Catwalk (53 page)

“Hold up!” I protest, puzzled by the song switcheroo. I have to find Zeus
.

Fifi pushes me onto the stage. “Go!”

I steady myself, step out from behind the scrim, and take a few steps onto the runway, but one of my heels collapses and I stumble. Humiliated, I fall—in slow motion. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Zeus standing against the back wall next to Shalimar and her underling, Zirconia, who are laughing hysterically. In horror, I realize that the judges are no longer perched in the front row; in their places are cats, holding the House of Pashmina programs in their paws—and hissing at me. As I land headfirst on the runway, one of the cats pounces on my back with a resounding
thud.

I wake up startled as my cat, Fabbie Tabbie, pounces on my chest—and meows louder than a truck backfiring on Broadway. “Oy, Fabbie!” I groan, pushing my beloved auburn-haired cat off me. “You almost gave me
catiac arrest!” I slide my pink cat eye mask up and rub my aching noggin, or rather, my headful of pink sponge rollers, trying to decide if the ache is real or a figment of my imagination, like the dream.

“That wasn’t real, was it?” I utter, confused.

The alarm on my cat clock goes berserk—eyes bugging, tail wagging—sending me springing into action against my will.

“I wish I was a cat right about now—so I could hide beneath my faux fur like you,” I say, teasing Fabbie Tabbie, whom I love like a feline sister.

Fabbie Tabbie tilts her bushy auburn head and meows.

“Awright, your fur isn’t faux, I’m so sari!” I mumble, sliding off the bed and slithering into my terry-cloth bathrobe—with the raggedy cat’s head appliqué on the back that’s about to explode into ninety nubby pieces—and matching fuzzy slippers. Shuffling out of my bedroom and down the narrow hallway plastered with vintage Josephine Baker and Billie Holiday posters, I start singing the altered lyrics of the Gloria Gaynor song from my dream.

As I enter the kitchen, screeching to the finish line of Gloria’s anthem for sisterhood, Chenille stares at me, obviously spooked, but for different reasons than I am. “It’s a little early in the morning to be scaring people with your singing, isn’t it?” queries my sarcastic younger sister. The faux music critic is plopped at the small elmwood dining table in the adjacent kitchen alcove, shoveling in a jumbo breakfast that’s fit for a construction worker—just like her drab outfit: long-sleeved beige waffle-weave cotton T-shirt under baggy denim overalls.

“Good morning, Vampira Sisterella,” I mutter to my sister, who is a freshman at F.I.’s Hair Annex. While reaching for my Hello Kitty coffee cup, I gaze up at our old lunch boxes tucked in the corner of the cabinet. I pull one off the shelf and strike a pose like a model on
The Price Is Right
. “Can I pack you a fashionista lunch today for school—two carrots and a testy tea bag? Oops, sorry, I meant Tetley.”

“Princess Potty Mouth? That was your lunch box,” Chenille says with a smirk, shaking her head. Chenille doesn’t hide the fact that she finds me mildly annoying, and truth is, I feel the same about her, doubly.

“Oh, right,” I say, smiling fondly at the former carrier
of my PB&Js and dreams, placing it back on the top shelf where it belongs. Then I pour hot water for my apple cinammon tea.

My mother is also seated in the alcove, talking on the phone in her animated Miss Viv professional manner, which means she’s probably talking to her boss, Roni Strauss. I wait patiently for Mom to get off the phone because I desperately need her intel about handling this Shalimar situation, which obviously has me so stressed I’m dreaming in Technicolor terror.

“You might as well open a catering hall and close the boutique—as many bar mitzvahs you’ve got lined up!” my mom cackles, kibitzing with Roni like a fashion storm trooper. My mom is dressed sharp, as she would say, in a bold emerald-green wool blazer, black turtleneck sweater, and black trousers. “I’ll open. I’m on time. Go on. Just bring me back some gefilte fish. You know what I mean. The good stuff on that buffet table! Mazel tov!”

My mom hangs up the phone and I can sense she’s picking up the pace as a result of the convo with her boss. She hurriedly takes a swig from her Belgian blend mocha coffee, which she usually sips with relish. “Roni’s gotta go to Long Island to yet another bar mitzvah, so I gotta open today,” she informs us with the slight Southern lilt that hints at her Georgia roots.

Suddenly, a loud roar emanates from within the wall.

“That sounds like Tony the Tiger. Or
me
practicing Spanish,” laments Chenille.

Now I catch her sneaky drift—she’s angling for sympathy from our mom about her heavy class load. For some delusional reason, Chenille thought she was going to spend her freshman year waffling hairstyles the same texture as her T-shirt instead of putting in hard time for the fashion crime—studying math, science, and other legit classes.

“That’s probably the boiler in the basement. Mr. Darius has
got
to replace that relic with one from this century,” my mom complains. “At least Ramon says he’ll fix the bathroom ceiling later.”

“Yippee!” I squeal. Ramon is Mom’s “man friend,” as she refers to him, and a professional handyman.

“And what’s with that face?” my mom asks my sister sternly. “It’s a big deal you got accepted into Fashion International. But you gotta take regular classes like everybody else, because it’s still a regular high school.” Now my mom looks at me to back her up.

“It’s la-bor-iously regular. Felinez can help you with your Spanish homework,” I suggest, offering the services of my übertalented BFF, whom Chenille has known since her kindergarten days.

“So, how are you going to handle the situation with that girl?” my mom asks me, obviously ready to help.

“Today is definitely the day,” I say, imitating the
Shallow One’s huffy self-important tone. “I’m going to confront Shalimar Jackson. That’s all there is to it.”

My mom looks at me blankly.

“See, Shalimar doesn’t know that I know she bribed Chintzy Colon—my former assistant—with an intern job at Grubster PR—one of her father’s clients—so that Chintzy would be her spy in the House of Pashmina. Apparently, Shalimar had every intention of leaking
our
design secrets to sabotage our fashion show. But we peeped what Chintzy was up to. Remember I told you Felinez pulled off Chintzy’s fake ponytail when we confronted her at Angora’s house?”

My mom winces like she fears for the synthetic strands on her own head—a streaked shag Beverly Johnson wig.

“Well, maybe that wasn’t our finest moment,” I admit. “Luckily it wasn’t caught on tape by the Teen Style Network. But the upshot was that we talked Chintzy into going to the Catwalk office and dropping out of our house due to a ‘family emergency.’ ”

“It sounds like it was the right thing to do for the sake of the competition,” my mom interjects.

“I know, but Ruthie Dragon, who is now my assistant by default since Chintzy Colon got booted, is also an intern at Tracy Reese’s showroom—you know, the black designer who makes those pretty ladies-who-lunch dresses—”

“I know who Tracy Reese is,” my mother says tersely, waving a copy of
Women’s Wear Daily
.

“Oh, right,” I say apologetically. Sometimes I forget that just because my mother works as an assistant manager at a plus-size boutique—Forgotten Diva on Madison Avenue—doesn’t mean she doesn’t keep up with the “regular” fashion scene, especially black designers. “So anyway, Ruthie asked her boss at Tracy Reese if she could hook us up—you know, the House of Pashmina—with shoes from their closet for our fashion show. You following?”

“Right in your footsteps—go on. I swear, you can never tell a story before I finish my coffee!” my mom protests, placing her cup in its saucer.

“I’m sorry. I get caught up in the fashion flurry. Anyway, Ruthie’s boss said that’s not gonna happen—us snagging the shoes for our show. Due to, as she put it, ‘a commitment to another house in the Catwalk competition’!”

“Okay, so the Dragon girl claims that her boss at Tracy Reese told her you can’t have shoes for your fashion show because somebody else has dibs on them?” my mom asks.

“Exacto.”

“How do you know that the Dragon girl is telling the truth?” my mom counters as she eyes Chenille’s toast before snatching a bite.

“You mean, like it’s a conspiracy theory?” I slough off the notion like reptile lotion. “Ruthie doesn’t have that kind of fire power. I know Shalimar Jackson is behind this soleful deception—because Tracy Reese’s company is owned by Intelco—one of her father’s Wall Street clients.”

“Okay, what if Shalimar
is
behind this—you still didn’t get enough evidence to prove it,” my mom says emphatically.

Obviously, all those reruns of
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
have finally seeped beneath my mother’s wigs and into her brain. “Somehow, I have to end this reign of terror. Shalimar thinks her parents’ money can buy her this competition! She walks around school like we’re all her fashion flunkies. I can’t take another day of her sham-o-rama!” I pat my rollers in protest.

“What’s the matter with your head?” my mom asks.

“I don’t know. I had the weirdest dream. The House of Pashmina fashion show? Turned into Cirque de Soleil. I think Tony the Tiger was there!” I moan. “And we were playing your favorite song for the finale! ‘I Will Survive.’ I would never play that disco tiddy in my show.”

“Gee, thanks,” cracks my mom. On Saturdays, not so long ago, she would put on a leotard and do her own version of aerobics in the living room, playing old-school disco songs—including Gloria Gaynor’s. She
could never get Chenille to exercise with her, but I loved jumping around and would always join in. Our little disco sessions are probably what gave me the confidence to sashay down a runway today. That and the fact that I’m tall and leggy.

“Don’t mind me, I’m just goospitating about this stupid dream,” I mumble. I’m on edge with my mom lately, and I don’t mean to be. Or maybe I do. But not about her taste in tunes.

“Those dreams are telling you something,” my mom advises with conviction.

“Like what? Don’t sleep on rollers?” I pull a box of Ritz crackers from the pantry cabinet and force myself to eat a few before I hit the shower. I hate eating breakfast, but sometimes I feel light-headed by second period in school—and that’s definitely not cool.

“Like in order to make your dreams come true, you have to
wake up
,” Mom says, serving up her Southern wisdom.

“Well, my dream remains the same—to be a modelpreneur,” I quip. “So I can buy you a really nice house where you can perch your kitten heels.” Suddenly I remember my dream—the rigged kitten heels. I get a somber look on my face. “Maybe the dream was trying to tell me that I have a lot of nerve going up against the Jackson dynasty.”

My mom senses my conflict. “Whatever you decide,
just make sure I’m perched at that fashion show in June in a new dress.” She glances at the eggshell-ivory face on her elegant crystal watch with the wide red faux-alligator band. “Right now, I’d better perch myself on the IRT!”

“Pashmina is right—Shalimar is probably behind it,” pipes up Chenille, like she’s testifying at a Senate hearing. “I’m the one who saw Shalimar conspiring with Chintzy Colon in the activator room to send Pashmina the deadly computer virus. I broke the whole story.”

“Like Woodward and Bernstein,” I say, giving Chenille her props like she’s one of the two
Washington Post
reporters who broke the infamous Watergate scandal.

Leaving Chenille with her lumberjack breakfast, I head back to my bedroom to get pinkified for my busy day. Not only do I have to confront Shalimar, but after school I have a Catwalk meeting with my crew, which includes model–deejay–graphic designer Zeus Artemides. I can’t help it—those dark, piercing eyes hooded by fluttery lashes, that perfect smile with big white teeth, and those taut muscles that I get to feel every time he gives me a hug are like a Tasti D-Lite trifecta. I’m not sure if Zeus still has a girlfriend, but I keep hoping that he doesn’t and he likes me and will let me know after our Catwalk duties are over in June. You know, sorta like saving the best for last.

After I finish getting dressed in a pink corduroy jumper, pink turtleneck, and fuchsia fishnet stockings, I search for my kitten shoes. Fifi worked on them all weekend, embellishing them with furbulous jeweled cat clips. “Here, kitty kitties,” I yell, tearing my room apart in a mad search for them, but
nada
. “Aargh. Chenille!” She must have hidden them. When we were little, we were always hiding each other’s things to get on each other’s nerves.

Defeated, I scrounge the closet for a consolation prize—my pink ankle boots. I zip them up and I’m ready to report for fashion duty. At today’s Catwalk meeting, we’ll be selecting the five junior models who will open the House of Pashmina fashion show. I’ve set my sights on a child-model muse. See, my grumpy neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Paul, has the cutiest, patootiest grandson, eight-year-old Eramus Tyler, whom I’ve nicknamed E.T. Although it’s risky fashion business, I just have to try to rescue him from his tawdry life in high-water corduroys and sad plaid shirts and put him in the Catwalk fashion show. But the likelihood of Mrs. Paul’s hitting me over the head with the stack of Jehovah’s Witnesses
Watchtower
pamphlets she carries in her purse is far greater than that of my getting my fashion wish granted.