would take this info to negative town: “Can’t you find something further uptown? I don’t like the idea of you traveling so far, especially at night.”
I stand still, tapping my foot, listening to my mom as she drones on about the sharp increase in predators on the prowl for pubescent flesh.
“Well, I guess I’m lucky I’m not wearing my red hoodie today to tempt the hungry wolves,” I retort, anxious to eighty-six this conversation. Instead, I succeed in further pissing off my mother, who drops the latest crime statistics before she releases me from her rant.
“Bad kitty! I
should
be declawed,” I grumble after snapping my cell phone shut like a Venus flytrap.
“What you
shouldn’t
have to do is deal with Mr. Darius,” counters Aphro.
I shrug, unfazed. “Frankly, I think Big Daddy Boom should watch a few reruns of
Flip This House
and pick up pointers. Consider yourself lucky Mrs. Maydell is a home
owner.
”
“Actually, she ain’t, and
Mr
. Maydell lets us know every time
they
get into a fight,” Aphro says, and provides a gruff demonstration:
“This is my house—I’m the one making the mortgage payments around here so y’all better straighten up and fly right!”
Mr. Maydell is kinda scary; according to Aphro, he’s always ready to rumble with her younger foster brother, Lennix, for the slightest infractions.
I feel a breeze by my ear as Chandelier and Dame Leeds whiz by us, chomping on strategy cuds like hype-hungry cows. “I’ve got all the members I need to win. Getting the rest of my team together is going to be easy breezy,” Chandelier brags.
“I heard that, Miss Thing,” agrees the dramatic hairstylist. “And you know I’m going to work it for points on the Dow Jones. I’m thinking we should feature short hair so we can angle the dangles—chandelier karats!”
I try not to cringe as I concede that Dame won’t be working his dangle-proof drama for our house.
“What about you, Miss Pashmina?” Chandelierturns and asks me in her taunting voice. “Who’s down with feline fatale?
Meowch!
”
Aphro and I pretend we don’t hear her, so she continues dropping lines from her brag book. “Don’t know why I’m bothering going on this job interview, because I know it’s already mine!” she says with assurance, then pecks Dame on both cheeks like they do in Europe.
“Snag it, Gucci girl!” shrieks Dame, pecking back before he hurries down the hallowed hallway.
“Oh, bye, Miss Aphro … scratch, scratch!” Chandelier singsongs before grandly descending down the stairs to the doorway of the main entrance, where the attention deficient can get stroked by the ogle-ready Dalmation techies who linger outside after school.
“Why she always putting me on blast?” Aphro asks, her eyes blazing.
“Because she knows you call her Gucci hoochie behind her back.” I giggle as Aphro and I walk toward the less frequented Eighth Avenue exit, for those of us whose own initials are enough, like Bottega Veneta.
“
Chan-dee-le-ay
better not be going on the same job interview we are.” Aphro groans in protest as I fling open the door.
“Don’t even trip—” I start in, ready to squash her doubts, but squash my riff instead when I spot the Teen Style Network crew crouched right outside the pink wrought-iron gates. By reflex, I adjust the headbandplastered to the center of my forehead. The lady hones right in on us like a heat-seeking fashion missile. “Hi, I’m Caterina Tiburon. I’m the field producer for Teen Style Network—assigned to cover the Catwalk competition,” she announces, confidently extending her right hand. Her handshake is firm and forceful in contrast to the soft, rumpled condition of her drab, baggy khakis and pocket-plenty camouflage jacket. Secretly, I wonder if Caterina Tiburon has gone AWOL from the U.S. Army. She isn’t exactly what I expected a producer from the Teen Style Network to look like.
Before I respond to her courteous introduction, I tug
I stand still, tapping my foot, listening to my mom as she drones on about the sharp increase in predators on the prowl for pubescent flesh.
“Well, I guess I’m lucky I’m not wearing my red hoodie today to tempt the hungry wolves,” I retort, anxious to eighty-six this conversation. Instead, I succeed in further pissing off my mother, who drops the latest crime statistics before she releases me from her rant.
“Bad kitty! I
should
be declawed,” I grumble after snapping my cell phone shut like a Venus flytrap.
“What you
shouldn’t
have to do is deal with Mr. Darius,” counters Aphro.
I shrug, unfazed. “Frankly, I think Big Daddy Boom should watch a few reruns of
Flip This House
and pick up pointers. Consider yourself lucky Mrs. Maydell is a home
owner.
”
“Actually, she ain’t, and
Mr
. Maydell lets us know every time
they
get into a fight,” Aphro says, and provides a gruff demonstration:
“This is my house—I’m the one making the mortgage payments around here so y’all better straighten up and fly right!”
Mr. Maydell is kinda scary; according to Aphro, he’s always ready to rumble with her younger foster brother, Lennix, for the slightest infractions.
I feel a breeze by my ear as Chandelier and Dame Leeds whiz by us, chomping on strategy cuds like hype-hungry cows. “I’ve got all the members I need to win. Getting the rest of my team together is going to be easy breezy,” Chandelier brags.
“I heard that, Miss Thing,” agrees the dramatic hairstylist. “And you know I’m going to work it for points on the Dow Jones. I’m thinking we should feature short hair so we can angle the dangles—chandelier karats!”
I try not to cringe as I concede that Dame won’t be working his dangle-proof drama for our house.
“What about you, Miss Pashmina?” Chandelierturns and asks me in her taunting voice. “Who’s down with feline fatale?
Meowch!
”
Aphro and I pretend we don’t hear her, so she continues dropping lines from her brag book. “Don’t know why I’m bothering going on this job interview, because I know it’s already mine!” she says with assurance, then pecks Dame on both cheeks like they do in Europe.
“Snag it, Gucci girl!” shrieks Dame, pecking back before he hurries down the hallowed hallway.
“Oh, bye, Miss Aphro … scratch, scratch!” Chandelier singsongs before grandly descending down the stairs to the doorway of the main entrance, where the attention deficient can get stroked by the ogle-ready Dalmation techies who linger outside after school.
“Why she always putting me on blast?” Aphro asks, her eyes blazing.
“Because she knows you call her Gucci hoochie behind her back.” I giggle as Aphro and I walk toward the less frequented Eighth Avenue exit, for those of us whose own initials are enough, like Bottega Veneta.
“
Chan-dee-le-ay
better not be going on the same job interview we are.” Aphro groans in protest as I fling open the door.
“Don’t even trip—” I start in, ready to squash her doubts, but squash my riff instead when I spot the Teen Style Network crew crouched right outside the pink wrought-iron gates. By reflex, I adjust the headbandplastered to the center of my forehead. The lady hones right in on us like a heat-seeking fashion missile. “Hi, I’m Caterina Tiburon. I’m the field producer for Teen Style Network—assigned to cover the Catwalk competition,” she announces, confidently extending her right hand. Her handshake is firm and forceful in contrast to the soft, rumpled condition of her drab, baggy khakis and pocket-plenty camouflage jacket. Secretly, I wonder if Caterina Tiburon has gone AWOL from the U.S. Army. She isn’t exactly what I expected a producer from the Teen Style Network to look like.
Before I respond to her courteous introduction, I tug
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