Catwalk (Sample Excerpt)

Chapter 2

Moving to the Big Apple marked the first of many firsts. First cab ride. First apartment. First roommate. First night out in Manhattan.

That night, Jon-Michelle and I took the L train (another first) into the city. On the subway platform, people couldn't take their eyes off of Jon-Michelle. She wore a tiny black wraparound dress and stilettos, legs up to her neck. She walked ahead with an air of indifference, her eyes staring straight ahead with a sort of blank purpose. I marched in step, trying to keep up while sneaking sideway glances at my own reflection that coasted by in the train cars that passed.

My hair was in a hobo side braid (thank you, my friends at Teen Vogue, for the step-by-step how-to) with a fringe of bangs framing my face. I wore my favorite quilted leather miniskirt, a hand-me-down from my cousin, who worked at a boutique in Philly. The skirt was adorable, with patches of suede and rawhide, but it was so short that you could see my thigh gap when I stood still. My dad would have killed me had he known that I was walking through the subways of New York City, nearly at midnight, in a twelve-inch skirt that barely covered my butt.

While stepping off the train at Union Square station, we were flashed by a man urinating in our path.

"Asshole!" Jon-Michelle spat at him in disgust. Fear being my immediate response, I worried that the man would yell back or lurch at one of us as we passed, but thankfully he didn't. He didn't even notice us.

We arrived at our destination, a club in the meatpacking district of Manhattan, at 11:45. There was no sign to mark out the old, abandoned warehouse. People just knew where to show up. I worried that we (meaning "I") would be caught trying to get into a club that served alcohol. Having never been invited to drinking parties (much less had a "beverage") in high school, I wasn't quite sure how to appear nonchalant about the whole thing.

"Are you sure I can get into this place?" I asked.

I held my breath while a cop car slowly crept by us with the driver, a face like a beaten-up boxer, threw us a suspicious glance.

Great. What would my parents say about my next first: First arrest?

"You sure about this?" I said to Jon-Michelle, panicking.

She laughed. "You're so cute."

"What?"

"Catherine, models never get carded in New York. We basically have a free pass."

A few minutes later, her friend Theo, a DJ, showed up with a few other guys. Jon-Michelle greeted them with double-cheeked kisses before introducing me.

"S'up," one said, with a nod of the head. I gave him a half-hearted smiled, trying to appear nonchalant, like I try to break into nightclubs all the time.

We walked around to the back of the building, where a man was peering out of a contraption that looked like it belonged in the front of a depression-era speakeasy. Theo waved and the man opened the door for us, pointing to a doorway at the end of a pitch-black corridor. We walked in single file, struggling to see a foot in front of us, before we reached the doorway, illuminated by a red glow from within.

The door opened and I was blinded by the saturation of color and light. When my eyes adjusted, it felt like stepping into an exotic wonderland. There were vines climbing up to a 50-foot-high domed golden ceiling. Red and purple satin draperies hung from rafters, falling into lazy piles on the floor. People lounged on velvet couches, topped with beaded silk throws and overstuffed pillows. The floors were busy with oriental rugs and ornately woven mats of gold and silver. As we moved through the room, off to a dimly lit spot in the corner, I felt like a coveted concubine floating to my master's chamber by way of magic carpet. Candles spotted the room like jeweled confetti and gave everyone an unearthly glow.