Catwalk (76 page)

“I’m sort of surprised,” I reveal. “I was sure she was going to close the finale like I am.”

“Okay—I think the Rex Roster—the winner, anyway—is the long black mesh skirt that could probably be made into three different items. It looked like it could become a head wrap or hat, a tube top, and a shoulder bag,” rambles Ruthie. “Oh, everything was black and white, of course. No color at all, except for gray and a little beige—no, it was more like khaki—the skirts with the adjustable strings up the side. Oh, that was one, too—like a parachute or laundry bag.”

“She should have had more color, I think,” offers Angora. “Color always saves the day.” Angora gets a text and looks at it. “My parents are on their way. ‘You can never be too early!’ says Ms. Ava. But not to
worry, she knows she cannot come backstage before the show.”

“Oh, we’re not worried about that,” I sigh. “Just about everything else.”

“Well, she can sit next to my mother and Michi—maybe teach her how to talk to people without a TV remote control in her hand!” sputters Fifi.

“Do you want me to text Ms. Ava back and tell her to look for your mom and Michelette so she can sit next to them?” Angora asks, taking Fifi seriously.

Fifi doesn’t answer. Now I’m more interested in answers from Ruthie Dragon. “So, are you just passing through?”

“I guess so, because I’ll head out now to stand at the Heels on Wheels cart,” she informs me. “Now that I’ve seen Rex’s Wild Card Challenge, I understand how it could factor into winning the fashion show!”

“See,” Nole says, pursing his lips in satisfaction. “Now you know why I had to have her. She thinks five steps outside the kitty-litter box!”

Ruthie smirks with satisfaction. “So don’t worry, every guest walking into the door tonight is going to know about our Heels on Wheels cart.”

“Good job!” I spout, imitating Nole. I hug Ruthie Dragon. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. When that cart is full and
Lupo has snapped the photos proving it, then you can thank me!” Ruthie Dragon says, sailing out.

“The shirt, Pash, isn’t she gonna wear a shirt?” Fifi hisses.

“Oh, right!” I mutter. “Ruthie—you have to put on one of our Catwalk T-shirts,
STYLE SHOULD MAKE YOU PURR
. Remember?”

Ruthie takes the shirt, staring at Nole like
Please turn around
.

Nole walks over to the garment bags to take out the evening wear outfits.

“Please tell Sally G. to come on back,” I instruct.

“Hello, everyone,” says Dame Leeds when he arrives. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, just starts taking stuff out of his leather cases and pretending he’s caught up in the fashion flurry.

I decide to cut through that ex-tension cord with my freshly sharpened scissors: “Dame, Chenille is on her way with the hairpieces and our finale model, Fabbie Tabbie.”

Sure enough, the announcement of my feline royalty gets a rise out of him. He winces, then sighs, so I decide to pile on an extra helping of humble pie.

“Wait till you see what Chenille did with the braids—she got this great idea to intertwine pieces of pink chiffon into them.”

Dame Leeds looks down and nods like
Whatever
makes you clever
. Luckily, when our makeup artists, Bobby Beat and Kimono Mini Mo, arrive, they raise the quotient of air-kissing to the ceiling. Then the dynamic duo lay out their assortment of selected makeup for the House of Pashmina models like they’re Renaissance artists preparing to attack a blank canvas. “Think Pink. I’ve been saying that to myself all morning!” coos Bobby Beat.

I can’t resist ogling the extensive pink palettes—cream and powder eye shadows, loose glitter, lipsticks, glosses, powder blushes—all arranged with choreographed care. “I can’t wait for my first Bobby Beat beat,” I squeal.

“We are saving the best for last, Miss Purr,” Bobby Beat jokes, arranging his brushes.

“No way, you’ve got pink brushes, too!” Fifi squeals.

“Girls, where have you been? Obviously not at the Sephora counters lately—exclusive home of the Tarina Tarantino collection and the one and only purveyor of pink makeup brushes!”

Before I can even open my mouth to ask, Bobby Beat retorts, “Fifty-nine dollars for a five-brush set. Now, if we win this lunch money today, children, I can purchase sets for everyone.”

“We’re going to hold you to that,” swears Fallon, arriving with the rest of the models, right on time for rehearsal and to indulge in the pure pandemonium of
preshow jitters. “Ooh, I was so nervous getting here. I was going down the subway stairs and this group of rowdy sailors running up the stairs almost knocked me over. I held on to that banister real tight going down, praying, ‘Please, God, don’t let me fall. Don’t let lightning strike twice on the IRT’!”

Of course, we all know Fallon is referring to the subway line taken by Liza Flake—but we’re all too superstitious to comment, except Aphro, who blurts out, “It
is
Freaky Friday.”

Chenille arrives backstage with a duffel bag slung over her left shoulder and Fabbie Tabbie in a carrier. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume she was an army recruit reporting for duty, by the looks of her attire: drab green khaki pants to match the duffel bag and a dark green cotton hoodie over a tank. The only thing missing: dog tags dangling on a chain around her neck.

“Aww, the star has arrived,” coos Angora.

“Yes, she has,” I reply, beaming at Chenille. Then I motion to Fifi to harness the junior models—and watch them like a hawk, as it’s time to address my troops. “We’re doing
two
run-throughs. Also, junior models, you’re only appearing on the runway once; then you will walk out at the end in a procession with all the models.”

The junior models nod. Stellina grins wildly. “We know that!”

“For the rest of my models—each time you come back from the runway, stand backstage with your dresser, who will tell you when it’s your turn to go out,” I explain. “And after you have walked on the runway in
your third outfit, keep it on. Remember, the Teen Style Network is out there—so give it all you’ve got! See you on the runway!”

“See ya, supermodel!” shouts Stellina.

Sure enough, Caterina and the rest of the Teen Style Network are already stationed by the ramp, ready to shoot. I stand by the ramp with Nole and Fifi. Lupo is in position, too, snapping away with his trusty Nikon camera.

We wait for Zeus to turn up the lights to begin the run-through. First up, two of my junior models—E.T. and Stellina. They sashay to the end of the runway, then veer off, one to the left side and the other to the right. Stellina stands for her single pose, then turns.

I motion to her, making the gesture for the umbrella. “You open the umbrella, twirl!”

“Oh, sorry!” she shouts.

“Don’t worry—we’re doing two run-throughs.”

Caterina motions to me. I tell Nole and Fifi to take over while I go chat with her.

“The Heels on Wheels cart looks amazing,” Caterina congratulates me. “I think I was your first donation. I donated a pair of Vivienne Westwoods with platform heels.” She chuckles like a disco queen. “Do you really think guests will bring shoes to donate?”

“Well, we sent out five hundred invites to our friends and families—hopefully they plan on helping.”

“You think you’ll win the Wild Card Challenge?”

“Excuse me,” I say, distracted. I want to give further instruction to my crew. “Benny’s supposed to drop his barrel tote when he gets to the end of the runway,” I shout.

“He knows—mind your business!” Nole shouts back.

I dart my eyes back to Caterina. “Yes, the House of Pashmina will win the Wild Card Challenge. I think so.”

“What makes you so sure?” Caterina probes.

I resist the temptation to reveal my intel, or my source, who is stationed on the fashion front.

“Have you already gotten reports from Diamond Tyler? She ran from me after the Moet Major fashion show,” Caterina informs me. “Isn’t it against regulations for team members to stray from their designated area?”

Buckling, I don’t attempt to brave a fib-eroni. Instead, I blast through my sound bite. “I’m going to win the Wild Card Challenge because everybody likes the givers and not the takers.”

“Pashmina!” yells Sally G. I look back and she’s holding my cell phone.

“Are we done?” I ask Caterina, desperate to escape.

“For now,” she replies. “Can you tell Dame Leeds I’ll need five minutes?”

“Oh, okay,” I shriek, then toddle away.

When Sally G. hands me the phone, I bark at her.
“You can’t leave your station now—you’ve got to make sure your models come out in order!”

“I know, Pash, but it’s Diamond. She says she’s gotta speak to you,” Sally G. says, miffed.

“Awright, I got it,” I say apologetically. “Yes, Diamond?” I answer, anxious.

“Shalimar’s show was amazing,” she reports.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, the Wild Card Challenge was executed very well. She divided the show into the Seven Principles of Style Success. And on each guest’s chair was the faux book.”

“What book? Wait, hang on.” I motion to Dame Leeds. “Caterina needs five with you.”

Dame doesn’t jump to my command, so I glare at his back until he does. He saunters out of the dressing room.

I put my ear back to the phone and Diamond breaks it down. “Well, it was a booklet called
The Seven Principles of Style Success
. I couldn’t get my hands on one since they were on the guests’ chairs and I was hiding in the back, but it was really the show’s program.”

Suddenly, I remember Shalimar telling me the reason I wasn’t on the fast track was because I hadn’t read
The Seven Secrets to Success
. “Bingo, I know where she got that from—from the book her father read,” I recall.

Diamond continues, “The first model in each segment came out and held up a sign with an element from Shalimar’s must-have list, like ‘Military Enlistment. Dress with disciplined purpose.’ That segment had a red wool three-quarter-sleeve peacoat with eco-friendly wool faux-fur lining. Another model had on an anorak and slouch pants. And the models marched, by the way.”

“Did Shalimar model in the show?”

“Yes, she came out in the Eco-Friendly segment. ‘The hunt is over for the hue of choice. Go hunter green.’ ”

“So was her show packed?” I ask, succumbing to my own shade of green—envy.

“Yes, to the rafters,” Diamond rattles on, but I’m distracted by the commotion at the hair and makeup station. Bobby Beat is under the counter, fooling around with outlets.

“Oh. Did you see C. C. to tell him I’m not the one who leaked his Wild Card Challenge?” I ask, fretting.

“Pashmina, I’ve already had a close call with Caterina—she almost caught me on camera!” objects Diamond.

“I know, stay below the radar—we’re almost in the homestretch. Call me back,” I plead with her. I’m so distracted I can’t even listen to any more of Diamond’s report from the fashion front.

“
Ciao
, meow,” Diamond signs off.

“Wow, she really does have a sense of humor underneath all that faux fur,” I mumble to Bobby and Mini Mo, then recount the blow-by-blow from the House of Shalimar show.

“Why is it so dark in here?” I ask, noticing that the makeup and hair station is dark.

“We’ve been trying to turn on the makeup lights at the counter to prepare for the stampede of models coming our way!” Bobby Beat explains, exasperated.

“The switches aren’t working,” seconds Mini Mo.

“And someone needs to get that taken care of before I plug in the hot comb to no avail,” Chenille chimes in.

The run-through is finished and I fret to Fifi and Angora, who return backstage. “What’s wrong with the outlets? Please, somebody help me!”

Now even Zeus, who has also returned backstage, tries to get into the outlet action, but he comes up short. “The lights went out on the runway, too. I don’t know—all the lights seem to be out.”

I get down on my knees and plug the hot combs into different sockets, but
nada
, nothing happens. No lights, no camera, no action. “Oh, come on, don’t get shady with me now!”

“Omigod,
mija
, what are we going to do?” Fifi screams, hysterical.

“We should get Farfalla,” orders Aphro.

“No way. I need Ice Très,” I snap.

“But he can’t come back here,” frets Angora.

“Where’s Diamond? She can find Farfalla,” suggests Aphro.

“
No
. You don’t move. We can’t afford to have any more members MIA!” I shout. I pull out my phone and send Ice Très a Code Pink text: “I need you NOW.”

“Do you think he’ll come?” asks Dame, who has returned to the fashion fray. “Or maybe we should just send an SOS and pray to be rescued from Gilligan’s Island.”

“Not to worry. Ice Très always manages to find a way to get to me,” I say, my heart pounding.

“I’m gonna call my dad,” frets Angora. Her father is an animation whiz, but mostly when it comes to Funny Bunny rabbits. “Maybe he can talk us through it.”

“Well, the clock is ticking and tocking—Angora, let me start with you,” frets Bobby Beat. He pats the back of his makeup chair like a mad scientist.

“Not now,
s’il vous plaît
,” she says anxiously.

“Just as well—I can’t see what I’m doing, so unless we’re going for the Big Apple Circus look, I might as well surrender my brushes,” Bobby Beat says, frustrated.

“That was not necessary,” I snap.

“Well, we are under the same tent—I thought it was fitting,” he says, flicking his hair out of his face.

Suddenly, Ice Très appears backstage just like in my dream. “How did you get past the security guards?”

“I told you I’d be here for you. So, what’s the Code Blue?” he says, customizing the Catwalk emergency code to a shade he prefers.

“Help me, please,” I say, breathing heavily. “We can’t figure out what’s wrong with the outlets!”

“I got it,” Ice Très says confidently.

He takes the melton cloth holding his tools from his messenger bag and opens up the circuit board.

“Wow—forget the fashion emergency kit. We gotta start rolling like that?” Aphro blurts out, amazed.