Catwalk (18 page)

My crew is all ears when I return, except for Aphro, who is all mouth, as usual.

“I cannot believe you agreed to hook up with him!” she snarls. “A five-year-old could have cooked up a better story in his Creepy Crawlers Oven than that one.”

“Back to business, big mouth, if you don’t mind,” I warn Aphro.

“Whatever makes you clever,” Aphro hisses, and storms off.

Lupo runs after her, which annoys me. “You’d think she was a runaway sheep with a USDA clip on her ear
in need of sanctuary,” I say, agitated. “Are you two gonna stand there like dummies?” I shoot at Angora and Zeus, who are posed so still they look like mannequins in a Macy’s window.

Angora purses her lips and says, “This dummy is going home. And remember, we’ve only got till Friday to hand in the membership forms.”

Aphro is still all up in here about our designer duel at the interview finale. At least Felinez and Angora are trying to squash it like two-day-old beef jerky, which is exactly what it is. Literally. Call me paranoid, but I even think Aphrodite has been blasting her mighty “Biggie” mouth to Lupo Saltimbocca. After all, he didn’t stay and watch my back; instead, he ran toward Miss Blunt (Bob) like he was going to live up to his last name and jump in her mouth. Or so I grumble to Felinez, who squeamishly mumbles back at me, “
Mija
, I’m just trying to A-B-C my way out of it,
esta bien
?”

“Pash, I think he tried,” Angora says gently, adjusting her powder blue beret one micromillimeter away from her forehead. I’m not surprised that Angora instinctively knows why I’m
really
upset with Lupo. She’s got it like that.

“Well, Loopy made it sound like all he had to do was click his camera and Elgamela would wiggle her belly button for him,” I whine, nervously shoving my hands into the pockets of the shrunken denim blazer I
decorated last night with paw prints from a metallic marker, secretly inspired by Ice Très. On the back, I sewed a
CAT JUNKIE
appliqué. I know that I’m exaggerating Lupo’s claim, but I’m upset that he didn’t come through on the promise of procuring the next Cleopatra for our house.

In the meantime, Aphro has agreed to meet us by Stingy Sami’s newsstand this morning before we go to school. When she finally arrives, she squints at me like she’s looking through the scope of a shooting gallery rifle to knock down a plastic duck. At least it’s an improvement from yesterday. After I grunt “Hello,” we proceed to forage the newsstand like press-poaching possums in search of any tasty tiddies that miraculously have been fed to the gossip columns by Caterina and her crew about the Catwalk competition.

Sami nods knowingly at us before staring off into space, the bit on his high-tail pipe clenched between his teeth. The newsstand owner has given up trying to stop fashion freeloaders—meaning students from FI—from thumbing mags and rags without forking over a finder’s fee. But everybody else has to pay the piper. Once we saw him chase a lady in a wheelchair away after she threw a quarter at him for the pawed-over copy of the
New York Post
she was reading.

“I swear if I see Shalimar’s name, I’m calling the
sham police,” I hiss, carefully turning every page of the
New York Post
.

After scouring every single newspaper in the newsstand, including the
Daily Tattle
, we finally decide to let it go like disco.

“I can’t believe we haven’t even gotten an honorary mention yet,” Angora says, breathing heavily.

“God, are we not worthy? Are we not worthy?” I moan.

We’re not the only early-morning fashion desperadoes. A tall blond fashionista with a short, stubby ponytail, whom I’ve seen in the hallway at FI, crowds the newsstand and pleads with Sami. “Tell me you have the new
Vogue
. Puhleez?”

We giggle at his apparent fresh-fashion jones because we know it all too well. All of a sudden, the ponytailed pleader looks at me like I just jumped out of the pages of
Vogue
. “Omigod, hello! I’m so preoccupied, I didn’t see you standing there in all your kitty fabulousness,” he coos adoringly to me.

I’m puzzled pink because I don’t think we’ve ever spoken.

“Sorry, let me rewind. Hello! I’m Bobby Beat. Okay, it’s my professional name, because I serve the makeup instead of applying it, or so I’ve been told,” he giggles, putting his hand to his chest.

“Where are you from?” Angora asks, honing in on his accent.

“Brooklyn,” Bobby says, giggling again.

“Word?” inquires Aphro. “I’m from the BK, and that ain’t no accent I ever heard.”

“Oh!” Bobby squeals, hitting Aphro on the shoulder with a flicked wrist movement. “Brooklyn, Michigan!”

Angora sighs sweetly.

“Anyhoo, I’ve been hoping I’d run into your fabbie felineness, because I couldn’t make the interview.”

I smile back at him, flattered, as he babbles on.

“I had to do makeup for my sister’s friend’s test shots. Um, she’s sending in photos for the next round of auditions for
You’d Better Work, Supermodel!
” Bobby explains earnestly, which piques our budding supermodel interest.

“She’s eighteen?” Angora asks rhetorically, because we know the television show’s eligibility rules by heart. We also know that
Supermodel
provides one winner a season with a $100,000 one-year modeling contract with the Snoot model agency.

“Yup, she’s a freshman at FIT like my sister.” Bobby nods knowingly. “But honey, don’t stress it. With those cheekbones, there is only one way you won’t get a modeling contract from the Catwalk competition.” Bobby pauses, and we wait with bated breath until he
continues, “If you don’t have me as the makeup artist in your house!”

“I hear that,” Aphro says, finally lightening up.

“
Chéri
, what about your cheekbones?” Angora asks approvingly. “You look like you could model too.”

“Oh, I know, but I can’t stand the thought of trudging around all day on go-sees. I’m trying to get paid,
chérie
,” admits Bobby Beat. “I know what I want: to be the next Kevyn Aucoin,” he continues, referring to the late makeup artist, a graduate of Fashion International back in the day.

“Well, show us your legendary beat,” I challenge him.

He whips out his book, which is half the size of most portfolios I’ve seen so far. Bobby senses my apprehension and quips, “It’s the new millennium,
chérie
. Time to downsize.”

We all huddle together and look at Bobby’s test shots. “I’m very into Booty Dust, applied with a sponge, not a brush,” he confides, pointing to the sparkly accents on the eyes, shoulders, and cleavage in the photos.

“I definitely dig that,” I comment. “It makes everything pop in the photo.”

“Who needs kitty litter when you have glitter!” Bobby says excitedly.

We guffaw grandly while a paying customer with an obvious Chinatown version of a Marc Jacobs quilted satchel steps up to the newsstand to buy a newspaper.

“Knock-knock,” Aphro whispers to me.

Sami shoots us a look like it’s time for us to take our fashion show on the road.

“Aw, Sami, don’t be so stingy!” Bobby giggles, forking over five dollars for the September issue of
Vogue
.

“I thought you wanted October?” I ask.

“I do,” Bobby Beat explains, “but I spilled orange juice on my September issue this morning at breakfast, and I hate stains—even on the ads, so I might as well get a replacement while I’m here.”

“I read my
Vogue
while I’m sipping orange juice too,” I giggle.

“Sipping and flipping!” Bobby coos. “Gucci, Pucci, and Juicy, oh my! By the way, what was that ‘knockknock’ at the counter? You weren’t referring to knocking me off, I hope!”

Aphro lets out a snort and we explain. “Nah. That’s our code word for clocking a designer knockoff!”

“I
love
you tabby cats!” howls Bobby, who goes on to tell us his own code name:
SpongeBob
.

“I
love
you, SpongeBob!” I shout back.

“Now, tell me before I sign on,” Bobby says with confidence, “who is the lead designer gonna be?”

The smiles vanish from our faces like we’re
busted piñatas at a pity party. “Um, Diamond Tyler,” I squeak.

Bobby looks disappointed too. “
Chéries, mon amis
, my new dear friends, she has sparkle potential for sure, but how do you say ‘V for Versace’?” he moans, referring to Nole Canoli’s online identity.

“That’s what I said,” hmmphs Aphro.

“Don’t you just love the Catwalk blog?” Angora asks, veering away from the ensuing drama.

“Honey, first thing I do when I get up and take the chamomile eye pad off is turn on my Apple and read the blog!” claims Bobby Beat. “I
loved
Nole’s.”

“Is there any reason you want to be in our house?” I ask to keep the flow going.

“I mean, why not Willi Ninja, Jr.’s?” Angora adds.

“Oh, because I’m a queen, we should stick together?” Bobby Beat retorts. “Is that what you’re asking, Miss Blue Beret?”

Angora pales two shades. Before she recovers, Bobby keeps pulling out stitches with his seam ripper. “I have been wielding brushes like Picasso and doing my mother’s and my two sisters’ makeup since I was potty trained. I
love
being around girls and glam and glitter. Does that answer your question?”

“You checked all the right boxes on the catty questionnaire,” I assure him. “Just one more question: what’s your real last name?”

“Harmon. My grandparents changed their last name when they got to Ellis Island. It was German, like Harmensnauzer or something. But they didn’t want to get dissed. It was right after World War Two and all.”

“That’s totally cool,” I say, reassuring him, though I’m the one who really needs it. Forget about having
second
thoughts about Diamond. I’m having triplets!

Luckily, Bobby Beat babbles all the way to school, and we all stay lost in our own thoughts. I start perking up when he shares the source of his inspiration during his tender toddler years. “I loved all the original divas. Diana Ross, Eartha Kitt—can you believe that purr?” he coos.

Even Aphro warms up to Bobby, telling him about her foster mother’s former job at Eartha’s estate. As soon as we approach the front of Fashion International, Angora whispers in my ear, “Well, somebody is worthy.” At first, I think she’s referring to the Dalmation dogs from the technical school across the street, because I see them standing in a pack in front of our school as usual, ogling our roster of groovy girls. Then I realize that she is referring to Caterina and her crew, who are standing around like they’re waiting for something to jump off. I notice Shalimar and her chic chortlers huddled together, engaging in a chorus of “Omigod! Omigod!”

“What’s with the cacophony?” I ask, trying to keep
the situation Lite FM since Bobby Beat is in our midst. “That should be the new tagline of her house—printed right on T-shirts: ‘Omigod’!” Nonetheless, I watch, transfixed, as Shalimar bats her Lee press-on lashes while she carries on in her shady corner. Meanwhile, Ice Très is trying hard to make eye contact with me. When that doesn’t work, he tries the flip side and bum-rushes me.

“This place is wild,” he says, grinning from ear to ear as he gets in my face.

“Yeah, a real urban safari,” I quip, wondering what his
punto
is.

“The bet is she ain’t gonna show,” Ice Très continues, which makes me realize we’re not on the same fashion page.

“What happened?” Felinez asks him.

“We’re waiting for Chandelier,” Ice Très responds.

“Why?” I ask, disappointed he wasn’t referring to a famous fashionista sighting.

“Where y’all been?” Ice Très asks, like we’re clueless kitties. “You ain’t heard?”