Catwalk (35 page)

“I know what would look
très
romantic to wear with that,” interjects Angora, smoothing down her beret in the front. “Berets with big satin bows in front,” she says, proudly.

“Wow, I dig that!” I say.

“That sounds cutesy,” Aphro replies. “And feline fatale style should be bursting at the seams with scratch appeal.”

“And that’s exactly what we’ll be doing to fit into those things!” shoots Phallon, letting out the tension with her own seam ripper. “Busting out!” Clearly she’s a little insecure about fitting her 38DDD bustline into the Carmen-style corset tops with velvet ruffle trim and hook-and-eye closures up the front.

“Don’t worry—at the show the dressers will have you trussed up like a turkey!” says Nole.

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about!” counters Phallon, thoroughly annoyed. She squirms in her chair, obviously uncomfortable. I can tell she’s wearing one of those high-waisted girdles, which my mother never leaves home without, by the way she pushes up her rib cage to catch her breath.

“Oh, come on, Phallon. It will be fun,” coos Elgamela, batting her fluttery eyelashes.

“Fun for you. Not for me! And fun for the audience if one of Phallon’s ta-tas topples on them!” warns Phallon.

“My vision for feline fatale fashion has always been for both regular and plus-size models to wear the same silhouettes—and not be confined by their size,” I explain, gently. “I can assure you that the corset top will be constructed to accommodate your—um—you.”

“It better be,” groans Phallon. Now everyone in the room is focusing on her size-16 form spilling over the tiny conference room chair.

It’s Lupo, not me, however, who tames her size tantrum. “
Bella
, I will shoot photos for you in the corset and you will see how beautiful you will look—and you can use for your portfolio, no?”

Phallon melts like butter on a hot griddle under Lupo’s simmering gaze. “You would do that for me? Good. Cuz I sure could use some photos. And I’ma hold you to it!”

I want to blurt out,
Well, you’d better stand in line, cuz I’m first!
But I stick to the agenda, winding up the meeting. “So, we’ll have some more sketches next week, no?” I ask, directing my question at Diamond.

“Yes, we will. Beachwear, the off-the-shoulder tops and dresses, and the wedding gown,” says Diamond, siphoning off the tension.

Now Nole shoots me a knowing look. He thinks his cat Penelope is going to close the show. I’ve got to
figure out a way for Fabbie Tabby to sashay to the finish line. Penelope is one of Nole’s prize Persian cats, with a pancake-flat nose that I’m convinced is the product of a botched alley-cat rhinoplasty procedure.

“Okay, so I’m thinking the call of show is gonna be about thirty-two looks,” I say, calculating how many outfits will be in our fashion show.

“That’s it?” challenges Ruthie Dragon. “The winning house last year had forty-two looks.”

“I know that,” I say, self-consciously, ever mindful of the probing lens in the corner. “And when you’re the house leader and fashion show producer, you can orchestrate fifty looks if you want!”

“That’s right—Wall Street is crashing, so why shouldn’t we?” pouts Nole Canoli, sucking in his pudgy cheeks.

Camera or no camera, I realize it’s time to let Nole know who’s in charge: “I’m sorry that we don’t have the unlimited budget to stage a scene from
The Fifth Element
for you, but even designers showing in tents at Bryant Park are showing sparer collections. Zang Toi’s spring collection only had twenty-six looks.”

“Pash is right,” pipes up Bobby Beat. He whips out a sheet of paper like it’s an analytical flowchart to support his argument at a board meeting. “Here’s the program for the Mara Hoffman spring collection show I
went to.” He pauses for dramatic punctuation. So does everyone else who isn’t a senior—the only students allowed to darken the doorstep, or rather the tents, at Bryant Park with their F.I. student access passes. “Thirty-five looks to be exact. And the show was flawless—well-received by the buyers
and
the press.” As we all know, in the fickle world of fashion, where one week you’re in and the next you’re out, the approval of the latter is far more important than that of the former. Fab press always means fab orders. Not the other way around.

“Well, can we at least match that number?” insists Nole Canoli.

“That we can do. You and Diamond bring me sketches for five evening looks next meeting.”

“Done,” concedes Nole.

“Okay, fashionistas, so we’re off shopping for fabrics and supplies soon—and ready for a sampling at our next meeting. Can I get a meowch on that?” I ask, signaling it’s a wrap and a falafel.

“Meowch indeed,” says Chintzy Colon, enthusiastically.

Felinez shoots her a look like she wants to scratch her eyes out.

“Oh, and please don’t forget—I need your submissions for child models, because we’ll be doing that audition soon!” I remind everyone.

As my team members start trickling out, Caterina approaches, finally coming out of her observational cocoon. “Pashmina, a few questions, please.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think the Catwalk budget is enough to create your, um, elaborate vision for the show? Or is it unfair to expect so much for so little?” queries Caterina, sticking the mic near my face.

I wince at Caterina’s catchall phrase for my vision and wonder what the other houses are doing. Only Caterina would know. Catching myself, I cut to the bottom line, though: “I’m glad they give us something! Whatever sacrifice we have to make by pooling all our resources together—working part-time, getting donations from family members—we do what we gotta do. The competition may be wicked, but the prizes are
worth
it.”

“Yes, but I heard Diamond mention something about a wedding gown? Come on—that’s a tall order even for a bride-to-be, let alone
students
participating in a fashion show competition,” Caterina says, baiting me.

I wince again—this time at Caterina’s calling us out like we’re Crayola cronies instead of fashionistas in training—but I shut her down: “Well, first of all, that was going to be our little secret. But nobody gets to see this footage before the competition is over, right?”

“That’s right. You know that,” Caterina assures me.

“Okay, well … we were going to have—I mean, one of our cats is going to close the show … in the wedding gown,” I whisper, furtively, like I’m Karl Lagerfeld revealing secrets for the House of Chloe couture collection.

“What do you mean, ‘we’? Penelope is closing the show!” screams Nole.

“Says who?” I counter.

“Says me, or I’m walking right over to Ms. Lynx’s office and having you disqualified for lying!” snarls Nole, turning nasty.

The crew gets quiet at the prospect of a real catfight.

I switch my gears, pronto. “Nole, listen, all the models have to begin their runway training in a few weeks, right?”

“So?” retorts Nole.

“So what if Fabbie Tabby and Penelope walk the catwalk in a Pose Off so we see who will get trained to close the show?”

“Oh, please, Penelope will leave Fabbie Tabby curled up in a fur ball!” boasts Nole.

“So we have a deal?” I ask.

“In principle,” concedes Nole, hesitantly.

Caterina goes over to huddle with her crew. Now Zeus, who has been hovering over the Catwalk
hurricane, moves in and envelops me in his arms. “It’s all good,” he whispers, hugging me tighter.

I feel myself melting in his arms. Instantly, I’m fantasizing that he’s finally broken up with his girlfriend, the one-star cook, and is ready for my style soufflé instead. I can dream, can’t I?

Felinez is not impressed with my recipe for invoking Cupid’s spell, because she cuts in and bluntly asks, “Are we going to Subway?”

Zeus shoots me a look like
Don’t let me stop you
. “Sorry, but I gotta go meet my dad,” he confesses, a troubled cloud passing over his sparkling dark eyes.

“Okay,” I sigh, acknowledging the collapse of my fashion fantasy starring Zeus and me. “Wazzup? You seem preoccupied.”

“It’s deep. The landlord raised the rent again on my dad’s shop, and he seriously can’t afford it—so he’s tripping about that. I’ma run by there now,” Zeus says.

“These landlords are biting the flavor out of the Big Apple,” I say, sympathetically. “The rents are so radickio the only retailers who can afford them are Victoria’s Secret, Banana Republic, and the Gap. New York is gonna turn into one gap-ing secret republic stuffed with so many bananas at its core it’ll topple the Statue of Liberty!”

“That’s what I’m talking about. My dad says soon, finding an old-school tailor—well, he didn’t use that
term, but you know what I mean—is gonna be a blackmarket situation. I’m not joking, you’re gonna have to slither in an alleyway and go up five flights, then tap three times on a trick door to get your pants altered without a
crooked
hem!”

“I heard that,” I say, giving Zeus an extra hug. “My mom is seriously worried about the rent drama in New York, too. Even Madison Avenue boutiques, like the Forgotten Diva, are affected. They have to clock $110,000 a month in sales just to cover operating expenses, inventory, and salaries.”

“Wow, that’s deep pockets,” Zeus says, tipping his hat, then lingering for a minute.

I turn my attention to Fifi and her needs. “Speaking of down under, do you mean the subway below, or the Subway between slices?” I ask for clarification.

“What do you think, Miss House Leader?” she riffs. Of course, I know that Felinez always likes to hit Subway before we take the subway. She is one senorita who does not miss a Happy Meal—or a sad one. “We gotta make it quick, though, because Chris Midgett is coming over.”

“Interviewing circus performers for the fashion show? That’s a slick move,” says Zeus, nodding.

Embarrassed, I explain about my computer crisis. After all, Angora already filled him in. Now Felinez and Angora throw in a few giggles for good measure.

When Caterina comes back, I motion with my eyes for them to can the desktop drama. “Um, Pashmina, one last question?” she says.

“Shoot,” I say, all smiles. But suddenly, I get paranoid; maybe Caterina already knows. It would be in keeping with her scorpion nature to sting me without warning.

“How was your job interview the other day?” she spurts, nonchalantly.

I’m stunned by her arachnid effect. Even Angora and Felinez both stop in midgiggle.

Does everybody know I didn’t get the freakin’ job!
I want to hurl back. Instead, I decide that in this instance, the truth is appropriate. “Actually, Aphro got that job. It’s a hot new boutique. Jones Uptown,” I say, smiling on cue.

Caterina grimaces slightly. I guess she
didn’t
know. She scuttles over to Aphro with the mic.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a wrap—and a falafel—so I motion to Felinez for us to jet. I’m not supposed to leave until everyone has cleared out, because I’m responsible for closing up Studio C after the meeting, but I’m not in the mood to deal with Aphro right now. Even Dame Leeds is giving me the hairy eyeball. “Um, can I get with you for a second, Miss Purrstein,” he says, authoritatively.

I want to stomp my foot and pout like Felinez used
to do when we were little and I swiped the pink crayons out of her box: “No
más
. No more!”

Instead, I hear myself saying, sweetly, “Wazzup?”

“Listen, I know I’m responsible for Liza showing up—or not showing up—whatever. Trust, I will deal with that situation. But I don’t see why you had to penalize me for her disappearing act,” blurts out Dame, defensively.

Now I’m following the drift of his drama. “That’s not why I vetoed the sketch, um, the design,” I say, puzzled. “I just didn’t feel it represented the House of Pashmina, that’s all.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I realize that Craig, the other camera guy, is catching our exchange on his handheld video camera. My cheeks flush as Dame continues to singe my leadership with his hot comb: “Well, you could be more open to suggestions, that’s all I’m saying!”

Now I’m stinging like Dijon mustard, but I nod attentively at Dame, hoping he’ll just press on. Frantically searching for the right thing to say, I blurt out, “Dame, you and Liza are valuable team members. Can’t we table this until our next meeting?”

Finally, Dame stops in his drama tracks. “Well, good, cuz don’t get it French twisted, okay?”

“Oh, I won’t. I don’t, I mean,” I say, smiling sweetly as he sashays down the hallway.

Satisfied, Craig shifts his camera in another direction. I’m embarrassed but I exhale deeply, then turn to address my team members with a warm good night. “Awright, everybody. You don’t have to go home, but you gotta get up outta here!” I shout. As everybody exits, I stand by the door, waiting patiently. Mink and Kissa strike a pose as they come through the door, giggling. “Sashay, parlay!” I giggle back. Taking inventory, I realize what I need most in my fashion-biz survival kit: always be equipped with equal parts purrlicious sound bites, ego salve, and outfits!

Aphro walks out the door without looking at me, tagging behind Angora. Angora at least turns and mouths at me,
I gotta go
, before they head down the hallway.

Felinez and I watch them in silence while I make sure the door to Studio C is locked. “She knew you were going to be upset about the job thing,” blurts out Felinez.

“You knew?” I ask, testily.

“She really needs the job, too,
mija
,” Felinez says, rubbing my arm.

“Since when are you fending for Biggie Mouth?” I ask, pouting.

“Since I understand trying to fill an empty purse,” declares Felinez.

“Yeah, it’s definitely not raining Benjies right about now. Speaking of … spot me five so we can hit Subway?” I ask, licking my lips for an Italian sub. Tonight is my mom’s bid whist card game night and I know that Ramon, her boyfriend, or whatever she calls him, is there. I’d rather eat before I go home.

We wolf down the Italian sub sandwich layered with hot sliced peppers and dripping with oil and vinegar—just the way Fifi likes it. Felinez also gets a bag of potato chips and a bag of nacho chips. “You’re such a side hog,” I blurt out before I catch myself.