chimes at three p.m., it will be helter-skelter as the fashion locusts descend on our tables to get up close and personal with the candidates—and the freebies. Then at five o’clock sharp, the schmoozefest will be officially over so everyone can cast their ballots at the voting booth set up in the Fashion Annex.
Despite my sweaty underarms and pounding heartbeat, running my Catwalk election campaign is more fun and ghoulish than celebrating Halloween. Not only do we get to wear costumes for the occasion, but we’ve also had our share of tricks
and
treats.
Speaking of tricks, Shalimar Jackson and her jadedcronies sneak up the back stairwell, flinging open the fire exit door so quickly that they alarm us with their cacophony of terror. I don’t mean to stare, but Shalimar’s stretchy Lycra dress is so short she looks like a peacock plucked of its plumes. Her equally hard stare makes me feel embarrassed about the back alley location of my election station. Okay, so it’s not really in a back alley, but my table is pushed so far into the corner of the dimly lit hallway that if I turned my back and accidentally lost my balance, I’d probably knock open the fire exit and go tumbling like Alice in Wonderland down the stairwell into a rabbit hole.
“Bling, bling, bling!!” heckle Shalimar and her best friend, Zirconia, running past us.
“
What
was that?” I ask, stunned by Shalimar’s latest shenanigans as her bubble butt bounces off to her election table, which is in a prime retail location at the end of the wide and brightly lit intersection.
“I didn’t want to mention it,
chérie
, but someone posted an entry on the new Catwalk competition blog, referring to us as the Bling Quartet. I guess we’re supposed to be, um, supa-show-offs,” Angora reports hesitantly.
“Did Rouge rip out your tongue? I mean,
now
you’re telling us this?” I ask nastily.
“What happened? I didn’t know the Catwalk blog was already up,” Felinez demands.
Neither did I. I’m so mad at Angora for not keeping our ear to the street. “You’re supposed to be the reporter, so start reporting!” I advise her sharply. I may have a few blind spots—like my hissy catlike temperament—but that doesn’t mean I like being blindsided by a Shimmy Choo–wearing chortler. “Who was it, do you know?” I ask, even though I don’t want to know.
“Take a Gucci guess,” Angora says.
I snatch the paper place marker with my name off the bare table in disgust so we can begin setting up.
“We might as well be positioned behind a scaffold. Then at least we could put up a sign, ‘Open During Construction,’ ” I gripe.
“I’m telling you I think somebody bribed
somebody
—that’s what’s up,” huffs Aphro.
Angora breaks into a skeptical smile.
“We’re not pulling your weave. It’s true!” Aphro continues. Angora is naive about the wicked ways of the Big Apple. “Trust, Kentucky Fried Chicken is not the only source of greasy fingers in this gritty city.”
“Oh, come on,
mijas
, it’s the last day,” Felinez says, rubbing my shoulders.
I throw the kitty tablecloth on our table with extra vigor. Angora runs her hand gingerly across the tablecloth, an adorable hot-pink faux fur fabric trimmed with winking cat’s-eye sparkling decals. Sometimes, Angora seems so fragile—her delicate touch, her softnature. Maybe that’s why I can’t help pushing her around. I don’t mean to, but I guess that’s
my
nature.
“
Chérie
, I’m merely a kitty in the city just like you—clawing my way to the top. Why don’t we work together?” Angora says, her eyes blinking rapidly because she’s upset.
My nerves are on edge because Chintzy Colon has just plopped some homestyle Boricua hors d’oeuvres on her table, which is adjacent to ours, and the aroma is overwhelming.
“We
would
have to be set up next to her chorizo factory!” moans Felinez.
Anna Rex’s black lace–swathed table is to the left of Chintzy’s, and
Despite my sweaty underarms and pounding heartbeat, running my Catwalk election campaign is more fun and ghoulish than celebrating Halloween. Not only do we get to wear costumes for the occasion, but we’ve also had our share of tricks
and
treats.
Speaking of tricks, Shalimar Jackson and her jadedcronies sneak up the back stairwell, flinging open the fire exit door so quickly that they alarm us with their cacophony of terror. I don’t mean to stare, but Shalimar’s stretchy Lycra dress is so short she looks like a peacock plucked of its plumes. Her equally hard stare makes me feel embarrassed about the back alley location of my election station. Okay, so it’s not really in a back alley, but my table is pushed so far into the corner of the dimly lit hallway that if I turned my back and accidentally lost my balance, I’d probably knock open the fire exit and go tumbling like Alice in Wonderland down the stairwell into a rabbit hole.
“Bling, bling, bling!!” heckle Shalimar and her best friend, Zirconia, running past us.
“
What
was that?” I ask, stunned by Shalimar’s latest shenanigans as her bubble butt bounces off to her election table, which is in a prime retail location at the end of the wide and brightly lit intersection.
“I didn’t want to mention it,
chérie
, but someone posted an entry on the new Catwalk competition blog, referring to us as the Bling Quartet. I guess we’re supposed to be, um, supa-show-offs,” Angora reports hesitantly.
“Did Rouge rip out your tongue? I mean,
now
you’re telling us this?” I ask nastily.
“What happened? I didn’t know the Catwalk blog was already up,” Felinez demands.
Neither did I. I’m so mad at Angora for not keeping our ear to the street. “You’re supposed to be the reporter, so start reporting!” I advise her sharply. I may have a few blind spots—like my hissy catlike temperament—but that doesn’t mean I like being blindsided by a Shimmy Choo–wearing chortler. “Who was it, do you know?” I ask, even though I don’t want to know.
“Take a Gucci guess,” Angora says.
I snatch the paper place marker with my name off the bare table in disgust so we can begin setting up.
“We might as well be positioned behind a scaffold. Then at least we could put up a sign, ‘Open During Construction,’ ” I gripe.
“I’m telling you I think somebody bribed
somebody
—that’s what’s up,” huffs Aphro.
Angora breaks into a skeptical smile.
“We’re not pulling your weave. It’s true!” Aphro continues. Angora is naive about the wicked ways of the Big Apple. “Trust, Kentucky Fried Chicken is not the only source of greasy fingers in this gritty city.”
“Oh, come on,
mijas
, it’s the last day,” Felinez says, rubbing my shoulders.
I throw the kitty tablecloth on our table with extra vigor. Angora runs her hand gingerly across the tablecloth, an adorable hot-pink faux fur fabric trimmed with winking cat’s-eye sparkling decals. Sometimes, Angora seems so fragile—her delicate touch, her softnature. Maybe that’s why I can’t help pushing her around. I don’t mean to, but I guess that’s
my
nature.
“
Chérie
, I’m merely a kitty in the city just like you—clawing my way to the top. Why don’t we work together?” Angora says, her eyes blinking rapidly because she’s upset.
My nerves are on edge because Chintzy Colon has just plopped some homestyle Boricua hors d’oeuvres on her table, which is adjacent to ours, and the aroma is overwhelming.
“We
would
have to be set up next to her chorizo factory!” moans Felinez.
Anna Rex’s black lace–swathed table is to the left of Chintzy’s, and
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