Catwalk (54 page)

Nonetheless, I stand outside my apartment door like I’m looking for something in my pink hobo purse until I hear Mrs. Paul exit her apartment. The sound of her
jangling keys is music to my ears. Like I’m performing staged choreography, I drop my keys into my purse, then head toward the elevator bank, where she stands like a stone statue.

“Good morning, Mrs. Paul,” I say chirpily.

She gives me a once-over through squinted eyes before delivering the results of her pink poll. “That’s a crazy outfit.”

“Thank you,” I say, as if I didn’t really hear her, then launch into my fashion plea. Before I can even finish, Mrs. Paul judges me guilty.

“The answer is no,” she says firmly. “And you can tell your mother not to be knocking on my door, expecting me to buy any tickets for any such nonsense, either!”

“Oh, I’m not selling any tickets,” I explain earnestly. “It’s invited guests only.”

Now it’s Mrs. Paul’s turn to act like she didn’t hear me. She stares at the elevator ceiling, humming a hymn, clutching her black vintage purse with the gold kiss lock like it’s filled with prayers. I stare down at my boots, wondering why she brought my mother into the fashion fray. My mother never knocked on her door. Mrs. Paul was the one who used to knock on our door at the crack of dawn to “deliver the word”—until my mother delivered her fiery wrath.

Sighing, I decide it’s best to abort Mission: Impossible
before my tape self-destructs. I press the second-floor button so that I can go to eight-year-old Stellina’s apartment and confirm the audition time. Stellina is my junior model choice numero uno, and her mother has enthusiastically given her permission.

Not surprisingly, Stellina opens the door since her mother, Mrs. Warren, rarely moves from the couch in the daytime. She works the night shift as a nurse at Harlem Hospital nearby. “Good morning, supermodel!” Stellina says excitedly. “I can’t wait to audition later and show you wannabes how to pose for purr points!”

“That’s exactly why I’m here. Can I talk to your mother,
purr favor
?” I say, peering into the living room.

“Why?” Stellina asks suspiciously.

“I just wanna make sure it’s still okay with her.”

“It’s okay if I say it’s okay,” Stellina says, whispering, since she hasn’t lost all her fashion marbles.

“Who at the door, Stellina?” Mrs. Warren yells.

“Hi, Mrs. Warren. It’s me, Pashmina.” I gingerly step into the living room so she can see me.

Mrs. Warren is propped on the couch with a tumbler glass in her hand. She puts it down on the end table and scratches her exposed arm, right below her ladybug tattoo. “Stellina done wore me out about that audition—I know she’s going with Tiara and her mother, so that’s fine.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Warren,” I say cheerfully.

“You sure done grown,” she says, eyeing me carefully. “How tall you now?”

“Um, five feet nine inches—but I think I’m done growing.” I giggle.

“I think Stellina gonna be taller than that—her daddy was six four, you know,” she says and hmmphs.

“No, I didn’t know that,” I say. Now I wonder where Stellina’s father is—kinda like I wonder where my father is—but Mrs. Warren doesn’t volunteer any more info on that tiddy, kinda like my mother.

“You think she could be a model?” Mrs. Warren asks.

Feeling like a model scout instead of a budding model myself, I make sure to deliver the hype. “Yes. She could prance to a payday, no doubt.”

“Good—cuz you said the operative word—
payday
. She need to be bringing a check up in this house!” Mrs. Warren chuckles, shifting her bulk on the brown velvet couch.

Outside, Stellina follows me to the elevator. “Is Greasy coming?” she asks.

I know she’s referring to Eramus Tyler, whom she teases for his Dax-slicked hairdo. “No,” I say wistfully. “I couldn’t get Mrs. Paul to see the fashion light, but I tried.”

“That’s cuz she got her head up in that Watchtower,” Stellina says mischievously. “Don’t worry—I’ll get her to see the light for ya.”

I’m amused at Stellina’s tenacity, but I know it won’t do any good. Still, I humor her. “Absolutely, supermodel. See ya later.”

As I walk out of my building, my stomach churns in anticipation of my confrontation with Shalimar. Luckily, my cool neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, gives me a shout-out from across the courtyard. “Hey, Pashmina, don’t you look like the cat’s meow!” she yells, beaming, toting her usual Piggly Wiggly shopping bags.

“Thank you, Mrs. Watkins.” I beam back at her.

“When is that fashion show of yours?” she asks.

“In June—we’re coming down to the finish line,” I explain nervously.

“Well, if you need anything, you let me know. I got a few runway moves myself,” she teases me.

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you know!”

“Awright, I gotta get my Take Five. I have a feeling it’s gonna be my lucky day!”

“Well, good luck. I hope it’s
mine
, too!” I wave at Mrs. Watkins as I walk away. That’s probably why I don’t see Mr. Sunkist, the homeless man who hangs around our building, zooming my way with his shopping cart piled high with empty cans. He crashes into me and knocks me over and the cans tumble on top of me. Gagging, I mutter, “Maybe not?”

Getting my hustle on, I round the bend on Seventh Avenue, trying to shield the gaping hole in my fishnets from the prying eyes of fellow fashionistas. I send a text to my crew: “ETA in five. CODE PINK!” so they’ll meet me
pronto
in the Fashion Lounge, our makeshift headquarters for power huddles and fashion emergencies. As usual, the D.T. dogs, who attend Dalmation Tech High School across the wide traverse, are parked on F.I.’s faux-marble steps to gawk at the female fashionistas who make up seventy percent of our student body. That includes Chris “Panda” Midgett, who has cured my computer from a nasty virus but has been angling for more than a tech tune-up ever since. I pretend I don’t see Chris as I climb the stairs, but another admirer is hot on my kitten heels. Like déjà vu from my dream, Ice Très magically pops out from the crowd. “Hello, boo kitty,” he says, shoving his hands in the front pockets of his baggy supersized jeans like he’s searching for something—hopefully a clue.

“Hi, Ice Très,” I reply, supa chilly. Inside, however, I’m wondering why the notorious tagger’s delicious
dimples and warm-milk-chocolate complexion have an effect on me. After all, he stood me up, and this is the first time we’ve said more than two words to each other since. See, Ice Très made a date with
moi
on a Friday night to hang out at this restaurant called Native. I was so amped about it, but he ended up leaving me in the booty dust—without so much as a call, a text, or even an SOS. That Sunday, I heard through the fashion grapevine (which consists of designer Nole Canoli and his Pomeranian, Countess Coco) that Ice Très was seen at Native chomping on conch fritters and crispy corn bread with the Shallow One! That’s right, Shalimar Jackson.

Despite the fact that I’m furious at the dubious double booker, I hear myself say sweetly, “I got a Code Pink. Can I whisper at you later?” Then I point to the gaping hole in my fishnets.

“Oh, right. Got you, boo kitty.” Ice Très winks, gathering the nerve he was obviously searching for in his pockets. “Me and my crew are gonna skate in Central Park by the duck pond later. I’ma tag the overpass for the first time. I’d really dig it if you came.”

I resist the urge to find out if he’s still in conch-fritters cohoots with Shalimar and attempt to keep it moving up the stairs, ignoring him. But Ice Très pleads his case. “I told you Shalimar orchestrated that foul-up. I’m not gonna lie—I needed the hookup she was
dangling about financing my Urban Thug street wear. How many times do I have to tell you how seriously positively
sorry
I am about standing you up?”

Now I yield against my nasty will. Somehow I sense Ice Très is telling the truth. He’s no match for Shalimar’s masterful manipulation. From the day she purchased her first eight ounces of super-straight human hair, courtesy of Adorable Hair on West Twenty-Fourth Street, Shalimar has been “weaving” a spiderweb of deceit to trap the naïve and needy. To Shalimar, hair extensions are career extensions.

“Awright, stop quacking. I’ll run through there with my crew—if the police aren’t there first!
Ciao
, meow!”

“
Ciao
, meow!” the Dalmation dogs heckle in unison.

Ice Très shoots them a disapproving look. “Freeze it, fellas. I’m a PC.”

Angora flings open one of the school doors and her big blue eyes pop at the sight of my bruised leg. “Oh,
chérie
, what happened? You saw Shalimar already?”

“No. Just another victim of fashion roadkill. Mr. Sunkist was trying to make a deposit,” I explain, embarrassed. “But I’m ready for the Shallow One—even though I’m
sooo
dreading the Ice Age exchange.”

“I know, it is a chilly prospect,” Angora agrees, steering me in the direction of the Fashion Lounge.

“Hold up,” I say, eager to get her feedback about the Ice Très exchange.

We make a quick pit stop behind the huge glass trophy case, which holds one of the highly coveted Big Willie bronze dress-form trophies, given to the winner of the Catwalk competition. But suddenly, Angora alerts me to an incoming missile. “Uh-oh, here she comes—Miss America.”

I turn to see the Shallow One striding confidently in our direction—her Adorable Hair weave flapping coquettishly in the wind. I do a double take at the sight of J.B., her snippy mascot, proudly perched in the black Fendi Spy bag at her side. “I thought J.B. was banned to Style Siberia—forever?” I mumble under my breath. Last year, J.B. chewed on Ms. London’s Fendi bag in model appreciation class. Principal Confardi showed his lack of appreciation by yanking J.B.’s Fashion International access pass.

“Hi, Pashmina. Hi, Angora,” Shalimar says, descending upon us, her large brown eyes and white teeth sparkling on cue as she levels her sights squarely on Angora. “Um, Angora, could you give us a moment? This conversation is—
privé. Comprendez-vous?
”

“Oui. Bien sûr,”
Angora says, graciously leaving.

“Hi, J.B.,” I say, gingerly extending my hand to pat his prima donna head. J.B. snaps at my fingers like a hungry piranha. Luckily, I withdraw it before he gets his chomp on.

Shalimar glances at my frenzied fishnets before she
dives into her agenda. “Pashmina, I think you’ve been misinformed by your
assistant
—what’s her name?”

“Do you mean Ruthie Dragon?” I clarify, going along with her charade. Even J.B. probably knows that Ruthie Dragon is my assistant now.

Suddenly, Caterina Tiburon, camouflaged in her usual khaki gear, appears with her ubiquitous Teen Style Network camera crew, ambushing Shalimar and me. The bright light flashes in my eye, causing me to squint. This constant intrusion of so-called reality is due to the fact that Fashion International’s entire faculty and student body have signed a waiver permitting the crew unlimited access. That means no exchange (or corpse in the closet!) is safe from the crew’s probing intentions! I try desperately to shield my frazzled fishnets from the cameraman’s lens, but to no avail. And as I suspected, Shalimar uses the occasion to practice spin control.

“Um, whoever is your assistant. Sorry, I can’t keep up with the turnover in your staff. But, I wanted to personally inform you that I’m not the culprit responsible for your inability to raid—I mean, secure Tracy Reese shoes for your fashion show. I mean, the House of Pashmina fashion show,” Shalimar says, suppressing a smirk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the infamous zebra-striped mink hat on the head of Zeus zooming by.
I desperately want to turn and shout,
“Rescue me!”
And despite the fact that my cheeks are burning from yet another humiliation at Shalimar’s hands—and Jimmy Choo–clad feet—I calmly proceed. “You’re not using Tracy Reese’s shoes in your fashion show? I mean, the
House of Shalimar
fashion show?” I add, mimicking Shalimar’s haughty tone. Two can play that fashion game.

Shalimar responds,
très
tongue-in-chic. “Absolutely not. I’ll be featuring Jimmy Choo shoes
only
. And that’s not revealing any of the design secrets for the House of Shalimar fashion show. Everybody already knows my allegiance to the Malaysian cobbler—since
everything
about me has been dissected on the Catwalk blog almost daily.”

Before I can dissect Shalimar’s dismissal, an eager student vies for her attention. “Excuse me, Shalimar. I hear you’re going to be in charge of the career mentorship program and I need after-school credit—”

“I haven’t decided, but can we talk later? I’m in a meeting,” Shalimar interupts the eager student.

“Oh, sorry, right!” The student giggles, managing to smile right into the camera lens. “And I’m rooting for you front row in June. I know you’ll win!”

After the student leaves, Shalimar regains control of the convo. “Listen, I don’t know which house has
dibs on the Tracy Reese shoes, but I want to make it clear—it isn’t mine. Not the House of Shalimar. Worry not.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” I say. Now I’m confused about my intel, and past experience has taught me to be cautious. See, when my computer froze a few months ago from a nasty virus, I was running around in circles accusing everyone of the cyber whammy—from Aphro to Liza Flake (one of the hairstylists in my house) to even Ice Très. (After all, he did stand me up.) It was only after Felinez and I bribed my sister to spill the refried beans that we figured out it was Chintzy Colon—at the behest of Shalimar. Turns out Chenille accidentally overheard them plotting the plague in the activator room.

I decide it’s time to play my trump card. “Next you’ll tell me that you had nothing to do with getting Chintzy Colon a job at Grubster PR and weren’t behind the cyber crime committed on my computer.”

“Your accusations are
exhausting
. Chintzy is delusional. And the last I heard, she withdrew from your house because of family problems. Clearly she has no shortage of those,” Shalimar says, challenging my intel. “I suggest you look further into the shoe situation before—”