Catwalk (72 page)

Speaking of negative energy, the Shrek-sized bouncer manning the door of the Lipstick Lounge has it in Kate Spades. “Are you on the guest list?” he asks like a professional bully.

Ice Très didn’t mention anything about a guest list. I hide my flustered reaction and smear on the charm like moisturizing lipstick in the shade Please Let Me In. “Um, I’m a friend of Abraham’s?” I pull a five-dollar bill from my pink leopard-print denim shoulder bag and wave it like a white flag, the internationally recognized truce symbol.

With a military poker face, the seven-foot-tall giant looks at me like I’m a freshly minted cuckoo and orders: “He’s definitely not on the list. Step aside, please.”

Switching gears pronto, I stutter: “I’m sorry—um—I’m supposed to be meeting a friend here—Ice Très Walker?”

The bouncer doesn’t say a word or crack a smile, but I’ve obviously said the magic password, because he parts the Red Sea—aka the velvet rope—and nods for me to enter paradise.

“Thank you!” I say, relieved.

Once inside, I scan the hypervamped room with its decor straight out of a Lady Gaga video: feathered red
lampshades plopped on end tables with carved legs and glistening disco balls hanging from the ceiling. Searching for signs of Ice Très and coming up empty, I plop down in the nearest vacant red velvet love seat, which is as enticing as a lush poppy field. Nervously, I pull out my cell phone to see if Ice Très has sent another text, but he hasn’t. Still unsettled, I reread the last text he sent me to make sure I didn’t miss an important message in the bottle: “Boo kitty. On my way. Can’t wait to see you!” Ressured that I’m on the right kitty trail, I decide to sit tight, taking a deep breath and sinking into the plush velvet cushions. Adjusting my eyes to the dim, moody atmosphere, I turn and gaze at the empty stage, slowly focusing on the shadowy figure of a girl with long, sparkling ruby locks peeking from behind the folds of opulent red velvet drapes in the left corner. Now the girl with the ruby locks emerges a few more inches from behind the fold in the drapes and the profile of her haughty aquiline nose emerges. I watch her, fascinated, wondering if it’s Alyjah Jade, the singer who’s performing tonight. Tall and slender, she’s dressed in a tight black minidress with over-the-knee black boots, and is having an animated conversation with someone who still remains behind the drapes. She tilts back her head, laughing—all pale ivory skin, ruby red lips, and blazing bordeaux hair with iridescent glints galore. As I ponder whether the singer’s waist-length hair
is courtesy of Mother Nature or Adorable Hair extensions, the person with whom she is kanoodling also emerges from behind the curtains and embraces her in a tight hug. My mouth drops at the zebra sighting—the mink hat that belongs to none other than Zeus Artemides! I freeze inside, wondering why Zeus didn’t tell me he was migrating to the Lipstick Lounge tonight. Then I remember that I never mentioned to him that I was coming, either, or even more salacious—that I have a date with Ice Très! Furiously, I calibrate the plausibility of my explanation:
It was a last-minute thing. I didn’t even know I was going before six o’clock
.

Seeing them locked in their embrace, I wonder if Alyjah Jade is one of Zeus’s childhood friends, or a friend from his old high school, Benjie Bratt. Zeus is superaffectionate, so I try not to trip about how up-close and personal he is with the redheaded Goldilocks. He gets touchy-feely with Elgamela Sphinx, too, which used to make me think they were dating until I found out for sure that they aren’t. I sit frozen like a pink statue, wondering if there’s an escape clause or a secret trapdoor into which I can vanish. As I contemplate how to handle the situation, I’m distracted by a familiar voice streaming from my left.

“Hey, boo kitty, sorry I’m late!” says Ice Très, bending over to kiss me on the cheek before he slithers next to me on the sofa.

I don’t know how Ice Très always manages to sneak up on me, and this time I blurt out this observation.

“That’s because no one ever pays attention to graffiti messengers—we just sort of blend into the background, along with the plight of urban decay,” he says, like the last street poet.

“I see,” I respond, slowly digesting Ice Très’s gift for dropping knowledge.

Prattling on, Ice Très reveals the holdup. “My uncle Ray-Ray gave me a ride, but somebody ran over a skunk on the FDR and things definitely got a little hairy.”

“And here I thought you were skateboarding to SoHo,” I respond nervously, trying not to look in Zeus’s direction.

Ice Très grins, setting off his goofy smile with dimples to match—positively infectious.

“How do you know it was a skunk that got run over? You saw it?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the Zeus sighting.

“Nah, but I smelled it—and so did half of Manhattan,” Ice Très says, scrunching his nose in disgust.

“I don’t know—this gory story sounds like a Diamond Tyler tale,” I tease, while watching Zeus and the girl with the ruby hair out of the corner of my eye on the sly.

“Come on now, you think Diamond’s the only one with close encounters of the animal kind? It’s a jungle out there, boo kitty. You know that,” jokes Ice Très.

“Actually, I do,” I concede. “Speaking of, how did you get a hookup on the guest list here?”

“Oh D-Man at the door lives in my building,” Ice Très says proudly, focusing on the unique design of my pants. “Wow, I dig those pants—did you make them?”

“Yeah, I did—I’m really into unconstructed edges and puzzle-piece design these days. You know how it is as an artist, you’re always on to the next new thing,” I say, riffing.

Zeus suddenly spots us in our cozy corner like
he’s
looking for the next new thing. Now I’m try to decipher the pieces of the puzzled expression on his face as he walks toward us.

“Hey, what are you two doing here?” asks Zeus, his eyes darting from Ice Très to guilty
moi
.

“Same thing you are, I guess,” quips Ice Très. “Checking out the new establishment.”

I wait for Zeus to offer his explanation, but he doesn’t. He stands there, looking slightly distressed. I squirm on the velvet love seat, wracking my brain trying to think of something to smooth things over like Velveeta cheese. “Um, I heard about this singer from Sil Lai,” I pipe up feebly. “Do you know her?”

“Um, yeah, I do,” says Zeus.

“Oh, is that her? The girl with the ruby locks?” I muse, just checking to make sure she is Alyjah Jade,
although the possibility of two girls in the same room with long sparkling ruby—not red, mind you—hair is about as low as two wearing my unique puzzle-piece hot-pink pants.

“Um, yeah, that’s her,” Zeus confirms. But he still doesn’t elaborate.

I’m dying to ask Zeus how he knows Alyjah Jade, but I’m too busy wondering if he’s upset with me because I’m here with Ice Très. Zeus fidgets with his brim, confirming my suspicions. Obviously he is thrown off his Mad Hatter axis by this unexpected scenario.

Unaware that he has been dropped into the Bermuda Triangle, Ice Très keeps the frothy flow going. “I hear she’s an amazing songwriter, too,” he offers. “My cousin goes to the same high school she does—Ocean County Vocational Tech.”

“Oh, really?” Zeus asks, surprised.

“Yeah, Kite Walker—he’s a senior there. She’s a sophomore now, right?”

“Um, yeah,” Zeus responds, still fidgeting.

“Wow—look who else is here,” Ice Très announces, motioning across the room. “It’s an F.I. reunion.”

We all turn around to witness Sil Lai and Farfalla being seated in the cushy love seat directly across from us.

“The spies have arrived,” jokes Ice Très.

“What do you mean?” I ask, paranoid.

“You know, they work for Ms. Lynx, boo kitty—but it’s a joke,” Ice Très clarifies upon noticing the freaked-out expression on my face.

Zeus seems freaked out, too. “Listen, I have to take care of something, but I’ll see you two in a few.”

Zeus smiles as he exits but refrains from winking at me like he usually does. I feel crushed. No way José did I have any intention of hurting him. Now I’m sure. I like Zeus
mucho
.

After Zeus bounces, Ice Très exhales, like he’s relieved. “He was acting a little weird, wasn’t he?”

“Um, yeah,” I reply guiltily.

Upon dispensing his observation, he wastes no time getting back to his own agenda: impressing me. “I’m glad you came,” he says sweetly. “It means a lot to me.”

“Um, yeah,” I repeat, still perplexed. “But what were the odds of running into Zeus? They had to be one out of two hundred sixty-nine million—just like the chance of winning the New York Lottery Mega Millions jackpot.” (My mom isn’t the only one who can ply innocent bystanders with statistics, okay?)

“I want you to check this out,” Ice Très says, like a man on a mission. He pulls out a rumpled sketch pad to show me his latest graffiti art—charcoal abstracts with shadowy words in the background:
Black. Born. Bred
.

I examine Ice Très’s art, and for the first time, I really look at his interpretations and the complexity of
the designs, the moody subtext. “Wow, these snap, crackle,
pop
,” I critique honestly.

“This is part of my new series called ‘Black and White.’ I’m gonna put them on canvas, and on the back of white denim jackets,” he explains proudly.

“Wow—Urban Thug. I can see your whole concept now,” I observe, examining the graffiti-inspired art. “I see the whole collection: wearable art from the street. I dig it.”

Ice Très peers at me as if he’s trying to figure out if I really like his work, so I reassure him.

“This is really amazing. You have such a gift for tactile realness,” I offer, trying to run it through my mental art catalog. “It reminds me of something.”

“Basquiat?” asks Ice Très.

“What?” I respond.

“Jean-Michel Basquiat,” he repeats.

I conjure up an image of Jean Paul Gaultier and respond, “Is he a designer, too?”

Ice Très looks alarmed. “You’re sleeping on the greatest graffiti artist of the twenty-first century. Jean-Michel Basquiat.”

“Oh, right,” I say, suddenly remembering snippets about the late legendary artist from Brooklyn who ran with the Andy Warhol crowd. He was the darling of the eighties art scene. “Please forgive me. I got confused.”

“Forgiven,” he says. “Basquiat is my idol.
Brooklyn-born—and an integral part of the New York art scene. He ran with Julian Schnabel, too.”

“Brooklyn-born. You dig that,” I tease him.

“Well, artists born anywhere in New York, actually—like you. You take it for granted, being raised here. As for me, I’m soaking it up.” Ice Très beams at me intensely. “Washington State? Nothing like this. Only thing I miss is that overpass on Highway Twenty, where I drew my first tag. That’ll always be my touchstone.”

“Yeah, I know. Now tell me something about you that nobody knows,” I say, squelching the déjà vu feeling from my date with Zeus. And the guilt.

“Oooh, boo kitty, that’s a good one. Awright. I was going to enroll in Dalmation Tech High, which is how I came across Fashion International on the other side of the street. My father wanted me to be an electrical engineer, just like him.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Yes, I’m most gifted in the electrical arena, just like my dad—but I have the soul of an artist,” he humbly explains. “I still always have my tools with me, though, just in case.” Ice Très opens his messenger bag to show me a melton cloth holding some tools. “Always be prepared for life’s emergencies. That’s what my Dad
drilled
into me.”

I chuckle at his pun. “Wow, you’re amazing. And it’s so amazing how you draw. It really is.”

“You’re amazing, too,” Ice Très adds.

“Not being able to draw well is the reason why I could never call myself a legit fashion designer. Call me old-school, but sewing or draping is one thing. Capturing the architecture of a garment in an illustrative blueprint—now, that’s paramount,” I explain humbly. “I see myself more as a modelpreneur, because I can bring all the elements together.”

“Wow. You broke that down—just like an artist,” Ice Très assures me.

“Really?” I ask, gazing into his eyes for approval while still trying to hide my guilt.

Ice Très senses my discomfort. “What’s on your mind?”

Suddenly, the lights dim. “I was thinking that either I’m going blind, or the lights are getting dimmer in this joint,” I joke, deflecting from my internal drama.

A waitress in a slinky red Lycra minidress comes over and smiles. “
Bonsoir
. Can I get you anything?” she asks.

“Two Pinktinis,” orders Ice Très.

“Merci,”
she says as she smiles and walks away.

“You’re going to have one?” I ask, grinning.

“Why not? When with Pink Head, I should drink pink,” he quips.

“How did you know my nickname is Pink Head?” I ask, surprised.

“I know a lot of things about you,” Ice Très informs me, pleased.

“Like what?”

“That you don’t trust me because you think I was playing you—but I wasn’t. I liked you from the very beginning, but Shalimar was gassing me up and telling me that she was going to help me with my Urban Thug line as long as I didn’t have any contact with you,” explains Ice Très candidly. “But I was stupid, so I listened to her. I figured that way I wouldn’t get the two of you caught up in a catfight. I thought I could keep the two things separate—business and realness.”

“Too late about the catfight,” I say, miffed, because now I have another piece of corroborating evidence about Shalimar’s espionage intentions.

Ice Très comprehends the catty situation. “Shalimar is jealous of you. Maybe it’s that hair,” Ice Très says with a smirk, stroking my curls.

“Yeah, real hair—and a real mess,” I giggle uncomfortably.

“And a realness, period. She was constantly talking about you,” he reveals.

I suppress the urge to ask what Shalimar said about me while Ice Très continues breaking it down.

“She’s got the big-time backing, no doubt, because of her father, but you’re a lot more honest—and adorable. And trust, she knows that.”

I smile, basking in Ice Très’s compliment. Nervously, I can’t help glancing around the room, secretly wondering whether Zeus has returned, but I don’t see him. “I wonder where Zeus had to dash to that was so important,” I say nonchalantly, trying to keep my concern Lite FM.