Catwalk (77 page)

“Get dressed!” I command her.

“What? In the dark?” she counters.

“All right—I got this situation under control,” Ice Très shouts from behind the panel.

Suddenly, the lights on the makeup bureau pop on.

“Oh, thank gooseness!” I squeal.

Ice Très checks the lights behind the runway scrim. A few minutes later, he comes backstage and gives me a hug. “Look, I’m not Con Edison, but I’ll tell you this—that short-circuit situation didn’t happen by itself. Somebody intentionally rerouted those wires.”

I fall backward. Angora tries to catch me. “Omigod, the dream—I think I know what it was trying to tell me,” I realize, like I’m having a vision. “It’s not that
I’m going to fall on my face. My shoes were rigged in the dream.”

Angora, Aphro, and Fifi stare at me, and just like a crew who are as tight as we are, we utter the dreaded word in unison: “SHALIMAR!”

“That’s what the dream was trying to tell me—not to fall for any of her tricks!” I say triumphantly. “She’s been out to get us from day one!”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that,” blurts out Fifi. “I was right! She found another way to sabotage us—and it almost worked!”

“Yeah, it almost did,” I realize, calmed by the revelation in the eye of the fashion storm. Now I turn and squarely face Zeus as another revelation sinks in. “And I’m not going to fall for your tricks, either. That’s why you weren’t backstage in my dream. You changed the tune—and deserted me because you can’t be trusted!”

Zeus gives me the evil eyeball. “Yeah, well, I can leave now if that’s how you feel.”

“Hold up,” Ice Très says, calming us all down. “We—I mean, you guys have a fashion show to put on. You’ve worked all year for this. Keep your eye on the prize. You’re a team. Don’t fall apart now—then Shalimar will have won.”

We stand around silently, soaking in the objective
advice. Even Dame suspends his hairbrush in midair. “He’s right—let’s get to work! We got a show to put on.”

Ice Très hugs me tight. “You’re going to win this,” he whispers in my ear.

“I’ve already won—because I’ve got you,” I whisper back, tears in my eyes.

Ice Très gives me a long kiss until Bobby Beat insists that I succumb to his powder brush.

“Good luck, boo kitties!” Ice Très shouts as he sneaks back out.

After another hour of preparation, the five child models and ten adult models line up to get ready for the first procession.

Stellina is bouncing off the walls. “Pinch me, Miss Purr, please. Pinch me.”

I almost oblige to keep her still, but Dame is yanking my hair. “Your sister is good, I must say,” he confesses.

“I know,” I admit, beaming at Chenille proudly, but she is still no-nonsense, as usual. She’s sitting in her hairdresser slot waiting for the second procession, when we will put up the ponytails into chignons.

“Not too much pink!” I squeal. “I’m watching you, too.”

“Yeah, well, our eyes are watching God,” Dame says, motioning upward.

“Good idea,” says Fifi. “I would have brought my
Love candle to burn back here, but it’s missing from my room.”

“Really?” I ask. I’m sure I saw a whole roomful of candles at Fifi’s house two weeks ago.

“I think Papi took it since he can’t be with me,” Fifi says, holding back her tears.

Diamond enters the backstage area.

“I knew you’d be back,” shouts Nole. His pudgy cheeks fill out with pride.

“Yes, I wanted to tell you that Ruthie Dragon is not happy about manning the Heels on Wheels cart, but it looks like it’s filling up!” Diamond reports, her eyes beaming, full of charity.

“You mean there are people out there already?” shrieks Angora.

“Yeah. Just waiting in the lobby!
Oh
. I saw this guy bringing like two shopping bags—no, I mean they were
Hefty
bags—filled with shoes,” adds Diamond.

“Wow—we need a few more guests like him, huh?” I say, getting unbelievably hyped.

“Anyway, he gave me a card to give to Felinez,” Diamond continues.

Felinez grabs the envelope and opens it. She reads the card, and tears stream down her cheeks. “Papi is here!”

“Really?” I shriek, my eyes tearing up, too. “Read it so we can hear!”

“It’s in Spanish, but I’ll translate,” Fifi says, choking back the tears. “ ‘My precious daughter, I would not miss this day for anything in the world. I will be coming back home because I cannot live without you and my family. When you were born I prayed that you would have all your fingers and toes, but God gave me so much more in you. You are so talented in so many ways, and the best daughter I could have wished for. Love, Papi.’ ”

I look around at all my crew—even the models are trying not to cry. “You two—stop crying!” I shout at Angora and Aphro, who are on the verge of ruining their makeup. Even Bobby Beat has gotten teary-eyed.

“Who could live without you? I can’t.” I kiss my BFF on both cheeks; then we hug.

Diamond is moved, too. “I didn’t know that was your father,” she says, touched that she was the messenger. “He just asked Ruthie if he could give her the card to give to you, and Ruthie said no, she couldn’t leave the cart. He looked so helpless. I told him I would do it.”

“Did he look okay?” Fifi asks, concerned.

“Oh, he looks really nice—he’s wearing a black suit and tie,” Diamond reports.

“No, I mean does he look okay?”

“Oh, yes, he looks happy. And he shaved,” adds Diamond, wondering if she’s said the desired words yet.

Obviously she has, because Fifi snaps out of her
Kodak moment, reignited with a passionate purpose, and squeaks: “Okay, we gotta get ready!”

“Yes, let’s get in position, fashionistas. It’s almost showtime!” I shout for good measure.

“Yeah, well, you—in position in my chair!” Bobby Beat orders me. “It’s time.”

“Oh, you look so beautiful,” I coo at my junior models, who are all dressed and ready to rip the runway. They are standing in order. Waiting.

After fifteen minutes, my makeup is done and it’s time for my hair. Nole has steamed my pink satin bustier and skirt. “This is a showstopper.” He gets Fabbie Tabbie’s wedding gown ready. “Should I dress her now?”

“Yup, let’s all get into play.”

As I’m getting trussed up in my bustier, the models for the Urban Gear sequence are ready and waiting. Elgamela and Fallon are also ready for their bathing suit sequence. Fallon even looks happy to be wearing her bathing suit. “You know, I could wear this to the beach. I would even take off the cover-up,” she whoo-hoos.

Now we can hear the crowd swelling outside the runway scrim. “Is it crowded?” I ask, hyperventilating.

“We can’t look, how do we know?” barks Nole. He is fretting with Fabbie Tabbie, making sure she looks perfect. “Omigod, I feel like she’s my own,” he says nervously.

Farfalla comes backstage. “Everybody ready?”

“Yes, we’re ready!” I shout.

“You start in
five. Buona fortuna!
” she says with glee.

“Buona, buona!”
Bobby Beat shouts back.

Zeus activates the music tracks, then takes his place in line.

“You look hot,” Nole says, eyeing the Mad Hatter.

I want to kick him, but I’m afraid to lift up my evening skirt or move too suddenly. Fifi brings over my kitten heels. “You’re sure they’re not rigged?” I ask her.

“No, Cinderella, they’re not!” she quips, carefully slipping my feet into the pink mules with crystal flowers. Fabbie Tabbie is perched on a high chair so she can stay out of the way until the finale.

“Showtime!” I squeal as the music comes on.

The junior models are released toward the bright lights, and immediately we hear a roar of clapping.

“Yes!” I cheer, flooded suddenly by the welling of tears. Bobby Beat is looking right in my direction and points his big pink powder brush. “Don’t you dare, Miss Purr!” he threatens me.

I break out smiling and fan my eyes with my hands. Bobby Beat quickly comes over and fans me, too.

The junior models have finished and they come back sweating. “I’m going to be a model!” announces Stellina, like she has figured out her destiny.

“You already are!” I coo at her.

The models for the Urban Gear segment are working
the runway. Benny Madina and Mink Yong are the last two to return. “It’s a full house, honey!” shouts Benny.

Now Elgamela and Fallon go out for the bathing suit segment, and this one gets the most applause so far. But Elgamela comes back in tears. “My mother fainted right in her chair!” she screams. “I can’t go back out there!”

“No, no, come on, put on the dress!” hisses her dresser, Fabunique.

We realize that Elgamela is not joking, but the show must go on. “Are you sure your mother fainted?” I ask in disbelief. The lights are so bright on the runway, how could she possibly see anybody in the audience?

“Stop that train at Petticoat Junction immediately!” barks Bobby Beat. He runs over with Mini Mo to mend the ruined eye makeup. “Pull it together, Elgamela. Your mother will survive, like Gloria Gaynor!”

I’m so nervous that I burst out laughing. So does Zeus. “At least my mother is gonna be happy,” I giggle. “I picked her favorite disco song to close our show.”

Now Elgamela laughs. “You’re right—that’s probably not my mother, but someone else wearing traditional Muslim headwear!”

The absurdity is not lost on us. Elgamela is turning pro. The models for the Chic Meets Street segment are on the runway. Elgamela gets ready for her evening outfit—the tattersall skirt and bustier. Relieved that
another crisis has been averted, I can’t help but ask, “Has anyone laid eyes on Shalimar out there?”

“Oh, yes, she’s standing in the back with Zirconia, green with envy!” reports Aphro. “I glared right at her, but don’t worry, I didn’t miss one turn, pivot, or sashay.”

“Trust—I’m not worried,” I say, fretting inside.

The evening wear models head out onto the runway. “You look great!” I coo to Fallon, who was so worried about spilling out of her bustier.

“Ruffles really do have ridges!” jokes Nole, patting Fallon on her chest.

I breathe deeply, getting ready for my finale.

Fifi and the other dresser, Dominique, truss me up in my finale dress even tighter. “Oh, you look like a fairy godmother!” Fifi says, her eyes watering.

“So does Fabbie Tabbie,” coos Angora.

I stand behind the curtain waiting for the music cue, holding Fabbie Tabbie’s leash tightly. “Fabbie Tabbie—it’s showtime.”

Fabbie Tabbie scratches at her ear like the veil is bothering her.

“Oh,
purr favor
—not now. We’re almost there!”

Fifi bends down and adjusts the veil, patting Fabbie Tabbie on her head to calm her down.

Right on cue, the remixed version of “I Will Survive,” sung by the übertalented Alyjah Jade, cranks up, signaling my grand finale with Fabbie Tabbie. Suddenly,
I wonder if Alyjah Jade is in the audience. Smiling inside, I hope she is.

Fallon is back from the runway. “We have survived!” she squeals. I beam at her, pleased that my plus-size model ripped the runway without a wardrobe malfunction. “See, I told you you could do it!” I whisper to her.

“I know!” she whispers back, excited. “Wilhelmina Plus-Size Division—here I come!”

My heart pounds in my chest as the last model returns and I stand ready to rip the runway.

When I walk out, the paparazzi are flashing their cameras like crazy and the crowd is a blur. I try not to look at the judges sitting in the front row, but I can’t help noticing Tarina Tarantino’s shocking-pink wig, which is even brighter than I imagined it. She is seated with Ms. Lynx and the other judges, and I sense that she is beaming at me brightly. The audience claps loudly with each step Fabbie Tabbie and I take. When we get to the end of the runway, Fabbie Tabbie sits on her haunches like a true supermodel. I feel tears in my eyes again, but I will them not to fall—not now. I firmly stand on my kitten heels, knowing they will hold up. Just like Fifi, Angora, Aphro, Nole, and even Diamond have, I have survived through all this. I return backstage breathless. “OH, MY GOD!!!!” I shout. “We did it!!!!”

After I recover, my models and the rest of my crew march out on the runway in a long procession. The audience goes wild. They give us a standing ovation. I walk out holding Fabbie Tabbie in my arms. I search the audience, looking for my mother. She is sitting in the second row next to a handsome older man in a gray pinstripe suit. “Bravo!” she yells. “Bravo!”

I pose for the cameras as flashbulbs pop wildly, and wave to Caterina. Now my crew turns toward me and claps. “Bravo!” they scream. I am so overwhelmed, my lower lip trembles. Fifi’s father hurries to the end of the runway and shoves a big bouquet of pink roses into her arms. “
Te amo
. I love you,” she says to her father. Then she turns to me and we hug each other so tightly, she crushes her beautiful rose bouquet into my bustier. “I love you.”

Standing still. That’s what I’m having the most trouble doing right now. Against my focused will, I shift my weight on my pink kitten heels, staring down at the jewel-encrusted cat clips slaved over by my bestest Fifi for my tootsies only. It’s Monday evening, exactly seventy-two hours after our triumphant fashion shows in Lincoln Center, and I’m on the cavernous stage in the Fashion Auditorium with the four other rival house leaders in this year’s Catwalk competition: Shalimar Jackson, C. C. Samurai, Anna Rex, and Moet Major.

The five of us are lined up in a row like soldiers of style while the Teen Style Network crew pans our every twitchy expression with their handheld cameras. Gazing up at us from their cushy position in the front-row seats are the five prestigious judges of this year’s Catwalk competition, including Ms. Fabianna Lynx, the director of the Catwalk competition and Fashion International High School’s assistant vice principal.

Also permitted on the premises for this very special judgment day: the remaining members of the five Catwalk houses, quarantined to the back rows and
given a gag order by Ms. Lynx’s trusted assistants, Farfalla and Sil Lai, and two hefty security guards. Although quiet as church mice, everyone in my crew is present and purring, including my younger sister, Chenille, who didn’t join the fashion fray until the not-so-chic Liza crisis but delivered like an
unbeweavable
pro and will be treated as such from now on.