Catwalk (3 page)

“I told you not to leave your magazines in the refrigerator,” Mom snaps without looking up. Now it’s my turn to ignore her while I indulge in my favorite morning ritual—sipping and flipping. I don’t know why she acts so janky about my storage habits—it’s not like we’re running a gourmet garage in the refrigerator. See, my mom is a medi-okra cook, which is why we mostly eat take-out chow. Besides, she’s so tired from working that she doesn’t have time to cook.

Humming, I continue gulping juice and scanning the pages of my cool magazine until I get my fill of Juicy Couture, Gianni Versace, and Kate Spade.

“You excited about today?” asks my mom.

“I’m hyped,” I respond. “I’ve got to get nominated.”

Mom looks puzzled, which makes me realize that she doesn’t remember about the Catwalk competition. She was just asking a general question, like it’s my first day in kindergarten and I’m gleeful about showing off my new Princess Potty Mouth lunch box. (Awright, I did love that thing—stuffed it with PB&J sandwiches till the hinges rusted off.)

I realize that now is not the time to stand mute like a dummy (Catwalk code for mannequin). “Don’t you
remember, all I talked about last year was I couldn’t wait until I was eligible to run for house leader nominations in the Catwalk competition? Hello—well, that time is now!” I shriek, trying to stimulate Mom’s brain cells, which must be suffocating underneath her Beverly Johnson frosted shag wig.

“Okay, don’t get huffy with me. What happens if you get nominated?” Mom asks warily.

“The five candidates with the most student votes get appointed house leaders,” I explain carefully, hoping my mom will grasp how important this is to me. “
Then
I get to pick the students that I want to be members of
my
house—the House of Pashmina.”

“So what else do you get besides that? I don’t like the idea of you spending all that time involved in nonsense. You could get a part-time job and bring some money into this house,” my mom says, tipping her hand. Now I see why she feigned an amnesia attack—she was hoping I’d forgotten all about my little dollhouse dreams. Well, I’ll show her—time to bring out the hot-glue guns!

“I know it may not seem like much to you, but I could snag a one-year modeling contract with one of the five big model agencies. All of them have representatives attending the Catwalk competition fashion shows in
full force
,” I say, zapping her hard.

Mom knows Fashion International’s policy on modeling
as well as I do. They have a not-so-tacit agreement with the model agencies not to sign students under sixteen, and even then, only students who have competed in the Catwalk competition are eligible. But the real prize is that every year at least three student models from the winning house are given one-year, $25,000 modeling contracts. So why shouldn’t I keep my eye on the grand prize?

“And how much is this gonna cost me?” Mom asks, turning defensive.

“The Catwalk Committee provides each house with monthly expense funds. And I’m in charge of the budget—and submitting the monthly expense reports to the Catwalk director,” I counter, my face flushed.

“Yeah, well, I know how these things work. Just remember that my money is funny right now,” Mom says sternly.

“I know,” I say, exasperated.

“Geez,
I know
,” I repeat to myself, barreling down the stairway. When I get to the first-floor landing, I’m blindsided by the latest graffiti scrawled on the wall in screaming red letters:
TREVA AND TINA 4REAL
.
Get a life
, I moan inwardly. I gallop like a moody mare across the courtyard, then catch myself and switch into my sashay
for the rest of the long stretch to the sidewalk. That’s what’s digable about being your own fashion representative: whether you live in a brokendown palace like I do or on a fabbie estate in Connecticut like Eartha Kitt, when you step out into the urban jungle, the only thing people see is your style.

“Pashmina!” Stellina screams, jarring me out of my schemes and dreams; I didn’t see her crouched on the bench across from the monkey bars.

“How ya doing, Pink Head?” she giggles, calling me by my nickname. “That outfit gets
major
purr points!” Ten-year-old Stellina cups her tiny hand into a cat’s paw.

I howl involuntarily because it’s funny to see myself mimicked by someone with such purrlicious potential. Stellina is one of the poised posse of kids who live here and look up to me because I want to be a model. They really gobble up every Kibble ’n Bit of instruction like I’m serving it à la mode.

“How come you sitting out here?” I ask. Stellina and her best friend, Tiara, went away to a Fresh Air Fund camp for most of August. But now it’s back to school, so everybody is springing into action.

“I’m waiting for Tiara—her mother left for work already, so she snuck back upstairs to change her clothes into something more bling-worthy,” Stellina explains, rolling her eyes. I feel bad for Tiara because her mother
must be color-blind: what else could explain her forcing her daughter to mate checked skirts with polka-dot turtlenecks?

At least that’s one drama I don’t have to deal with: my mom doesn’t stress about my dress—even if the creditors are about to knock on our door.

“Whatchu up to?” Stellina asks, panting like a puppy for the 411.

“I got ants in my pants about getting nominated for house leader,” I reveal.

“Oh, that’s jumping off today?” she asks earnestly, then squinches her nose. “You mean the fashion show thing, right?”

“Oui, oui.”

“What do you mean by house—you go to somebody’s house?” she asks.

“No. It’s like—um, we call it a house—a fashion house.” I’m struggling to figure out how to explain it in terms she would understand. “You know, like the House of Baby Phat or the House of Prada.”

“I got you,” she says wisely. “So it’s Prada or
nada
!”

“I hope so. The winning house gets to say
sayonara
. If I don’t win, I’ll be watching eggs fry on the sidewalk for another summer,” I lament. Judging by the puzzled expression on her face, I realize that I have to explain further. “The winning house gets a trip somewhere over the rainbow.”

“I got you.” Stellina nods knowingly. “I wanna go back to camp next summer. It was real fun. But all that swimming was hard on my press-and-curls!”

“Awright, I’m out.”

“See ya, supermodel!” Stellina says with a final sigh. “Can I be a model, too?”

“No doubt,” I assure her.

As I descend into the subway, I indulge in my favorite fantasies: in the first, I’ll spot a model clutching her portfolio, on her way to a go-see; in the second, I’m spotted by a famous photographer or agent or some other Big Willie fashionista who thinks I’m already ripping the runway, but they just can’t help asking, “Are you a model?” I haven’t seen one model yet, but I bet they ride the iron horse because it’s the best way to get around, given the gridlock. I stop to dig absentmindedly into my pom-pom purse for my Fashion International MetroCard, and some harried passenger torpedoes my leg with an oversize shopping bag that must be loaded with bricks, because my knees buckle involuntarily.

I turn to look at the offending “bag lady,” but she doesn’t even say sorry. Luckily, my fishnets are intact and I make it to school in one piece, clutching my Hello Kitty necklace like it’s a good luck-charm, confirming my one true belief: in the fashion jungle, only the accessorized will survive.

I can’t believe that the school year has just begun and Shalimar Jackson is already back in business with her horse and phony show, jamming up the security checkpoint line in the process. This time Shalimar is pretending that her four-legged constant companion J.B.
still
has a Limited Access Fashion Pass when everybody knows the Fendi fiend was banned last semester. But leave it to Miss Jackson to crank out a Coty Fashion Critics’ Awards performance before she even snags a house leader nomination.

“He
does
have a pass—I swear! I left it at home cuz it got sucked into my Dirt Devil by accident and I haven’t had time to get it out of the lint bag!” whines my biggest Catwalk rival. Petulantly, Shalimar stomps her foot in protest, but instead the clunky heel of her brown lizard “Shimmy Choo” lands on the precious toes of Willi Ninja, Jr., as he tries to cut the line.

“Ouch!”
snaps Willi, whose feet will no doubt be insured by Lloyd’s of London one day, given his star status in voguing—our fave phys ed class.

“My bad,” quips Shalimar. “I thought I was light on my feet.”

“Yeah, well, you’re
heavy
on my corns!” retorts Willi, another Catwalk rival.

The crowd in line snickers like bloodthirsty spectators at the Colosseum in ancient Rome, except in this case, it’s the House of Ninja against the House of Shalimar—
coming soon to a runway near you!

Our favorite security guard, Flex, is more interested in a certain someone’s departure. “Shalimar, let’s go,” he commands. “If Ms. London sees J.B. in the mix, I’m gonna lose my job.” He motions like a drill sergeant for the too-short model wannabe to step out of the conga line. We all dig Flex because he’s like his namesake and doesn’t get supa bent about drippy incoming Mambolattes or the sharp paraphernalia that other schools consider dangerous objects but ours considers merely tools of the trade.

After all, this is Fashion International High School, and we’re desperately determined fashionistas who are more interested in taking a bite out of the big time than taking a bite out of crime. Don’t get me wrong: fashion school is not a fairy tale. There are many times when clashes, crises, and competition make us wanna click out our cat claws and slice each other into grosgrain ribbon. However, the only physical violence I’ve ever witnessed within these lime green, cobalt blue, and
hot-pink walls was during my freshman year when Chintzy Colon, who happens to be standing in back of me in the line, sliced her index finger with an X-Acto knife in fashion marketing class. At the time, we were all busily crafting promotional materials that were abracadabra fierce for our dream business plans when a certain senorita lived up to
her
name by “cutting the corners” too closely on her fold-out brochure. Led by her bloody finger, Chintzy fled to the Fashion Lounge, crying hysterically, like a five-year-old being chased by a Weeble balloonicle in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

I turn around deliberately to check out this
lesser
Catwalk contender. Chintzy averts her eyes from mine as if she is still wincing from last semester’s macabre memory, but I’m not swayed by her deception. It’s no Victoria’s Secret to me why she spent last year networking, noshing, nose-grubbing, and numbing her tootsies: the Chintzy cherub is angling for a dangle despite her phony protestations—“
Oh, you think I could get nominated
, mija
?”
—echoing down the halls.

“
Hola
, Pashmina.
Que bonita
. Those are bootylicious,” Chintzy coos, staring down at my feet. Her gushing proves my
punto:
she’s definitely on hype patrol.

“Muchas gracias,”
I reply, since I can’t return the saccharine-spiked compliment. Chintzy is wearing a
white vinyl miniskirt, which to me is like kryptonite—white induces inertia followed by fashion death if worn after Labor Day. I twirl one of my bouncy ringlets, frazzling the curl like I always do when I’m nervous. I’m not stressing about Shalimar, because I know she’s a
shoe
-in. Both of Shalimar’s parents work on Wall Street, and let’s just say the business of Benjamins must be booming right now, judging by Shalimar’s extensive Choo collection.