Catwalk (34 page)

“Speaking of Moet’s house, lemme tell you what I heard be going on when the lights are out in her real habitat,” blurts out Benny Madina. Benny is one of our models, with chiseled chocolate features and long copper dreadlocks.

“Ooh—what?” asks Nole.

“Well, you know Moet lives with her aunt, right? Well, honey, before she goes to bed every night, Ms. Mabel takes out her one false eyeball and sticks it in a tub of Vaseline!” Benny dishes like a gawdy gossip columnist. “Even the bedbugs don’t bite at night, cuz they too scared that eyeball is watching them!”

“You need to stop, cuz you are wearing me out with the T and crumpets,” snickers Nole.

Zeus and Lupo burst out laughing, causing a ricochet of cackles.

“Awright, lights out on the fun house—let’s turn to Catwalk topics,” I say, sharply. “I’d like to begin with ideas for the Design Challenge, shall we?”

Surprisingly, Aphro’s hand shoots up first. I take a deep breath and look Aphro straight in the face, hiding my angst. “So what do you have?”

Aphro plops her purple macramé tote on the table, then pulls out her purple folder. Lupo Saltimbocca breaks out in a grin, clicking away with his camera. His job is to document our whole Catwalk competition process until June, but I’m now convinced he must have enough photos to open an Aphro photo gallery exhibit
pronto
.

“What do we pass every day, right? Graffiti. It’s everywhere—on walls, buses, the subways. So,” Aphro says, pulling a stack of faux ivory, Lucite, and black resin bangles out of her bag with a flourish, “we could
engrave bangles with words and phrases from the graffiti we see every day.”

“Oh, I love that,
chérie
!” coos Angora.

“Does it have to be slip-on bangles, though?” asks Felinez. “I hate those—they never slip on my hand!”

“Mine either,” moans Phallon, the plus-size model in my house.

“We should get hinged bangles, no?” I ask Aphro directly.

“We could,” Aphro says, hesitantly.

“Does it have to be bangles, though? I mean, can’t we put the graffiti on something else? Everybody is wearing bangles now,” counters Chintzy, flashing the Splenda-fortified smile that drives Felinez cuckoo.

“No, no, I dig it,” I say, dismissing Chintzy’s objection. “Um, the first one has to be ‘Tink Pink.’ Everybody says ‘Think Pink,’ but the House of Pashmina is all about creating our own messages.”

“ ‘Perfecto,’ ”
seconds Lupo.

“No, ‘Purrfecto,’ ” I say, then spell it out. “That will be the second engraving, and the third will be our battle cry: ‘Sashay, Parlay’!”

“How about ‘Powder to the People’—my personal fave?” suggests Bobby Beat.

“It’s a keeper,” I say, beaming at Bobby.

“Don’t the sayings have to be things we pass every
day? I mean, that’s what the Design Challenge says, right?” interjects Ruthie Dragon.

“Yeah, but the things we pass every day aren’t just outdoors. They’re things from our own indoor environments. I have those sayings scribbled on my walls, so who’s to say it’s not from our everyday life?” I say.

Ruthie Dragon stares at me, clearly tense, but I ignore her.

“I think we should put the sayings on the garments, too. Like you said, graffiti is everywhere,” suggests Nole, stroking Countess Coco’s head.

“Well, why can’t we do both?” offers Diamond Tyler.

“Done—and done,” I order.

“Why does it just have to be graffiti?” asks Kimono “Mini Mo” Harris, who is Bobby Beat’s makeup assistant.

“Actually, I was just going to amend our direction,” I say, nodding. “The sayings can come from advertisements, posters, billboards—anywhere, really.”

“There’s an old poster for the play
The Color Purple
by my house. I mean, it’s practically peeling off, but every morning when I look out the window, I see it on the back of the building facing me,” claims model Mink Yong, who lives in Hell’s Kitchen off Eighth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street.

“We don’t want to take any trademarked messages—otherwise we could get into a copyright infringement thing,” I say, pondering Mink’s suggestion.

“Yeah, but something like ‘The Color Purple’ could play off the fact that it’s Aphro’s favorite color,” Angora says, sweetly.

“Yeah, that it is …,” I say, my voice trailing off. Ruthie Dragon breathes fire in my direction again, so I say for her sake: “You can’t copyright a title, anyway—unless it’s a trademarked advertisement slogan or something—so we could definitely go with that one.”

“Are you sure?” Ruthie asks, challenging me.

“We covered it in fashion business class,” Chintzy offers.

I smile at Nole as if to say,
Well, at least one of our assistants isn’t sleeping in class
.

Now Felinez shoots up her hand. “My idea is kinda similar,” she says sheepishly, whipping out her sketches. “I mean, all the advertisements we see on the bus shelters and the phone booths—and everywhere. We can make our own ads,” she explains, holding up her sketch pad. “So these are plastic tote bags representing the glass bus shelters, and the ads will be printed on the front and back of the totes. And on the big belts and hats, too.” She shows us a few sketches. “One could be like a fake movie poster: ‘Strut, Pussycat, Strut!’ ”

“That is sooo cute!” exclaims Elgamela Sphinx.
She blushes at the prancing cat in a micro mini in the middle of a street in Times Square, the title in neon lights blazing on a movie marquee above her. I watch as Zeus beams at Elgamela. I wish he would look at me like that.

The next sketch is a tote bag featuring the fake poster for a spooky TV series:
Bad Blood
.

“Ooh, that is wicked,” squeals Elgamela.

“Um, maybe a little too wicked for me. Can we please stay away from ads with vampires dripping blood? Leave that sort of nourishment for the House of Anna,” I suggest, then get embarrassed, because I don’t want to be caught saying anything controversial on camera. But it’s too late; Boom’s lens is coming right at me amid a round of “Ooh, shade boots!” from Dame Leeds and associates.

Felinez blushes and moves to the next set of sketches. One is for Feisty Feline Cat Food, featuring an adorable plump Persian, and another is a fake “Catwoman” movie poster.

“Now we’re back on track,” I say, smiling.

“I dig the belts,” coos Diamond. The wide see-through belts have a montage of the advertisements and big pink sequined buckles.

“For the guys, we can use see-through duffel bags with the advertisements—sorta slung over their shoulders?” suggests Felinez.

“This is gonna work. I want bags, belts, and a few vinyl hats, too, okay?” I advise Felinez.

She nods approvingly.

“Okay, so I think we’ll do the kiddie wear, then the urban wear segment,” I inform my crew, looking around for approval. “And the bangles will be worn with coordinating active and street wear with slogans on them—and we’ve got the bags with the advertisements and various posters. We’ll call the two-part segment of the fashion show “Word on the Street.” I pull out my pad and start scribbling.

Now Zeus raises his hand. “What I wanted to do is light the scrims onstage with colors from the traffic lights—green lights, red lights, yellow lights. I can do sequences with blinking lights on the traffic signs, so it will be like subliminal messages.”

“Traffic signs of our own making,” I suggest. “ ‘Feline Crossing One Mile Ahead.’ ‘Kitty Trail Next Right.’ ”

“Exactly,” says Zeus, nodding enthusiastically.

“Okay, I think we’ve nailed the Design Challenge,” I say, then pause. “Um, Aphro had a good idea. We should do a segment with sleepwear—raggedy bathrobes, pajamas, cat-head bedroom slippers—like the ones we wear every day?” I suggest.

“Does it have to be raggedy?” Nole says, snobbily.

“Yes, raggedy—and we’ll throw newspapers on the
floor that we pick up and read while standing at the end of the runway,” I say, thinking out loud.

“I’m not designing anything with threads hanging off of it—or that looks like it’s been eaten by bats. Otherwise I could just pull stuff out of my mother’s closet!” gripes Nole. His mother, Claudia Canoli, maneuvers through most of her life from her Hoveround chair. She is obese and needs to have hip-replacement surgery that she can’t afford. Nole told us she works for an Internet real estate company out of their apartment and sits around in her bathrobe all day, almost never leaving the house, except to run errands.

I decide it best not to challenge Nole in front of the camera. “They don’t have to be raggedy,” I concede, “but we will do bathrobes and pajamas—and the kids will be included in that segment, too.”

“Well, put me in pajamas with Felix the Cat—that’s what I wore when I was little,” Zeus says, heckling.

This time, the snickers are needed, so I allow them before I move on. “Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for—sketches for the collection. Diamond, Nole, what do you have for us?” I say, waiting with bated breath.

Without a flourish, Diamond shows us the sketches so far. “Even before the graffiti idea, I got the idea to embroider sayings across the rear of the sweatpants,” Diamond says, proudly.

I feel my cheeks burning, but I bite my tongue to refrain from telling Diamond that her idea is dated. I conjure up the image of me in my Juicy pants that Mrs. Paul disapproved of. Dame, on the other hand, decides to make a dig. “Why on earth would we want to do something that everybody from Juicy, Lucy, and Victoria has done in shrill overkill? Honey, the secret is out. Where have you been?”

Diamond blanches like an almond. “Victoria’s Secret uses stamped letters!” she says, her voice cracking. Blinking hard, Diamond is struggling to fight back tears.

“Um, Diamond, I love script embroidery, but on the back of terry cloth jogging pants, it does bite into Juicy’s joint,” I say, sweetly.

“I—I don’t think so,” she stammers. “There were designers doing it before Juicy.”

“Exactly,” Nole says, with a defeated sigh.

“Awright,” I say, deciding to make a declaration. “Let’s stick with our original idea and stay away from script scribblings—period.”

“What about doing cat heads on the rear in rhinestones?” counters Diamond, like she’s not down for the count—yet.

“Baby Phat does that,” Chintzy says.

“Theirs are stenciled, but Hello Kitty does it—on scarves and hats—so good-bye to that idea,” I sigh. “But I have one.”

Everyone stops fidgeting in the seats and sits as still as a statue to hear what I have to say, like E. F. Hutton has spoken. “We put cat tattoos on the models’ bare shoulders for the baby-doll dresses and tops segment.”

“That’s very feline fatale,” says Angora in agreement.

“Where are the sketches for baby-doll off-the-shoulder dresses and tops?” I ask.

Diamond looks at me blankly, which means she hasn’t done them yet, so I egg her along. “Okay, what else?”

“These are poodle-neck pullover terry tops that I wanted to pair with the pants,” Diamond continues.

“Feline fatale and poodles?” I ask, surprised at Diamond’s obvious U-turn into a stranded fashion desert.

“No embroidered logos, no rhinestone cat heads, no poodle necks. Done—and done squared,” seconds Nole, motioning for Diamond to continue. She is totally frozen like an out-of-season mannequin in a Macy’s window waiting to be re-dressed.

“Keep going, Diamond,” orders Nole, a little too brusquely.

Now Diamond looks like she’s melting and closes her sketchbook in resignation.

“Don’t pack up your crayons and head to the sandbox by yourself, girl,” blurts out Dame.

“Please … show us the rest of what you got,” I say, softly.

Diamond ponders her position, smooths back her brown curly hair, then pouts. “For the third segment, I thought we should do some catsuits for the girls and scuba suits for the guys.”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” coos Aphro, enthusiastically. We all study the sketches, laying on the oohs and aahs like junk-box jewels.

“ ‘Slink, Don’t Slouch,’ ” I say, brainstorming more slogans. “That’s another slogan. Chintzy, write that down, please,” I instruct my assistant. “I think we should pair the walking-advertisement belts with hot pants and vests and catsuits. Zip-up patent leather boots will set these off lovelily, too.”

“I think we should stay away from black, though,” suggests Dame.

“But I like it for hot pants and catsuits,” I say, looking around for approval.

“I agree,
mija
,” says Felinez. “Think slink.” Felinez is in charge of organizing all the footwear and accessories except for jewelry, which is Aphro’s department.

“What about leather pants?” asks Dame Leeds.

“Do you have leather pants money?” I ask him. Realizing that the camera is on, I quickly shoot him one of Chintzy’s snap-on smiles.

“We’re doing lots of, um,
leatherette
, anyway, with the catsuits and hot pants and vests. I think that’s enough,” offers Diamond.

“Pleather is not leather, honey,” quips Dame. “And this is the sort of sketch I was going to suggest.” Obviously Dame had been sitting at the conference table concocting a replacement sketch, since Liza didn’t show up with his original ones. And here I thought he was talking about hairstyle sketches. I look at the amateur rendering of a leather jacket with zippers, gadget pockets, and a spaceship collar that looks like it’s about to take off—
not
set it off.

“That’s very interesting,” I say, lying for his sake.

“So can we use it?” Dame asks directly.

I glance over at Nole, who isn’t letting me off the hook. I know because he has taken out a tube of Kiehl’s hand moisturizer and he squirts some into the palm of his left hand before carefully massaging it on both of his paws. This is Nole’s nervous habit, how he takes himself out of the moment, like my hair-pulling.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say, hesitantly.

“Well, excuse me, Miss Donatella!” Dame says with a huff.

I decide it best to cut off Dame’s designing moment like a loose thread. “Okay, so what do we have for evening?” I query Diamond and Nole.

“For evening—corset tops paired with long tattersall skirts, tapered pants, and tapered long skirts with bustles,” advises Nole.