Authors: Deborah Gregory
“Yeah, but it has to be on Saturday,” says Aphro matter-of-factly. I can tell she’s trying not to get excited, but she must be. Originally Aphro’s caseworker told her she would not be allowed to visit Lennix in his new foster home.
“Wow, that’s great,” I second. “I’ll cover your shift, no problemo. But if you lose, then you cover my shift on Sunday.” Not that I have anywhere to go on Sunday besides working like a demon on the Catwalk collection. As a matter of facto, I’d work at the boutique 24/7 if I could—because I need all the ducats I can get.
“Oh, you just want to see if Zeus is gonna ask you out on Sunday,” Aphro teases me.
I blush, shaking my head in the negative.
But Aphro isn’t buying it. “So what was it like kissing him?”
“How did you know I kissed him?” I respond, feeling icky. “Houndstooth and plaid cupcakes, putting my smooches on blast—is nothing sacred?”
“You should have known Zeus would tell Lupo,” Aphro says. By the smirk on her face, I can tell my bossy BFF is pleased with herself for landing such a zesty zinger.
“Who knew he was the kiss-and-tell type?” I utter. I stare over at Zeus for life support, but he’s still deep in convo.
When lunch period is over, I want to go running after Zeus—and Diamond, for that matter—but my kitten heels turn to Silly Putty. Against my will I find myself waiting to make eye contact with Zeus as we pour out of the Fashion Café. I figure I can glom onto that fast-moving cluster of Catwalk contestants who are migrating to the Auditorium for the Special Event.
At the doorway, Nole breezes by, banging into me—on purpose. “Oops, sorry. Miss Purr, you must be gaining weight. Not so smart before the fashion show, no?”
“Today, Mr. Nole, you are working all of my real hair follicles.” I shake my head of kinky curls. Then I snap back into leadership mode. “We’re working on the children’s outfits tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, Miss Purr,” he says, sighing. “So many orders and so little time.”
I suck up to his charade. “Can you please tell Diamond that I expect her to be at the Pet Pose Off with the sketches in hand for our evening segment?”
“It’s already done, Miss Purr,” Nole says. “Stop trying to ruffle her feathers. She wouldn’t miss seeing Penelope win our Pet Pose Off for all the urban coyote tales in North America.”
“Right,” I mumble, tight-lipped. My lips loosen, however, at the sight of Zeus heading in my direction, finally. I gaze at him steadfastedly, blotting out Nole’s prickly patter.
Zeus’s piercing dark eyes twinkle like black diamonds. Inches away, he says, proudly, “I’ve got something for you.” I’m hoping it’s a kiss, but instead Zeus reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out a CD in a clear plastic sleeve. “Now, if you don’t like this, tell me the truth and I’ll run it through another remix.”
I stand there speechless. Zeus waits for a response.
“Oh, right—yeah,” I stammer, sidetracked by my latest bout of insecurity. Arrgh.
Now Zeus is distracted by Dame Leeds, who is bending his ear. After Dame jets ahead to catch up with Liza Flake, I can’t resist asking. “What was Dame serving?”
“He thinks something is about to go down. Never mind. We’ll see,” Zeus relays, shrugging off my concern.
So I move on to another concern. “You’re coming to the Pet Pose Off?” I ask, biting my lip.
“No doubt,” Zeus assures me. “But go ahead to the auditorium. I gotta take care of something first.”
I nod, then catch up with my crew. Lupo sidles up to Aphro and puts his arm around her waist.
I need Angora. “Zeus is acting weird,” I whisper to her.
“That’s how guys are. Maybe he’s thinking about buying a new pair of sneakers and doesn’t have the money. Maybe it has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s radickio,” I respond.
“That’s why you have to really get to know a guy
before you decide if he’s right for you,” Angora adds sweetly. “In
The Rules
, it says girls always close off our dating options too soon. We meet a guy we like and bam, closed for business! But you can’t.”
“Wow, that’s deep,” I say, shaking my head at Angora’s dating wisdom.
“She’s right,
mija
. All of a sudden he likes you? So what—you don’t have to fall all over him,” Fifi warns me. “You didn’t fall all over Ice Très, and now he’s chasing after you, right?”
I think about what my crew is trying to tell me, but I’m just puzzled pink. “You’re both right, you know. I guess I don’t trust Ice Très—but I just really trust Zeus, that’s all,” I confess.
“Why? Because he’s a Tasti D-Lite? He has to earn your trust—that’s what it says in
The Rules
,” adds Angora, capping her argument. Little does she know, in many ways, she is just like her mother—always dispensing advice.
FASHION INTERNATIONAL 35th ANNUAL CATWALK COMPETITION BLOG
New school rule: You don’t have to be ultranice, but don’t get tooooo catty or your posting will be zapped by the Fashion Avengers!
WHO YOU CALLING A WEB-A-HOLIC?
No self-respecting fashionista could care one glass tiger eye about the goings-on directly across the street from us at that grungy hole in the universe known as Dalmation Tech High School. (As a matter of fact, could someone please do us the community service of submitting that gray mass of a mess to the television show
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition
?) But with the recent news that one of the D.T. students hanged himself after being constantly cyberbullied, you’ve now got our attention because you’ve stepped smack into the middle of our fashionable Twitter-jitter blog-obssessed terrain.
At F.I. the hallways may be our runways, but the Internet is where we take the gloves off, ripping apart character seams and cutting close to the hemline. Read the entries on the Catwalk blog on any given day to witness the malicious and therefore delicious rants and raves we direct toward each other. Any way you slice the grosgrain ribbon, our endless Tweeting, gossiping, and name-calling
should be called exactly what it is: cyberbullying.
In memoriam of the now deceased D.T. student, who we’ve learned was named Bernie Rifkind, let’s call a moratorium on using technology as terrorism. If you have a conflict, corned beef, or another type of angst with a fellow fashionista, may we suggest that you put the keypad down and confront the situation face to face, or mano a mano. And to all you two-fisted gizmo users whose hands are too full with your electronics, do us all a favor and head to the administration office to sign up for a session with our newly appointed Internet addiction counselor. There, I said it—right to your screen.
Posted by Twitter Teen at 05:21:16
We pour into the Fashion Auditorium under the watchful lens of Caterina Tiburon and the Teen Style Network crew.
“Hi, Teen Stylers!” I wave at the camera crew.
My gleeful shout-out pales next to Willi Ninja, Jr.’s: upon sight of the ubiquitous lens, Willi vogues to his seat with a dramatic flourish. “Follow the winners, churl!”
“Follow the show-offs,” Aphro chortles in response.
“Aphro, wait till they see your moves on the runway,” Angora offers in support. Truth is, Angora needs as much of Aphro’s support she can get—and luckily, Aphro can give her just that in our runway training sessions.
“Trust I will bring it,” Aphro says confidently.
But not as confidently as Shalimar Jackson strides into the style snake pit: she releases a sparkling smile, waving like a First Lady at a political fund-raiser.
As usual, Shalimar’s PR antics (as in public relations, not Puerto Rican) make me shudder. “I want no more leaks,” I whisper to Angora.
“No more leaks. Got it!” she responds, like she’s my spin-control aide taking notes.
Ms. Lynx takes center stage with her pudgy bichon frise, Puccini, clad in his matching leopard outfit. He plops down right by her side, panting heavily, like he’s getting too old for this horse-and-furry show. “Could everyone please sit in the front rows,” orders Ms. Lynx. “Only contestants in the Catwalk competition should be present. If you aren’t currently a member in one of the five Catwalk houses, please sashay to your regularly scheduled class.” Ms. Lynx motions to her assistants, Sil Lai and Farfalla. They immediately scan the aisles and carefully eyeball every seat to weed out strays—aka Catwalk wannabes or has-beens.
After a few more moments, Ms. Lynx reveals what we’re all anxious to find out. Or not.
“I know you’re all wondering why you’ve been selected to participate in this Special Event, but first let me dispense the instructions for your next challenge.”
We the unwitting unleash a collective groan that rises to the rafters of the cavernous Fashion Auditorium.
“The blind side. I didn’t see that one coming,” I gripe to Angora, who is seated on my right.
By the satisfied smirk on Ms. Lynx’s MAC-attacked face, we can tell she relishes our response. “Yes, that’s right, another challenge. That’s why it’s called the Catwalk
competition
, fashionistas!” she chuckles, then
drops the other shoe. “This will be your last challenge, and it should be incorporated into your fashion show at Lincoln Center,” Ms. Lynx says proudly. “This is called the Wild Card Challenge, because we want you to surprise us by introducing an unpredictable element into your fashion show—something we don’t expect, but that correlates with your theme. Naturally, it can be interactive or not,
but
—and here is the big but—”
A few well-deserved snickers emanate from Benny Madina. Bet Ms. Lynx didn’t see that one coming. Touché.
“But you must have fun with it!” Ms. Lynx adds. “I know. You probably are looking for more guidance in executing this random request—but that’s why it’s called the Wild Card Challenge.”
A few of us shoot our hands straight up in the air. Ms. Lynx shoos away our concerns with her dramatic hand gestures. “Each house leader must submit a brief outline of your Wild Card Challenge to the Catwalk office a few days before the fashion show so that the judges will know what they’re looking at.”
Moet Major raises her hand fervently.
“Yes, Moet,” Ms. Lynx says, calling on my petite Catwalk rival.
“How do we know if we do the Wild Card Challenge right?” asks Moet.
“If you don’t go over budget, then you’ve succeeded,”
Ms. Lynx says, content with her brevity. Another collective groan rises to the rafters, but this time it’s followed by a few good snickers.
“That’s the spirit,” chuckles Ms. Lynx. “And please remember, each house leader must permit the Teen Style Network crew to capture an aspect of the execution of your Wild Card Challenge on camera, when you will discuss your choice and the reasoning behind it.”
Now Ms. Lynx calls on another student, who is in Willi Ninja’s house. “So the winner of the Wild Card Challenge will be chosen after the Catwalk competition is over? Will there be a prize?”
“That’s the best question so far!” quips Ms. Lynx. “Yes, of course. The winning house of the Wild Card Challenge will be given a Buy-a-Book-a-Week Go Wild gift card from Barnes and Noble Booksellers, with a maximum annual value of one thousand dollars. Consider that: all those books on the houses of Gucci and Versace you always wanted to buy but couldn’t afford!”
We clap wildly. Angora’s pupils widen with delight. She could sit in a bookstore for hours massaging pages.
“Please keep in mind, like the winner of the Design Challenge—which was the House of Pashmina—the winner of the Wild Card Challenge may not necessarily be the winner of the Catwalk competition. The winner of the Catwalk competition will receive an all-expenses-paid two-week trip to Firenze, where they will open the
Pitti Bimbo collections by staging their fashion show again. They’ll also receive a five-piece luggage set by Louis Vuitton to transport their Catwalk collection abroad in grand style!” Ms. Lynx suppresses a squeal herself. “Okay. That’s enough incentive for now. Without further ado, let’s get on with our Special Event.”
We clap wildly. Now I’m supernervous. “I don’t know if I have another challenge in me—wild or otherwise,” I utter. Peering down the row, I catch Zeus’s eyes. He is sitting next to Lupo. I smile at him coolly. Angora is right. I should dangle the carrot in the rabbit’s face instead of forcing it down the rabbit’s throat. At least, I think that’s what my BFF was trying to tell me: play it cool.
Just like Ms. Lynx is doing right now as she delves into the rest of the afternoon’s agenda. “I know there has been lots of speculation about the judges for this year’s Catwalk competition—yes, I read the Catwalk blog with gusto,” Ms. Lynx informs us. She is now talking into the microphone, which has been positioned to accommodate her six-foot stature. “Well, I’m very excited that one of this year’s confirmed Catwalk competition judges is also the guest of our Special Event.”
Willi Ninja, Jr., claps and shouts. “Bring it!”
Ms. Lynx does just that. “I’m pleased to have with us today posing instructor Benny Ninja! After being selected as one of this year’s Catwalk judges, Benny asked
if he could visit the school to see the contestants before the fashion shows. That’s what I call a win-win. Please, let’s give a warm fashionista welcome to Mr. Benny Ninja!”
Everyone in the audience claps with gusto. Suddenly, I wonder if Willi Ninja, Jr., already knew who today’s special guest was. “First the shoes, now this. How is it he always seems to be one step ahead of us?” I fret to Angora.
She shrugs while I turn to look at the object of my current Gucci Envy. I can’t help but notice a strange expression on Willi’s face, one that I can’t quite decipher. Puzzled pink, I turn back quickly so I don’t miss Benny Ninja as he prances onto the stage. Posing grandly, Benny, who is tall, slender, light-skinned, and bald, is wearing a gray iridescent jumpsuit with aviator glasses.
“That’s the same fabric as our vests!” exclaims Fifi.
For our Urban Gear grouping, we designed iridescent nylon padded vests in celadon green and gunmetal gray to pair with pink chiffon tiered skirts.
“Maybe we should have made jumpsuits!” I whisper back to Fifi before Benny interrupts with his rah-rah rant.