Catwalk (61 page)

Shalimar eyes Fabbie Tabbie by my side in a large mesh carrier. “Oh. Since when are cats allowed?”

I opt not to reveal sensitive creative info about the Pet Pose Off to my Catwalk rival. I can hear Angora’s gentle voice ringing in my head: “
Chérie
, sometimes the truth is just plain inappropriate!” Shalimar brushes off my silence as another dis and flounces through the security checkpoint with J.B. in tow. It burns me that Flex,
the security guard, doesn’t even ask her for J.B.’s access pass.

But in my case—no such privileged posturing. “Access pass, please,” he barks at me.

“Fabbie Tabbie’s only here for one day,” I protest. “And I’m checking her into the Petsey Betsey Lounge until she has her, um, business appointment after school.”

“She needs an access pass,” snaps Flex. The towering security guard rolls his large eyeballs like he’s heard better explanations from preschoolers.

I don’t want to go to Principal Confardi’s office to procure the pass but I have no choice since Flex isn’t flexible.

“I thought Chenille was bringing Fabbie Tabbie to school?” Fifi asks me as we inch toward Mr. Confardi’s office.

“I did ask her. She curtly informed me that she is not my assistant in the House of Pashmina!” I relay.

Fifi holds the carrier while I fumble in my pink suede bag for Fabbie’s health documents. “Maybe you should apologize for accusing her of hiding your shoes.”

“Maybe I should apologize for being taller, too.”

In the administrative office, we gingerly plop down on the bench outside of Mr. Confardi’s office.

“You know, she’s just jealous of you,” Fifi advises.

“I know,” I say, weary from the stress of sibling
rivalry. “It’s not my fault Chenille didn’t get into any of the houses. But what did she expect? She’s a freshman with no track record except in drab attire.”

“She thinks you should have let her be an assistant hairstylist in our house,” Fifi points out.

“I couldn’t! Dame Leeds insisted on Liza Flake—and Dame came giftwrapped with the Nole Canoli package—although I’d like to jetsam his arrogance overboard into the curdling Black Sea.” I shake my head. “I’m caught between a curling iron and a crimping rod.”

Felinez nods, defending my decision. A slender blond student swathed from head to toe in black walks into the office, staring straight ahead. Although I can’t remember her name, I can tell she’s a disciple of my Catwalk rival, Anna Rex. Ignoring us, she stops at the counter, glued to the techno gizmo in her hand.

“Can I help you?” asks an administrative assistant.

Without looking up, she mumbles: “Yes, I’m here to make an appointment with the Internet addiction counselor.”

The administrative assistant places a clipboard in front of the obvious BlackBerry addict for her to sign.

Suddenly, Mr. Confardi’s booming voice wafts out the open door of his office. “I did not order the zap-it ultra-bright white. I’m Italian American, honey, people pay money to get the color of my complexion. It’s the
wrinkles I can’t stand! Never mind. I ordered the anti-aging defense serum. You sent the wrong product—so why should I pay the return postage to send it back?”

“Another case of misappropriation of funds?” I whisper to Fifi.

Hanging up the phone, Mr. Confardi lets out a bark, “Aarrgh, do your job, people!”

“Speaking of keypad strokes, you don’t think they were talking about us in the blog, do you?” I drill Fifi.

“What happened?” Fifi responds.

“The suggestion that someone has sticky fingers with the Catwalk budget?” I prod.

“Oh, right. I bet you it’s Moet Major,” says Fifi.

“Why?” I ask. Moet Major slid into a house leader slot by default after Chandelier Spinelli disappeared from school following her father’s chop-shop indictment.

“She looks like she has sticky fingers,” says Fifi.

“And sticky hair products.” Moet Major, my least fave Catwalk rival, is a petite tomboy with burgundy spiked hair and asymmetrical bangs glued to the sides of her pointy face. In short, she’s heavy on the superhold gel and light on talent.

“So what happened?” Fifi asks.

“Awright—you asked for it.” I proceed to add relish to the details of my magical evening with Zeus. “It was surreal how connected I felt to him—like this crazy
energy just sucked me up and I went tumbling down a rabbit hole. The whole thing made me feel like Cinderella.”

“When we were little, you said that Cinderella was stupid, because who would run off dropping a shoe, let alone a glass slipper?” Fifi reminds me.

“Fifi, we were in first grade—I didn’t realize the depth of the emotional complexities,” I explain, flustered. “Now I can see the big picture.”

“Now you sound like Shalimar,” Fifi says, scrunching her nose like she’s caught a whiff of a repellent odor.

“What I’m saying is Cinderella was upset—that’s why she lost her slipper, not because she was stupid, okay?”

Fifi shakes her head. Suddenly, I think about the nightmare again—falling on my face on the runway because my kitten heel gave out. “Maybe I’m a reincarnation of Cinderella?” I ponder, spooked again.

“You’re cuckoo,” snaps Fifi.

Our Cinderella debate is cut short by the receptionist’s command. “Go in now, please.”

Mr. Confardi takes one glance at the carrier in my hand and balks. “Pashmina—you know cats are
not
purse-sized pets!”

“I know, Mr. Confardi,” I apologize, explaining about the Pet Pose Off, which is the reason for Fabbie
Tabbie’s presence. “Until then, she’ll be checked in downstairs in the Petsey Betsey Lounge.”

“I see.” Mr. Confardi softens, smiling slyly, like he approves of our feline finale idea for our fashion show.

“Nole Canoli will be bringing in his cat, Penelope, for the same purpose. They’re dueling it out,” I explain earnestly.

“Just make sure I don’t see Fabbie Tabbie catting on the runway with the special guest!” he warns me.

“What?” I respond, puzzled.

“There’ll be an announcement,” Mr. Confardi barks, shooing me away.

As we leave the administrative office, Nole Canoli rushes in—late, as usual—with Penelope in a black carrier. “Make sure Fabbie Tabbie rests all day,” he warns me. “Penelope is going to wipe the floor with her later.”

“We’ll see.”

Nole brushes against me to crowd his way into the reception area. “Oh. I hope it’s not you who’s misappropriating funds for our Catwalk budget, is it?”

“Yeah—I bought myself two first-class tickets to Fiji,” I snarl. “You caught me pink-handed.”

By lunch period, we’re all sitting in the Fashion Café searching for chic clues to the mysteries: 1. Which house leader is being called out in the Catwalk blog for perpetrating funny business with funds? 2. What is the Special Event in the Fashion Auditorium today?

An announcement over the PA instructs all current Catwalk competition team members to convene in the gymnasium for fifth period.

“Well, now we know the Special Event pertains to us,” I observe nervously. “No biology class for
moi
today. Yippee.” While I’m delirious that I won’t have to go to biology, Angora is happy, too, but for the wrong reasons.

“And no voguing class for
moi.
” Angora sighs delicately, ogling her dessert—a stylish houndstooth cupcake with Bavarian cream filling.

Meanwhile, Felinez has her eye on sucking up Aphro’s: a green tartan plaid cupcake soaked with Madagascar vanilla. “Which one did you get?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Never mind, you ain’t getting it,” snaps Aphro. She never shares her food, and who can blame her: she
has had to contend with the grabby hands of other foster kids since the ripe age of four.

Suddenly, I get a cupcake special delivery. Ice Très comes up behind me and hands me a striped cupcake that reminds me of Fifi’s fave pj’s. “No pink ones?” I tease him.

“Nah, but wait till next Friday—you’re gonna love the taste of the Triple Pink Pussycat cocktail at the Lipstick Lounge,” he says, kissing me on my cheek. I flinch, embarrassed. Suddenly, my cheeks seem to be in big demand.

“Later,” says Ice Très. He jets, sensing that he’d better not push his luck—yet.

“Houndstooth, camouflage, and plaid cupcakes? No,
merci.
” I pass my cupcake to Fifi. “All yours.”

“What happened with Ice Très?” Angora asks.

“Nothing yet. I made a date to go with him to the Lipstick Lounge—it was the least I could do after standing him up last night,” I confess.

“Ah, the mystery place. Wish I was going there,” Angora says wistfully. “Anywhere but to my job.”

“We’re all working girls now,” I remind her.

“You do look exhausted,” Aphro says, delivering an observation as blunt as her bob.

“Merci.”
Angora says, embarrassed. Like Aphro and me, Angora was forced to get a part-time job—luckily landing one at the lovely Anthropologie boutique in
SoHo—after her father’s Funny Bunny cartoon empire turned into a basket of rotten eggs. Now the Le Bon family is learning to live on a budget—with strings attached, thanks to the watchful eye of Ms. Ava Le Bon, who came up from Baton Rouge to rescue her only daughter and her “irresponsible ex-husband,” as she refers to him, when the Funny Bunny finances fell apart last Christmas.

“Zeus is on the loose,” signals Aphro. I turn to witness Zeus’s arrival and automatically wave him down.

“No, don’t. Wait until he comes over on his own,” advises Angora. “Remember, you’re supposed to be in demand,
chérie
—so many suitors, so little time!”

“Right.” I smirk.

Angora subscribes to the dating principles from an old-school guide called
The Rules
.

“So many suitors!” Fifi giggles so hard, she chokes on her cupcake.

“And so many crumbs,” adds Angora, handing Fifi a napkin. Ms. Ava Le Bon also runs a charm and etiquette school back home—and it’s rubbed off on Angora, whether she likes to admit it or not.

“Actually, you do have a point. Why am I waving him down?” I ponder. Zeus smiles at me but heads over to Lupo’s table instead of ours. Nole Canoli rushes right over there, too, fawning over Zeus and babbling.

I stare at him blankly, trying not to feel slighted.

“Why didn’t he run over to be with your pinkness?” taunts Aphro.

“Who cares,” I fib. I glance around the lunchroom, catching sight of Chintzy Colon sitting by herself—wearing a fishnet skullcap and matching bib, my Code Pink–inspired creation.

“Look who’s biting your flavor,” observes Aphro.

“At least she stopped wearing that annoying fake ponytail,” comments Fifi.

“Ice Très would like to bite your flavor, too,” chuckles Aphro.

“Maybe.” I sense Ice Très’s watchful eyes turning in my direction. Nonetheless, I pretend I don’t notice and continue gazing at Zeus, who is locked in animated convo with annoyingly pushy Nole Canoli.

“Nole is sure acting shady today,” Aphro says.

“He’s not happy about the Pet Pose Off, but they don’t call it a competition for nada. Why shouldn’t Fabbie Tabbie be given a fair chance before I concede to Nole’s nefarious nepotism?” I explain, defending my position.

“I hear that,” Aphro agrees.

Much to my dislike, Zeus stays at the table with Lupo and Nole for the rest of lunch period. Meanwhile, I babble to my crew about every detail of our date together, which consisted mainly of gazing into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly, Fifi cringes. “My father used to look at my mother like that.” She screws up her full cheeks and bursts into tears.

“Oh, no,
chérie
,” sputters Angora. She takes a napkin to wipe the cupcake cream off Fifi’s upper lip.

“I worked so hard to be in this fashion show—and if they both don’t come to see me, I will never forgive them.
Never
,” she announces. Now Fifi covers her face.

“What are you talking about?” I ask Fifi.

“He’s moving out!” Fifi blurts out.

“No way, José,” I respond.

Fifi breaks down and tells us about the
telenovela
she’s been keeping to herself. I was so wrapped up in my own
telenovela
that I didn’t even notice something was wrong with my BFF. I had no idea the Carteras, her musician parents, were having trouble in cruise paradise.

Now everyone at the nearby table is looking at us. I hug Fifi and whisper in her ear, “I will never leave you. I promise you that. Best friends,
pura vida
. Just like we promised each other.”

Fifi moans, “I’m gonna make you keep that promise.”

“Good,” I confirm. “I like keeping promises.”

I look up and spot Diamond. She is like an animal tracker—someone who senses when the wounded are in need of help. I can tell she is dying to come over, but she keeps her distance, hovering nearby, then darts over to the table where Elgamela Sphinx is lunching with
Dame Leeds and Mini Mo Harris. “I really need to speak to Diamond about the progress of the evening sketches,” I mumble.

Struck by paranoia again, I ask my trusted crew: “What do you think is going on? Does everybody think I’m the house leader misappropriating funds? Is that it?”

“So what if they do? We know the truth,” Aphro assures me. “Read between the weave—it’s Shalimar!”

I waive off Aphro’s prediction. “Misappropriation of funds? Why would she? She has the money.”

“Who else could it be? Wanna bet?” Aphro dares.

“All right, Biggie Mouth—you’re on,” I state. “Why you want to part with your hard-earned coins is an Agatha Christie mystery to me.”

Aphro and I now both work part-time at the Jones Uptown boutique. For meager hourly wages (seven dollars an hour, to be exact). Given the sorry state of the retail industry, however, I’m grateful to Laretha Jones for finally changing her mind and giving me a job. Laretha was pleased purple (her favorite shade) with the modeling shoot Aphro and I did for her website. I got three hundred dollars for my first professional modeling job, too.

“Oh, we’re not betting money,” Aphro informs me. “You cover my shift on Saturday so I can go visit Lennix.”

“They’re letting you see Lennix?” Felinez asks, forgetting her parents’ problems.