Catwalk (67 page)

“Have you heard from Mom?” I know she must have called home at least once and Chenille would have picked up the phone. I take the quart of pink lemonade out of the refrigerator and some paper cups from the pantry to bring downstairs. Chenille watches me curiously. I don’t tell her that Zeus is in the basement—she’d probably think his hat belongs to Tony the Tiger.

“Where are you going?” she asks nosily.

“I told you it’s top-secret. So did she call?”

“Yes. And she’s depressed,” Chenille shoots back, tapping her pencil on the table more rapidly. Craftily, she blurts out: “God, I can’t believe how much homework I have.”

“Let me see the Spanish homework,” volunteers Fifi.

While Fifi is helping my conniving sister, I pick up the phone to call the Forgotten Diva Boutique. This whole Ramon situation is bananas. Why can’t my mom meet someone diggable like I have? My mom answers, and she sounds oddly enough like a deep-sea fisherman struggling to talk from fifty leagues below the sea.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, concerned.

“I guess so. Thank you for showing me how to do that Facebook thing,” she says, sighing deeply. “I caught them in the act. Lonni had the nerve to put up photos on her Facebook page: ‘Our Memories at Brighton Beach.’ I guess I should be glad Ramon found somebody who would go to the beach with him—in Brooklyn.”

My mom’s idea of going to a beach is vacationing in the Carribean.

“Well, you’re right,” I assure her, “there is nothing worse than a liar.”

“Or than being alone. I’m so tired,” she reveals. “If I didn’t have you and Chenille, I would just call it a day, I swear.”

“Don’t say that!” I’m horrified. All my mom wanted was for Ramon to take her to the Copacabana on Thursdays for Eighties Boogie Night. And now he’s watching the rise and fall of the waves with loony Lonni. I hope he gets bitten in the crotch by a Brooklyn
crab. “You’ll meet someone else. You’ll see.” I repress the urge to tell her that I have. Now is not the time.

“You know what my horoscope said today?” my mom asks, and continues without waiting for a response. “A single black woman over forty has a better chance of getting struck by an airplane than meeting a man.”

“No, it didn’t. You’re just spouting statistics,” I gripe, keenly aware of my mother’s fondness for finding frightening stats. One of her faves: tracking the number of sexual predators on the loose in New York City.

“It is true,” my mom insists.

“No, it isn’t—there are lots of available men on the prowl in New York, just licking their chops like hyenas on the horizon,” I say teasingly.

“Yes, you’re right. There are,” she relents. “Today a man with his belly popping out of his paisley shirt came into the store after staring at me through the window all morning. Mr. Popover gave me his business card, winking as he told me ‘I love big women.’ I bet you he wouldn’t like it if I told him what kind of men I like.”

“What kind?” I ask, taking the bait.

“Men who take me shopping on the first date!” Now my mom releases a laugh, which reminds me of her old self. She has the craziest laugh I’ve ever heard besides Aphro’s. Like a pink flamingo in a fun house.

“Zeus, Fifi, and I are painting the cart now,” I tell her, after filling her in on our Wild Card Challenge.

“That does sound like a great idea. It’s amazing how you just come up with this stuff,” she says, impressed.

“Well, my crew helps—especially Fifi,” I assure her.

“How is she doing? Her mom throw her dad out yet?”

“Um, we’ll talk about that later,” I say, not wanting to talk about it with nosy Chenille within earshot. “We have to get our project in gear, because the Teen Style Network is coming over to watch us preparing for the Wild Card Challenge.”

“They’re not coming in that apartment!” she freaks.

“No, no—the basement. That should put the fear of Halloween in them,” I chuckle. “But I’ll make sure to pull down the cobwebs before they get here!”

“Awright then, I’ll be home in a little while,” she says, before rushing off because a customer needs her assistance.

After I hang up the phone, Chenille badgers me. “What’d she say?”

“That you must be exhausted from all that whining about your homework,” I quip.

“Whatever,” snaps Chenille.

“I’m sorry about the shoes. I know you didn’t hide them,” I say, breaking down. I do owe Chenille an apology.

“Whatever,” Chenille repeats.

Feeling absolved, I motion for Fifi to wrap it up like a falafel to go. My sister doesn’t even thank Fifi for her
efforts and doesn’t look up from her homework so I can glare at her disapprovingly. Fifi and I head to the hallway closet to retrieve the paint supplies. “Bingo.” I’m eyeing two full gallons of Passion Pink paint left over from painting the dresser in my room last summer. We found the discarded dresser on a sidewalk on the Upper East Side and turned it into the pink anchor of my bedroom. “Another fixer-upper, presto pronto.” I take the dropcloth, two paintbrushes, paint thinner, a scraper, coarse sandpaper, and an empty pail I fill with water.

As we head into the elevator, Fifi says softly, “You shouldn’t be so mean to Chenille.”

“Why not? She loves it,” I reply unapologetically.

Zeus is pacing the basement when we return. “I thought you two ran off to Petticoat Junction with the Beverly Hillbillies,” he riffs.

“What’s the matter, pussycat, were you scared?” I tease him. “My mom is freaked out about Ramon, so I called her to offer some assisterance.”

“Assisterance, huh? What’s the matter?” he asks, concerned.

“Ramon took her best friend, Lonni, to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn. She’s freaked out.”

Zeus clams up. That’s the second time. I guess guys don’t like to hear stuff about other men two-timing. It’s bad for their image. Now I feel embarrassed for breaking out my family drama. Fifi, on the other hand, uses the
blank space to bend his ear with hers. She vents big-time while the three of us carefully spread the plastic dropcloth on the dirty cement floor. Zeus rolls the delivery cart on top. I open the can of paint and stir it. “Nice color,” he comments. “The darker, the better. We should still do two coats, though,” he advises.

“I know the drill,” I inform him. “We painted the dresser in my room this same color. It came out de-lovely.” Suddenly, I think of Ice Très—
de-lovely
is a word he uses—in referring to me.

Zeus nods, his eyes twinkling. Turning to Fifi, he beams. “I can’t wait till we put on the graphics and your hand-painted illustrations. You’re such an artist.”

“Graci-ass,”
Fifi says humbly.

“How come you don’t do sketches?” Zeus asks.

“I’m not into sketching designs,” Fifi admits. “I don’t know why, but I’m not.”

“Well, let’s get this rodeo on the road before the Teen Style Network crew comes. They’ll be here pronto soon.”

“Are you stressed about the designs now that Diamond dropped the ball?” Zeus asks candidly.

“Yes. Mostly about those darn shutter-pleated dresses and the pillbox hats, I guess. Fifi, we’re going to make them without sketches, okay?”

Fifi nods like Superwoman and we start sanding down the cart to smooth out the rough edges and
remove the splinters. Now it’s my turn to vent: I fill in Fifi about the Diamond drama. “We can’t afford for Diamond to drop out. Ms. Lynx already warned me—any more shenanigans and I can take our fashion show on the road.”

“You caught Chintzy with her hand in the cookie jar—that’s one thing. What was she gonna do—go running to Ms. Lynx’s office to get you disqualified?” explains Zeus. “But Diamond? She starts in with that doe-eyed earnestness about animal rights and even I start questioning what we’re doing this for.”

“Gee, thanks for that vote of confidence,” I balk.

“Hey, come here,” says Zeus. I lean in and Zeus kisses me on the cheek. “You’re doing an amazing job.”

“But we’re still shoeless,” I say, kissing him back. “And there’s no tip-toeing around that.”

“But we’re not without a house,” Zeus chuckles.

I think about Mr. Sunkist and shudder. “Being homeless. That’s my mom’s biggest fear,” I reveal. “She left me and Chenille at Grandma Pritch’s house when we were little. I thought my mom was never going to come back. And when she did come back, two years later, she never told us what happened. Where she was. Not to this day. But I see her worrying all the time about paying the bills. She’s so stressed, I can feel it.”

After I finish my babble, I sigh deeply, relieved that I told Zeus. Fifi already knows this sordid story.

“Now what’s going to happen with Mami if she’s not in the band anymore with Papi?” Fifi asks, fretting.

“Your mom is talented—and in full bloom. With all her flower power, she could get a job singing to tulips,” I say confidently. “People would pay just to see her outfits!”

We continue sanding the wooden cart, smoothing the splintered surface—and my fears of being homeless.

“Now, that’s a nice job,” I say proudly.

We each take a brush and apply a coat of Passion Pink paint to the cart. “Heels on Wheels forever,” I giggle. “I wish I could paint everything pink.”

Zeus is more interested in washing his hands, and goes to the sink. “Well, we can start in on the basement tomorrow if you want,” he challenges me.

I wrap my paint-smeared hands right around his neck. “Oops,” I tease, pulling away.

He taps my nose with his index finger. “Got you back, Pinky.”

“What time is it?” I ask, checking my cell. As if they’re reading my mind, my phone rings and I answer. It’s Boom from the Teen Style Network crew, making sure they’re supposed to descend in the elevator.

“Yup, that’s right—just take it to the tomb level!”

Boom laughs, but once the crew arrives, I can tell Caterina is creeped out by the basement, as if the
Candy Man is going to make a cameo with his hooked hand.

“So,” says the pint-sized producer, “what are you doing for your Wild Card Challenge?”

“Well, first I thought you might tell us what the other fabbie four have got up their sleeves?” I heckle.

Caterina smirks. “You’re the first one we’re filming.”

“Yippee!”
I say, psyched. “So much for saving the best for last!” And this time I mean it.