynx, her voice of authority trailing into the hallway. “But you should stick around the Fashion Café afterward—and do try today’s special, jambalaya gumbo. I hear it’s divine.”

“Any reason why?” asks an unfamiliar voice.

“There’s nothing like Cajun peppers to put blush back in your cheeks. Oh—you mean—well, you’ll see,” Ms. Fab adds emphatically.

We stand still like undercover fashion spies trying to decipher Ms. Lynx’s cryptic instructions.

Seconds later, four scruffy-looking men and one petite woman pop out of Ms. Fab’s office. I freeze when I
see the familiar logo on their equipment bags:
TEEN STYLE NETWORK
. I quickly examine my ceremony necklace like I’m searching for hidden hieroglyphics. Luckily, the crew seems too distracted to notice us. The lady has a pixie haircut and is dressed in grungy sneakers, jeans, and a green camouflage jacket. She points at one of the neon signs in the hallway:
LEAVE YOUR CORNS ON THE COB. NO BARE FEET, PLEASE
.

“Jay, get a shot of that,” she orders, motioning to one of the guys hoisting a camera bag.

Jay hops to the task.

“Omigod!
Ay, dios mio!
” Felinez shrieks, once we’re out of earshot. “Do you think Ms. Lynx is on the jinx?”

Instinctively, I know what Felinez is referring to. For the past twenty years it’s been a secret tradition at FI to kick off the Catwalk competitions with a quickie voguing battle known as a pose-off once the leaders have been chosen.

“Don’t be
radickio. If
she knew about our pose-off, we’d all be banned to Style Siberia,” I shoot back, but my shuddering shoulders aren’t so convinced. See, end-of-season markdowns aren’t the only thing fashionistas can count on: disobey any of Fashion International’s cardinal rules—like “no voguing in hallways”—and suspension is imminent. The loophole that fashionistas have hidden behind for twenty years, however, is this:
nobody said
anything
about voguing in the Fashion Café. People who already have props wouldn’t understand why we would risk suspension for something that seems so silly, but they don’t understand. See, we can’t control the outcome of the Catwalk competition, but at least
we
decide how we’re gonna set it off.

As we approach the job board, another thing becomes Swarovski crystal clear: we also can’t control the competition for all the job postings. “This is a mob scene. We might as well be standing in a line for a fashion show at Bryant Park!” I huff.

“I know,
mija
. You’d think they were giving away swag!” Felinez groans, trying to jockey for space in the huddling masses. I reach into my purse to retrieve my pink pen and jab Diamond Tyler in the chest. Turning swiftly to meet her gaze, I’m relieved that her Victoria’s Secret push-up padded bra with revolutionary patentpending technology obviously softened the impact of my intruding elbow. (During gym period, I saw her in the cute scallop-edged “Secret” in the locker room.)

“I voted for you!” Diamond blurts out.

“Now, that’s what’s up,” I respond gratefully, but I can’t help but notice that Diamond has a serious case of ring around the eyes.

“Is everything cool?” I ask her.

“I was up all night with Crutches,” she says, and
seems relieved someone noticed. Crutches is Diamond’s cat, who was born with weak legs and has trouble walking.

“I’ve been taking her to swimming lessons, and the muscles in her back legs are getting stronger, but she was moaning all night cuz I pushed too hard,” confides Diamond.

“Yeah—but it’ll be worth it. Crutches’ll be sashaying in no time!” I chuckle.

“That sounds more like Fabbie,” Diamond offers shyly, a troubled look clouding her misty green eyes. “God, I never have any luck with these jobs. I think I’m gonna try the animal shelters.”

“Really? You mean volunteering?” I ask. What I really want to ask her is, doesn’t she need the seven dollars an hour like we do?

“
Mija
, this one looks good,” Felinez says, interrupting the currency exchange. She points to a posting for the Betsey Johnson boutique.

“Omigod, I would do a kitty mambo in my bloomers just to work there,” I concur. Diamond grins at me like she wishes she had my gusto. Little does she know that it comes from having nothing to lose but my hopefulness. Felinez continues to scan the postings for an assistant schlep job in any designer showroom, which would be primo for her.

“Oooh, this one,” I say, pointing to a posting for
Ruff Loner showroom assistant. “No ducats, but internship credit.”

“No way, José. I don’t care if I have to fold the same pashmina scarf fifty times as long as we work together!” Felinez testifies like a preacher.

“Stick to a showroom,” I protest, pulling out my cell phone. “It’s time you put your pattern-making skills to a test.”

“If I can’t work with you, then I’d rather spend all my time making the accessories for our fashion show,” Felinez declares defiantly. “At least
that
freebie means a chance at flying the Friendly Skies—for free!”

“Hold up, Tonto. Let’s wait and see if there will be a House of Pashmina, then I’ll demand you devote your every waking
minuto
,” I advise her, positioning myself in a corner for privacy so I can get a leg up on the competition. Just to make sure, I suck in my stomach.

“You think they’re gonna see your flat stomach on the phone?” Felinez asks, whacking me in the midsection.

Shooing her away, I speak in my professional voice. “Um, hello, I’m calling from Fashion International.” Meanwhile, the girl on the other end informs me in her brittle British accent, “We’re not taking any more applicants at the moment.
Not
from Fashion International.”

Humiliated, I hang up. “Do you think she could tell
on the phone I’m black?” I ponder out loud because I can hear my mother’s voice ringing in my ears. She got played back in the day trying to snag A-list jobs. And even when she did get hired at two-star boutiques, she was constantly reminded that the cocoa color of her skin stood in the way of a payday or promotions.

Felinez, however, snaps me back to reality—literally. “No, Pocahontas, I don’t think so!” she says, yanking one of my braids to make her
punto
.

“Well, Miss Prickly Pennyweather didn’t know how fabulous we are!” I gripe, writing down more job postings in my notebook, but I decide to wait until later to resume cold calling so I can put on my cheerful voice.

Despite our layover at the job board, we arrive outside the Fashion Café before the Catwalk announcement is posted. Some of the usual suspects are posed in place.

“Wazzup, pussycat!” yelps Ice Très. He has a chartreuse messenger bag slung over his shoulder. It’s tagged with his wannabe brand,
FASHION THUG
in silver metallic letters. I gaze at his sly smile and realize that he may not be as tasty as a Toll House, but he is definitely crunchy. Maybe it’s time to yank Shalimar’s silver spoon. That’s what up, until Zeus rolls up on us. Today, he’s carrying his sweet sound system with a purpose
known only to us. “I’m ready to crank it up,” he confesses, crossing paws with Ice Très.