Catwalk (49 page)

Once she’s in our faces, Chenille crosses her arms over her ample chest, hidden by her usual pair of roomy overalls. “Hi, Felinez,” she says, politely, before stepping into a petulant pose to address me: “This better be important.”

“It is, or I wouldn’t risk bearing your wrath and grapes,” I say, smiling.

Chenille blinks and looks at me like my jokes are broke.

“Okay, remember when we were fighting—as usual—and you blurted out to me that I didn’t even know what was going on in my own house? You were trying to tell me something, weren’t you?” I start, pleading with my eyes for her to listen.

Chenille looks at me blankly. “So?”

“Well, I’m begging you to tell me now what you were so desperately trying to tell me then,” I say.

“Why should I?” shoots Chenille, like I’m truly cutting into curling minutes she can never get back.

“Cuz I’ll give you the black leather fringed hobo bag that you
love
,” interjects Felinez, her big brown eyes widening. She holds it up like a trophy. “This one with the luxurious white rabbit-fur lining?”

“Fifi, don’t,” I say, faking my protest, just like we planned. I wave my hand dramatically as if I’m shooing
away her suggestion. But Felinez was right: the bribery works like Elasta QP hair glaze, smoothing even the kinkiest edges.

“Okay,” Chenille says, much to my surprise.

We stand there waiting as she unfolds her arms and releases the weight of her body from the perturbed posing.

“Well, spill the refried beans already!” I advise my annoying sister. “Don’t worry, nobody is going to renege.”

“All right!” sasses Chenille. “Um, lemme think. Um, one day after school when nobody was in the activator room, I heard somebody whispering behind the sink, so I stood by the door and listened. I mean, I was just trying to get the bottle of curl activator that I left in the supply closet in case somebody else tried to use it, you know.”

“Okay, go on,” Felinez says.

“So the one girl said to the other girl, ‘My friend Victor knows how to send a virus—so we can send one to her.’ So the other girl goes, ‘Good, that’ll make her flip.’ Once I heard that, I moved behind the supply door so they couldn’t see me. They were whispering, so I couldn’t hear everything, but then I heard, ‘Awright, cool. And don’t worry, I got you an interview.’ ”

I stare at Chenille in shock. She stammers, “So th-that’s it. I couldn’t hear any more.”

“Well, that’s not worth parting with a bag you worked on for three months,” I advise Felinez.

“I said I didn’t hear anything else, but I saw who was talking,” Chenille says, folding her arms across her chest again, triumphantly.

“Who was it?
Díganos
, tell us!” orders Felinez, impatiently.

“It was Shalimar and Chintzy.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, stunned.

“She’s sure!” hisses Felinez.

“Duh—I do know who they are, okay? I’m not stupid,” seconds Chenille, agitated by me as usual.

“Omigod, I can’t believe it. In legal terms, this is what they would call corroborating evidence to nail a suspect,” I mutter, ignoring Chenille as I still try to absorb the shock. “She’s a double agent? I can’t believe it.”

“Well, next time, you’ll listen to me. I told you she was a sneaky señorita!” Felinez yells, emphatically. “They probably leaked our whole lineup to the Russians by now!”

“Can I go now?” Chenille asks, back to her petulant self.

“Yes, you can,” I snarl, but then I quickly add, “Wait. Thank you. You did me a solid.”

“Yeah, well, now you
really
owe me,” squeals Chenille, putting me on notice that the prized hobo is only the first handout.

“I guess I do,” I concede, my head whirring.

“Chintzy’s in textile science class next period,” Felinez informs me.

“I know,” I say, trying to map out my get-even game plan. “This is very
Twilight Zone
–ish.

Snapping out of my shock, I freak out. What am I gonna do about Ms. Lynx? This could get me disqualified!” I yelp, yanking a clump of my hair and twirling it furiously. If the Catwalk Committee considers the deletion of a team member to be an infraction, it can lead to expulsion of the house leader, which means another member of the team can be voted as the new house leader. And no way can I risk this before the winner of the Design Challenge is announced.

“Phase Two of Operation: Kitty Litter should take care of that,” proposes Felinez.

I pause, pondering the option. “Awright, let’s get Elga, Nole, and Angora in on this and see what we can whip up like a soufflé,” I say, nervously, sending an urgent text message to all three, then pat Felinez on the back. “Unlike Ice Très, thank gooseness, we haven’t forgotten the value of an old-fashioned SOS—or a
tight
crew.”

After school, we have to drag Angora out of Toys “R” Us before she gets arrested for battery and assault. In a fit of rage, Angora took one of the Funny Bunny rabbits and beat his head against the nearby Barbie doll rack until his motorized speech wouldn’t stop yapping. We should have know when she suggested going there to wait until the coast was clear at her house that something was, well, funny. What fashionista would opt for Toys “R” Us over nearby Filene’s Basement?

“I can’t believe you would jeopardize our future with a juvvie charge,” declares Aphro.

Angora’s face remains blanched as we head to her house, which we’ve decided to make our central base for the second phase of Operation: Kitty Litter. Angora also wants us to spruce up the Le Bons’ elaborate Christmas decorations.

“I may not be here after New Year’s, but this is the least I can do for Daddy so we can have a real New York Christmas,” she confesses.

When we arrive, the scents of Bayou Basil and Choctaw Cayenne Pepper greet our nostrils. Je’Taime is in the kitchen preparing dinner, which hopefully doesn’t contain any of the ingredients for her infamous voodoo brew. “It’s Five-Alarm Gumbo,” Angora assures us.

Her father has fled to the performing arts library in
Lincoln Center to do extensive research on the spiderweb of Hollywood accounting, explains Angora.

“Well, at least it sounds like he’s got a plan and isn’t sitting around being a basket case any longer,” I assure her.

“Speaking of a plan, how was your date with Panda? You haven’t told us,” Elgamela says.

“Well, as you know, you were right—I was meant to be there for a reason—but I don’t think for Cupid’s chores,” I giggle. “Every time I looked at him, I just wanted to squeeze him like he was a stuffed animal.”

“Or do you mean whack him? Because that’s the only thing I want to do with stuffed animals these days—especially rabbits,” sighs Angora.

“Well, I don’t think—”

“Just say it,
mija
—he’s too short and not cute enough!” blurts out Felinez.

“Yes, Fifi—that’s right—I’m superficial and thank you for pointing that out, but I had a really good time. The food at Googies is
meowverlous
. As a matter of facto, I could live in that place,” I say, pining for my leftovers, which are waiting for me at home.

“Well, I wish I could, too, because we’re still being evicted,” Angora states, woefully.

“I know,” I say, turning my attention to Angora and her plight as we pile into her bedroom to man the phone.

“We’re sick about it,” admits Felinez.

“So sick we can’t think about it,” I admit.

“I know,” Angora says, sweetly.

“I think there is a solution. It will come,” advises Elgamela.

“Yes, I’m sure it will—and I hope it does before the sheriff does,” admits Angora.

“Okay, it’s showtime,” I say, jittery as I prepare to slip into the disguised voice of one of my alter egos.

“Do Mrs. Fartworthy,” instructs Felinez with a giggle.

“Good choice. She’s got the right professional parlance,” I coo. I pull out the folder with the script in it and study it quickly. “Get me a can of ginger ale to gulp down so I can do it authentically!”

“And not the diet one, either!” orders Felinez with a giggle.

“Ah, you soothe my kitty soul,” coos Elgamela to plump Rouge, whom she has coaxed to come onto the bed and cuddle with her.

When Angora returns with a tall glass of soda on a rabbit saucer, I gracefully gulp down the prescribed bubbly, then start dialing until I’ve connected to my appointed prank victim—the human resources department at Grubster Public Relations. “Good afternoon. This is Mrs. Fartworthy from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. I’m calling in reference to an employee by the name of Chintzy Colon, who reports
to Adam Saunders in event marketing. Yes, she would be a part-time intern. Yes, that’s correct,” I say in my professional tone, then belch. “Excuse me there. Well, Miss Colon recently visited our emergency outreach center with concerns about possibly contracting chikungunya fever from her father, Eduardo Colon, who had recently returned from a visit in Malaysia.”

Felinez distracts me by falling on the floor laughing, so I put my patter on pause and remove the receiver from my ear before I burst out laughing, too. In a few seconds, I resume: “Excuse me there. Sorry about that interruption—another urgent case is coming in. I wanted to let you know that Miss Colon’s concern about contracting the virus has been validated, and although she has exceeded the incubation period for possible quarantine, we must insist that— Excuse me? Oh, she drank from the watercooler yesterday? Well, I don’t think you should be worried— Well, the incubation period for chikungunya can be two to twelve days. Have you been experiencing any sudden fever, chills, headache—yes? Ah. Ah-ha. Well, that sounds like it could be more the end result of an annoying coworker,” I chortle, then belch loudly. “Excuse me there. What about nausea, vomiting, lower-back pain? Okay, well, since there is no specific drug treatment for the
disease
, we are required by law to merely record certain incidents,” I say, sighing defeatedly.

“What is your name? Yes, well, Mr. Kandor, I’ve completed the required outbreak notice and suggest that your, and the company’s employees’, contact with the contaminated individual be kept to a minimum. Yes, no contact at all would be best. Well, I don’t think there is any need to be so direct. Perhaps you can merely convey to the employee in question that the company has been issued certain cutback and downsizing mandates. With this economic climate, there would be no cause for alarm if you follow. Yes, I would agree. No, no, that won’t be necessary. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are merely here to serve the community and greater good,” I say, very politely, belching again for good measure. “Excuse me there. All right, Mr. Kandor, I’ve completed the survey. And, sir, perhaps you may want to limit contact with that coworker in question—for your mental health, that is,” I say, chuckling, belching for the last time. “Excuse me there. You’re welcome, Mr. Kandor, and enjoy the rest of your day!”

I hang up the Princess phone receiver triumphantly and let out a real belch. “Ooops, excuse me.”

Aphro, Elgamela, Felinez, and Angora laugh uncontrollably. Even Rouge looks like she’s getting a few fur balls in her throat from my prank.

“
Mija
, what did he say?” asks Felinez, impatiently.

“It’s what he didn’t say. Let’s just say Operation:
Kitty Litter was, um,
infectious
and Chintzy Colon can count down her glory days as a
Grubby
employee, because they have reached
extermination
,” I announce, victoriously.

We cross paws all around. “Now it’s time to deal with the dubious double agent herself. By the time we get finished with her, she better go get a job working for Castro, okay,” Aphro says, itching for a battle. The plan I put into action: arranging for Chintzy to meet us at Angora’s at four o’clock for an “emergency impromptu Catwalk meeting.” Naturally, the Splenda-fied señorita agreed as usual, being the helpful assistant that she has been from day one.

“Three-forty-five. Let’s untie the white frosted tree!” Angora says, gleefully.

“I’m nervous,” I admit as we all pile into the living room to mount the glistening centerpiece of the Le Bons’ Christmas spectacle.

“I’m not,” insists Aphro. “She had y’all tripping all this time—thinking it was me. No, we are about to set it off up in here today, that’s all I’m saying.”

Elgamela stares up at the six-foot-tall Christmas tree. “Well, let’s try not to hurt this beautiful creation.”

“We won’t,” I assure her, observing how perfect it is. “I hate those towering infernos of terror,” I explain, “not that I’ve ever seen one in our house. A shrub rejected by Santa himself is more like it.”

We hold the tree while Aphro fastens the tree stand onto it. “You know, they have electronic stands now that can be computerized,” she informs us.

“I don’t think the rusty rabbit ornaments care one way or the other,” states Angora, dusting off the tall stack of ornaments that have been in the Le Bon family for generations.

“I brought you a special one,” Felinez says, excitedly, pulling out a package wrapped in red tissue paper. “I wanted to tell you all day.”

“Oh,
chérie
, what is it?” Angora says, her blue eyes gleaming, because she loves presents, even more than we do. Oohing and aahing, Angora holds up the colorful stuffed dolls wearing salsa outfits.