Catwalk Read Free

pink pullover knit sweater has the letter
P
glued on the front and pink pom-poms hanging off the bottom edge and will be worn over a pink checked pleated wrap skirt fastened on the side with a giganto pink safety pin. Felinez also put a fuzz ball on the toes of my pink pleather boots: if you look closely you can see roll-around eyeballs pressed into the center of the fuzz ball. The pièce de résistance, however, is the matching shoulder bag. Using pink mop fibers, Felinez made me a bag that shakes ferociously like a big, bouncy cheerleader pom-pom. Staring in the beveled antique mirror, I put on my CZ (cubic zirconia) bling: first, my favorite eBay snag, a black Naughty Girl Lolita watch with floating pink crystals inside; then my French Kitty rhinestone cat pendant primed inside with Frisky perfume and dangling on a Mexican silver chain. My mom gave me my latest kitty
cadeau
for my fifteenth birthday last May. One day, I’ll be able to wear bona fide
blang
, like a Hello Kitty diamond pendant by Kimora Lee. I stuff my pink satin meowch pouch into my purse—it’s a little drawstring pouch that Felinez and I came up with for carrying essentials. You can wear it on your wrist or on your neck, or put it in your purse. Even FabbieTabby has one—she wears it on her collar. Inside is one quarter, her phone number, and some biscuits, in case she ever prances too far over the rainbow.
    Now I grab my hot-pink Kitty decal–littered notebooks and head to my mom’s room to retrieve my designated ducats. My allowance is skimpier than I hoped for, but I’m determined to stretch it longer than my Chinatown-find fishnets, which are cramping my crotch area, okay.
    I walk into the kitchen, where Mom is already stationed in her favorite little niche, drinking a cup of Belgian Blends mocha and reading yesterday’s
WWW, Women’s Wear Daily
, which she brings home from the boutique every night. She never eats breakfast and I don’t either—even though she yells at me for doing the same thing she does.
    “Please change the litter already,” my mom instructs me without looking up from her newspaper. She is now dressed in the tailored attire associated with her “Miss Viv” professional personality—a hot-pink wool blazer, black wool trousers, and a black turtleneck sweater, most likely cashmere, which she craves. (There was a reason why my mom named both her daughters after luxury fabrics, pashmina and chenille, okay.) It’s my job to take care of Fabbie, and one that I do gladly. Chenille obviously is not a cat person, and my mom has enough to deal with.
    “Is that jacket new?” I ask Mom, checking out her outfit while I open the refrigerator and take out the carton of pink grapefruit juice and my
Vogue
magazine (I like to keep my fashion as fresh as my juice).
    “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).