Catwalk (74 page)

“Oh, right,” he says. “The Ice Très factor.”

Frankly, I couldn’t have gotten through the Zeus ruse without Ice Très stroking my fur and wounded ego every step of the way, every day. See, I finally broke down and told Ice Très what had happened. Ice Très was so upset, one day during lunch period in the Fashion Café he had to refrain from zapping Zeus with a chilled glass bottle of Nestea. But after having gotten suspended once for tagging the stairwell with that stupid cupid professing his love for me, Ice Très learned one thing: how to keep his cool in school.

“Awright, I gotta wrap this up like a falafel,” I sign off. I motion around the room to all the paper cups and disarranged chairs.

“Finally!” shouts Nole. For once, I don’t mind his boisterous attitude. I’m just glad he has recovered from the shock of not dominating the fashion: Penelope is out; Fabbie Tabbie is in. But the truth is, now that I’ve slayed one dragon, it’s time to deal with another. Ruthie Dragon sidles over, bright-eyed and bushytailed. Angora senses that fire-breathing tactics may ensue, so she motions for Aphro and Fifi to come to my defense.

“This is so exciting,” coos Angora, smiling warmly at Ruthie. I love Angora for always knowing how to prime the fashion pump.

“I was thinking maybe we should have regular
Coca-Cola backstage, too, in case anyone wants it?” queries Ruthie Dragon, pen in hand, notebook poised.

“No way, José!” vetoes Fifi. “I’ll drink it by the gallon—and I’m already going to be nervous enough!”

“Um, Ruthie, we’re going to stick with water and Diet Pepsi for now. And I’ve got that all covered. It’s at my house,” I inform her, stalling.

“Oh?” she says, making a checkmark on a list in her notebook.

“Um, but I was thinking—you know, we’ve got enough dressers backstage, and Fifi is going to take over assisting me for the run of the show. So you know what would be the most awesome responsibility I can give you?”

The blood drains out of Ruthie’s face like she’s recovering from a slap. A hard one. “You’re
not
telling me that I’m
not
going to be backstage to help with the fashion show?”

“I want you to have the honor of manning the Heels on Wheels cart in the lobby,” I announce.

“Why would I want to be in the lobby instead of backstage!” she yelps.

“Are you serious? It would be an honor. You would be representing the House of Pashmina—meeting all the important guests and judges up close and personal, while we’ll be in the back slaving away,” I spout, trying to sell my position.

“And our charity angle for Heels on Wheels is so important,” seconds Nole. “You’ll be collecting all the footwear for the homeless shelter—that’s such an important cause. I’d want to be hobnobbing with the guests if I could!”

Ruthie Dragon interrupts our sales spiel. “If it’s so important, then why can’t Felinez be out there in the lobby?”

“I need Fifi,” I blurt out, before realizing how unimportant that makes Ruthie sound. “Fifi is a designer—if something goes wrong, we need her backstage to help!”

“Well, if you don’t want me backstage, then you obviously don’t need me,” Ruthie fires off.

“Hold up—I thought the whole point of being on a team is to be a team player,” Aphro interjects.

“The only thing the so-called team is doing is ganging up on me!” shouts Ruthie Dragon. “You can do that to Chintzy Colon, but you ain’t doing that to me, okay?”

“Oh, Ruthie, that’s not fair. Chintzy was a spy—we had no choice,” balks Angora.

“Well, I’ve been treated like one,” Ruthie Dragon confesses, finally revealing the root of the tension between us. “If Nole Canoli didn’t want me here, you wouldn’t even have put me on the team.”

“And you were hired as an assistant, so why aren’t you assisting?” needles Nole. “You saw
The Devil Wears
Prada
—you’re lucky none of us asked you to fetch us ice cream cones from the North Pole!”

“Well, I’m not a dog, so I’m not about to roll over,” hmmphs Ruthie Dragon. “If I can’t be backstage, then I’m not doing anything.”

“S-so you’re not coming to the fashion show,” I stutter, my cheeks burning from her fiery attack.

“I didn’t say that. Do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, you don’t,” I relent.

Ruthie leaves us singed.

“What are we going to do?” Fifi frets.

“Light one of your candles,” I sigh, defeated. “Then pray for a miracle.”

“Meanwhile, can we please just go to Staples and pick up the Xeroxes of the program?” offers Angora.

“Oh, right,” I say, flustered. That’s what I love about Angora—she always knows how to press the Easy Button.

On Wednesday, Angora comes over my house so we can email the House of Pashmina fashion show invitations to the guests from our combined crew lists. Then we fold the three hundred House of Pashmina programs in half. They’ll be placed on the seats for the guests at our fashion show. “Oy, what a bummer we can’t have
goodie bags like Betsey Johnson has at her fashion shows,” I gripe.

“Well, when you have Betsey Johnson money, you’ll do just that,” my mother yells from the kitchen. “And aren’t you two going to eat with us?”

Chenille is already seated at the table. “Oy, she could have helped us fold the programs,” I whisper to Angora, but motion with my eyeballs to tense Chenille, who has her arms crossed on her chest like she’s guarding against any incoming requests.

“We’re almost finished, and it was fun,” Angora whispers back. “This neon pink really makes a statement.”

“I know,” I say gleefully, reading one of the programs for the millionth time. “The Heels on Wheels charity statement on the bottom makes the program look so much more, well, important.”

“
C’est vrai
. It’s true.
Très
important.” Angora says sweetly.

The phone rings and my mother picks up the extension in the nook to answer it.

“Pashmina, it’s for you,” she yells.

“Oh, maybe it’s Ice Très,” I say, smiling. “Now, there is someone who wants to help every step of the way.”

After a few moments on the phone with Dame, I realize that’s exactly what I’m gonna need
—help!

“This can’t be happening!” I scream into the receiver. “It’s
not
happening!” My knees buckle, so I plop down in
a chair at the dinner table with my mom and Chenille, who suspends her forkful of green peas in midair, looking at me like I’m the cuckoo she always suspected.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.

Ignoring her, I press my forehead with an open palm like I’m trying to rearrange my brains. “So what does this mean?” I ask sharply, demanding that Dame provide further clarification on this unexpected, unanticipated, unwanted Code Pink call.

“What part of ‘Liza Flake fell down a flight of subway stairs’ don’t you understand?” Dame Leeds snarls back.

“So you’re telling me she can’t come to the fashion show—not even on crutches?” I shriek in disbelief. I feel my face flush with rage, and my left eye instantly starts twitching.

“Houdini couldn’t come to the fashion show with a broken leg—hello!” snaps Dame Leeds.

At last, the levee has broken and the dam of tension that has been building up between Dame and me since day one is flooding the phone wires. “We have a fashion show to put on and no assistant hairstylist. Get a replacement!” I scream hysterically.

“Pashmina, you don’t have to shoot the messenger!” snaps Dame Leeds.

“If I had a BB gun I would!” I snap back, twirling my hair uncontrollably.

“I’m going to ignore your unprofessional behavior like I always do,” snarls Dame Leeds, “and I’ll try to find a replacement. But it’s not going to be easy. I don’t like amateurs.”

“Who does!” I snap.

When I release the phone back to its cradle, I try to explain to my mother what just happened, but as soon as I open my mouth, I burst into tears.

Angora rushes over. “What happened?”

Chenille resumes shoveling forkfuls of peas, releasing a sly smile. My mom waits patiently for me to regain my composure so I can tell her. “That was Dame Leeds, my lead hairstylist. He claims that Liza Flake, his second in command, has fallen and she can’t get up,” I say, releasing another round of sobs.

“What?” my mom asks, still not clear.

“She took a tumble on the IRT and missed her stop—at fashion stardom!” I start in. “I knew she was going to be a problem—I just knew it! But I had to hire her because Dame insisted. He also claimed she is the snap-in extensions queen, but the only thing I ever saw her snap was her Wrigley’s gum, which annoyed me to no end!”

“So what are you going to do?” asks my mom. I should be used to her pat response after I whine about a problem, but it still jars me. In my mother’s world, when there is a problem, all she wants to know is: what’s the solution?

“I told him to find a replacement!” I blurt out defensively. “Oh, I knew that Liza Flake was going to be a problem. Maybe I’m psychic, too, like Fifi, because I swear I knew it!”

My mother brings me back to more practical matters. “You sure you want to leave something so important for him to do? I know when one of the salespeople flakes out—oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to use that word.”

“Oh, please, any word at this point is helpful,” I say tearfully.

“Well, when one of the employees at the boutique doesn’t show up for work, I don’t wait for Roni to tell me what I know has to be done. I handle the replacements myself if I can,” my mom explains.

The room gets quiet. I sit pondering my mother’s advice. Racking my brains, I try to think of a qualified hairstylist who isn’t already in another house, but I can’t.

Angora has other ideas. “Why don’t we let Chenille do it?”

I dart my eyes at Angora like
Why don’t you stick to the dating advice, please!

“I’ll do it,” pipes up Chenille. “Show me the hairstyles.”

My mom looks at me like
Don’t even think about saying anything stupid
.

“Okay,” I agree. I go get the sketches for the
hairstyles. “We’re slicking back the hair, then mixing the ponytails with pink hair extensions,” I explain carefully.

“I can do that,” Chenille says confidently.

“For the Chic Meets Street segment, the models are wearing pillbox hats,” I add. “Then for the evening segment, we’re leaving in the pink extensions but turning the ponytails into chic chignons pinned under.”

“I can do that, too,” Chenille says in the same deadpan tone.

“You sure?” I squeak.

My mom looks at me sternly.

“I’m sure,” says Chenille.

I pick up the phone and dial Dame back to let him know the Code Pink has been handled.

“Now tomorrow I have to file a member replacement form with the Catwalk office,” I say to him, still in shock. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll need more than that,” admits Dame Leeds.

This time I don’t snap at him, because he’s right.

The next day when I go to the Catwalk office to file a replacement form to officially record Chenille as Liza Flake’s replacement, I can’t help but notice the smirk on Sil Lai’s face, even though she is trying to suppress it.

I get paranoid, wondering if she knows about the Diamond drama or the run-in with Ruthie Dragon.

Luckily, Sil Lai tips her hand like a bad poker player. “Did you have fun at the Lipstick Lounge?”

Leave it to slippery Sil Lai to dredge up month-old drama. “Yes, I thought Alyjah Jade was amazing,” I report, taking the high fashion road instead of resorting to refried gossip, which Sil Lai craves like leftovers. “But not as amazing as the House of Pashmina fashion show is going to be.”

As I race out, Farfalla coos behind me. “Good luck.
Buona fortuna!
”

“Thank you!” I shout back, because luck is exactly what I need.