Dorinda Gets a Groove Read online

  Dorinda Gets a Groove

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 11

  Deborah Gregory

  For my Hollywood peeps, Walter Franks,

  who puts duckets in the banks

  while always giving thanks

  to the creator and initiator

  of his theatrical flow,

  which makes imitators take notice

  of his comedy show

  and act like they know

  that this is one hot dog

  who ain’t full of beans and schemes

  in the land of dreams!

  Contents

  The Cheetah Girls Credo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Who’s Got the Groove

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Cheetah Girls Credo

  To earn my spots and rightful place in the world, I solemnly swear to honor and uphold the Cheetah Girls oath:

  Cheetah Girls don’t litter, they glitter. I will help my family, friends, and other Cheetah Girls whenever they need my love, support, or a really big hug.

  All Cheetah Girls are created equal, but we are not alike. We come in different sizes, shapes, and colors, and hail from different cultures. I will not judge others by the color of their spots, but by their character.

  A true Cheetah Girl doesn’t spend more time doing her hair than her homework. Hair extensions may be career extensions, but talent and skills will pay my bills.

  True Cheetah Girls can achieve without a weave—or a wiggle, jiggle, or a giggle. I promise to rely (mostly) on my brains, heart, and courage to reach my cheetah-licious potential!

  A brave Cheetah Girl isn’t afraid to admit when she’s scared. I promise to get on my knees and summon the growl power of the Cheetah Girls who came before me—including my mom, grandmoms, and the Supremes—and ask them to help me be strong.

  All Cheetah Girls make mistakes. I promise to admit when I’m wrong and will work to make it right. I’ll also say I’m sorry, even when I don’t want to.

  Grown-ups are not always right, but they are bigger, older, and louder. I will treat my teachers, parents, and people of authority with respect—and expect them to do the same!

  True Cheetah Girls don’t run with wolves or hang with hyenas. True Cheetahs pick much better friends. I will not try to get other people’s approval by acting like a copycat.

  To become the Cheetah Girl that only I can be, I promise not to follow anyone else’s dreams but my own. No matter how much I quiver, shake, shiver, and quake!

  Cheetah Girls were born for adventure. I promise to learn a language other than my own and travel around the world to meet my fellow Cheetah Girls.

  Chapter

  1

  Today is the first day Chanel is out of her house since her ballerina audition, when she broke her tailbone and sprained her ankle. I can tell she is so excited she could do a pirouette right here on Thirty-ninth Street. I don’t know how Chanel managed to stay home for a week—getting ice packs on her butt and resting with her ankle elevated on a pillow—because she can be really restless. I mean, Chanel probably has more energy than all the dancers in the American Ballet Theatre put together! Of course, now that she’s really messed up her ankle, the doctor says the only pirouettes she’ll be doing are in her daydreams.

  Well, Chanel’s not the only one glad to be out of the house. When I left for school this morning, I heard my foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, talking on the phone with someone down at the foster care agency. So I know something is about to go down, and I’m in no hurry to go home and find out what it is. See, with ten foster brothers and sisters, there is always some new drama unfolding at my house.

  Right now, though, we’re waiting outside this fancy-schmancy restaurant for Ms. Dorothea, who is Galleria’s mom, Chanel’s godmother, and the Cheetah Girls’ manager. I guess you could say we are triple lucky. The Cheetah Girls, of course, is the name of our singing group—but we are as tight as a crew can be: besides little ole me—Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers—there’s our ringleader, Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi; Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons (also known as Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina); and the “boostin’ Houston twins,” Aquanette and Anginette Walker.

  We’re getting together tonight because Ms. Dorothea is treating us to dinner. She knows how hard it’s been for Chanel to stay off her feet—and for us, too, because we can’t rehearse until Chanel gets better.

  Looking up at the awning, I try to pronounce the restaurant’s name but keep bumbling the last word. “Le Kosher Cha-too?”

  “No, Do’, it’s Chateau—as in ’act like you know,”’ Galleria says, with emphasis, so I’ll get the drift. “Mom must be pulling a Rapunzel, and weaving the fabrics herself on a loom,” she hisses in between loud pops of bubble gum—the habit that earned Bubbles her nickname to the max.

  Ms. Dorothea left early this morning to shop for fabrics for her spring collection. See, Ms. Dorothea has this dope boutique, called Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes, down in SoHo near where Chanel lives. Ms. Dorothea is definitely my inspiration, because I love designing clothes—as much as I love dancing and being in the Cheetah Girls.

  “Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina, are you getting tired?” Galleria asks, concerned. We gave Chanel her second nickname before her pirouette caper backfired and landed her in the emergency room. See, when we got back from Houston, Chanel decided to give her ballerina moves a test run by auditioning for the Junior Corps Division of American Ballet Theatre. She got so nervous at the audition, though, that she went leaping across the floor and landed right on her back!

  I think Chanel is relieved that she has to hang up her pointe shoes for good, because now she has to face the fact that she’s stuck with us. I mean, we’re all kinda scared about being in a singing group. It’s not an easy-breezy ride on Hit Records Street, you know—it’s a lot harder than we thought it was gonna be.

  “Coming through, ladies, coming through!” yells this big, gruffy guy, startling me out of my thoughts. I turn to see Mr. Gruffy and two other tough-looking men, all wearing the same blue jumpsuit uniform and wheeling a huge cart filled with big rolls of fabric right in our direction.

  Aqua is so busy gabbing to her sister, Angie, that she isn’t paying attention. I push her aside gently, so she won’t get knocked off the sidewalk and end up with “street gravy” splattered all over her nice powder-blue skirt and white blouse.

  The men roll past us like they’re maneuvering a Mack truck in a war zone. I turn to the twins and chuckle, “Now you know we’re back in New York.”

  “You’re sure enough right, Miss Dorinda,” Aqua says, rolling her eyes in the direction of the “three gruffateers.”

  I look up at all the gloomy gray buildings with dusty windows and wonder what the people inside are doing—cutting patterns, sewing on sleeves, fitting clothes on mannequin figures. See, this is the heart of the Garment District, and buyers from all over the world come here to see what the Big Apple has to offer in the fashion department. Yup, the Big Apple has got it like that.

  When I look down, I see a big cheetah hat sticking up from the crowd of people rushing to get home from work. “There she is!” I say to Galleria, pointing down the block. “I can spot your mom’s spots anywhere.”

  When she gets close, I can see that Ms. Dorothea’s face is shiny with perspiration. “Sorry I’m late, darlings, but I’ve just been haggling for dear life with these sales reps. You wouldn’t believe what they were trying
to charge for wool—blend.” Ms. Dorothea takes a deep breath.

  “Hi, Madrina!” Chanel says excitedly. She bends over to kiss her godmother, while trying to balance her pink plastic pocketbook and pair of crutches at the same time. Chanel loves purses, but I love the cheetah backpacks Ms. Dorothea gave all of us when we became the Cheetah Girls. That’s what I always carry when I’m rolling.

  “Hi, Madrina,” yells Pucci, Chanel’s younger brother, who has also come along for the supadupa dinner.

  “Hello, Pucci. After you, Monsieur and Mademoiselle,” says Ms. Dorothea. She opens the door of the restaurant, and makes a grand gesture with her arm for Pucci and Chanel to enter first—like they’re Prince Charming and Cinderella walking down the red carpet to the Ball. I guess it is kinda special, since this is the first time the Cheetah Girls have all been out together since we got back from Houston.

  “This is really nice!” Pucci exclaims when we walk inside. Ms. Dorothea picked this restaurant, and she has diva-size taste, if you know what I’m saying.

  “Juanita, I think you’re going to owe me one after this,” Ms. Dorothea says to Chanel’s mom, Mrs. Simmons, who has also been invited for dinner. I can tell Ms. Dorothea is really proud of her restaurant selection.

  Pucci looks so cute, strutting ahead of me in his three-piece burgundy corduroy suit. “Pucci, you look really nice,” I exclaim, gently touching his shoulder.

  “This is the suit Madrina gave me for my birthday,” Pucci says proudly, sticking out his chest like a peacock.

  “I love pinwale,” I say, rubbing his shoulder and looking admiringly at Ms. Dorothea. We both could spend hours looking at fabrics and touching them.

  “But I’m not a pin-whale!” Pucci blurts back at me, grinning, then looks at Galleria for approval. I can tell Pucci really likes Galleria, and really looks up to her in the snaps department.

  “I know, Pucci,” I say, humoring him. “I was talking about the fabric—pinwale means small-ribbed corduroy.”

  “I know that,” Pucci shoots back, raising his left eyebrow and cocking his head.

  “You did not,” Galleria says, rubbing his bald head. Pucci’s head really does look like a pool ball, now that he’s had it shaved clean again.

  As the hostess shows us to our table, I can’t help but notice that we look, well, different from the other people in the restaurant—and that’s not because of Chanel’s crutches, if you know what I’m saying. Ms. Dorothea doesn’t seem to notice, because she waltzes by the tables with her head held so high it almost touches the ceiling. She’s like the head cheetah in an empty desert—there’s no way she could hide her spots! I wish I was tall like her—then everybody would respect me, too. I guess I’m still a cub, because I put my head down as we walk by this big round table, with ladies wearing pearl necklaces and matching earrings. Then I shove my hands in my jacket, and fidget with my fingers inside the deep pockets.

  The hostess seats us at a big round table, too, with a nice white linen tablecloth—not paper or plastic, okay? I get nervous again, because I don’t want to spill anything on it. Even the napkins are linen. I wonder how they keep everything so clean. Daintily unfolding the linen napkin, I place it carefully over my lap. Chanel taught me that little “magic trick.” Well, it was a magic trick to me, because I didn’t have any table manners until the rest of the Cheetah Girls taught me how to “slice on the nice tip”!

  I glance at the table next to us and notice that the boys are wearing some sort of beanies on their heads. I wonder what those are? Then I look around and notice that almost all the boys in the restaurant are wearing the same thing on their heads, pinned in place with bobby pins.

  Angie and Aqua whisper something to each other, which is probably why Ms. Dorothea pipes up. “I wanted to treat you girls to something different. This is what you call a kosher French restaurant.”

  We all look at each other, and I can tell that none of us knows what she’s talking about. At least Pucci has the nerve to speak up. “How come all the boys are wearing those things on their heads?”

  Ms. Dorothea chuckles at Pucci, so I relax into my chair. “Those are yarmulkes, Pucci. It’s a sign of reverence for males of the Jewish faith to wear them in public.”

  “Oh,” Pucci replies, then shrugs his shoulders. “How come the girls don’t wear them, too?”

  “That’s a good question, and one I don’t know the answer to,” Ms. Dorothea explains, smiling at the lady next to us with all the kids.

  Now that Pucci has broken the ice, I decide to ask a question too. “So, um, what does kosher mean?”

  “Well, it means that the restaurant serves food according to Jewish dietary laws, such as, they don’t serve meat and dairy products in the same meal, or sometimes not even in the same restaurant, and the meat is only from birds, or animals that have split hooves and chew their cud, like cows—but definitely not pigs.”

  We all look at Ms. Dorothea like she’s suddenly become a farmer.

  “You mean like giraffes, too?” Pucci asks giggling.

  “Exactly, Pucci—except I don’t think you’ll find any giraffe dishes on the menu. But you will find duck, steak, bison.”

  I wonder what a bison is, but I’m certainly not going to ask. I’ll look it up tomorrow in school. As if reading my mind, though, Ms. Dorothea adds quickly, “Bison, of course, is buffalo meat.”

  “Buffalo meat?” Pucci says, squinching up his nose. “Yuck.”

  Mrs. Simmons throws Pucci a look.

  “Nonetheless, you will find the food quite fabulous here,” Ms. Dorothea says, looking over her menu at Mrs. Simmons.

  Taking her cue, we each pick up our menus and gaze upon the goodies. Everything on the menu is in French! I realize, staring at the type and panicking, until I look closer and notice that the English version is in tiny letters below each selection. Whew! I sure wasn’t gonna try to pronounce anything to the waiter in French, if you know what I’m saying.

  “So, Chanel, how are you feeling?” Ms. Dorothea asks her goddaughter.

  “Fine! I’m so happy to be out of the house!” Chanel says cheerfully.

  “I caught her trying to do leg lifts in the exercise studio this morning,” Mrs. Simmons announces to all of us.

  “Keep it up and you won’t be able to perform in the Def Duck showcase that I’m setting up—again,” Ms. Dorothea warns her. See, when Chanel sprained her ankle, we had to postpone doing a showcase for the East Coast executives at Def Duck Records. Ms. Dorothea was gonna hook us up with a showcase at the Leaping Frog Lounge downtown.

  “So, Dorinda—how’s your sister, Tiffany?” Ms. Dorothea suddenly asks me. Now why did she have to bring that up? See, not too long ago, I didn’t even know I had a half sister named Tiffany. She and I have the same birth mother, but Tiffany was adopted as a baby, and I was sent to foster care. Then, last month, Tiffany came and found me—and now I’m not sure I want to deal with this new drama, you know what I’m saying?

  “Oh, she’s okay,” I say quickly, then change the subject back again and fidget with the menu. “When are we going to do that Cheetah Girls showcase, Ms. Dorothea?”

  “As soon as Chanel’s able to walk on stage without a crutch. Don’t worry—the A&R people are panting like puppies over the idea.” Ms. Dorothea sips from her glass with a satisfied smirk. She was the one who thought of approaching Def Duck Records with the idea of putting together a showcase, so the East Coast executives could get a whiff of our flavor. Then maybe they’ll be motivated to put us in the studio with big-cheese producer Mouse Almighty—the man who holds the key to our future. See, if such an important producer picks the right tracks for us, then we sound good— and if we sound good, then the tracks will test well, and Def Duck will give us a record deal—that’s what I’m talking about.

  “I sure hope Chanel’s ankle heals fast,” I say, chuckling. Then I get embarrassed, because I don’t want her to think I’m being insensitive about her situation. Chanel and I are really tight, you
know what I’m saying? I smile at her, and she smiles back, so I guess everything’s cool.

  “Don’t you worry, Do’ Re Mi, I’m gonna be back in Cheetah Girl form in no time,” Chanel says, then looks cautiously at her mother. “You’ll see, Mamí.”

  Uh-oh. I hope we’re not going to spin that record again. See, Chanel’s mom is looking for any reason to yank her out of the Cheetah Girls because she doesn’t approve of this whole girl-group thing. She thinks we’ll ruin our futures or something.

  Luckily, something catches Mrs. Simmons’s attention. I turn to see what she’s looking at—it’s the waiter, who has returned and is ready to take our orders.

  Afterward, the conversation turns back to the Cheetah Girls—only this time, it’s Ms. Dorothea who’s bringing in the noise. “Have you girls heard any more ruckus from that group in Houston?” she asks innocently as we chomp on our food.

  “What group?” Mrs. Simmons asks, concerned. Uh-oh. Judging from the way Chanel is squirming in her chair, I guess she didn’t tell her mother about what happened. Why would she?

  We all look at each other, and finally Galleria realizes that someone is gonna have to fill Mrs. Simmons in on the showdown that took place at the Okie-Dokie Corral. “See, Auntie Juanita, we performed with this group called Cash Money Girls, in the Miss Sassy-sparilla contest, and they said that we stole the words from their song for our song,” she explains.

  Mrs. Simmons daintily cuts her meat with a knife and fork, and I can tell that she is trying not to say anything. I watch her closely, and cut my steak the same way, but I guess I’m trying too hard, because one of the little red beans flies off the plate and plops onto the pretty white tablecloth! “Sorry,” I say, my face turning red. Now I don’t know if I’m supposed to pick up the bean or just leave it there.

  Chanel beats me to it, sticking her fork into it and plopping it back on my plate. “It’s okay, mija,” she whispers, then winks at me.

  “Copyright infringement. Hmm,” Mrs. Simmons finally says.