Free Catwalk by Deborah Gregory Page B

instead. It’ll be safer!”
    Right now, I hope Felinez also knows how to remedy my ruination. I was psyched about debuting my Power-to-the-Prairie outfit today, from the brown faux suede fringed miniskirt to the beaded ceremony necklace. “All this in the hopes of snagging a pow wow in Zeus’s tepee,” I moan, stroking the embroidered succotash headband I tied around my forehead after I tamed my frizzy hair with Elasta QP Glaze, which is Miracle Whip for girls like me who are knotty by nature. Trust, it’s the only way I’m able to work my native plaits.
    “I knew you liked him!” Felinez squeals.
    “Oy, wait till he sees me. He’s gonna call me Dances in Toilet Water!” I predict.
    “Don’t worry, I got the Nu-Hide cleaner from leather class in my locker. I can fix it,” Felinez assures me.
    “Thank
gooseness
my best friend is such a
GENIUS
!” I quip in my goofy voice. “Let’s go by your locker, then hit the job board before the zoo lets out.”
    Speaking of animals, Chandelier barges into the bathroom with Tina the Hyena. Chandelier, however, is acting more like an anxious antelope. She gallops to the sink and stands so closely to me that the blast fromher breath opens my pores. “Who needs Bioré strips when you’re around,” I mumble under my breath. Instead of apologizing, she stares at me wide-eyed like her pupils are adjusting to the reality of competing in the food chain.
    “I thought of you,” she says, rubbing lipstick from her teeth, “when I was getting a root canal yesterday.”
    “Silly me. I thought having capped teeth made excavation a moot point,” I counter.
    Chandelier stares down at the ring around my footsies, then cuts to her Gucci loafers, then to Tina, like she’s doing a Woodbury Common outlet commercial. “Exclusive edition,” she declares to Tina.
    “
Puhleez
. They grind those out like Parks sausages!” I retort angrily. Felinez snickers loudly as we flee the Fashion Lounge. “God, she’s such a primping
predator.
”
    After we zap the water stains, we dash for a ducat alert at the job board. I send a text message to Aphro and Angora to meet us outside the Fashion Café later for the “showdown at the okie-dokie.”
    Meanwhile, Felinez is fretting about her Italian homework.
“Io sono malata,”
Felinez says, reading from her notebook. “
‘Malata’
means ‘sick’ and not ‘mulatto’?”
    “Mos def.”
    “How do you say ‘mulatto,’ then?”
    “I don’t know, but I bet you in Italian they say something less slavery-oriented,” I shoot back. EveryBlack History Month, my mom makes us watch
Roots
together, and inevitably she blurts out, “I hate that word, ‘mulatto.’ ” Probably because that’s what I am, even though she never told me.
    “God, I can’t wait till we go to Italy,” Felinez says, psyched, then cringes. “If we win, I mean.”
    “We’d better,” I retort, echoing our Catwalk Code:
Act fierce even when you’re not feeling it
.
    Felinez smiles assuredly.
    “Let’s sashay by Ms. Fab’s office,” I whisper to Felinez, in an effort to quelch my own anxiety.
    “
Por que?
What for?”
    “Maybe we’ll get first whiff of the It List,” I say sneakily. Creeping closer, we get a whiff, all right—of a conversation not meant for our ears. “That’s a good idea for reaction shots,” advises Ms. Lynx, her voice of authority trailing into the hallway. “But you should stick around the Fashion Café afterward—and do try today’s special, jambalaya gumbo. I hear it’s divine.”
    “Any reason why?” asks an unfamiliar voice.
    “There’s nothing like Cajun peppers to put blush back in your cheeks. Oh—you mean—well, you’ll see,” Ms. Fab adds emphatically.
    We stand still like undercover fashion spies trying to decipher Ms. Lynx’s cryptic instructions.
    Seconds later, four scruffy-looking men and one petite woman pop out of Ms. Fab’s office. I freeze when Isee the familiar logo on their equipment bags: TEEN