Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Read online

  Showdown at the Okie-Dokie

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 9

  Deborah Gregory

  For Dana, Margaret, and Bonquita,

  three fun girls rolled in one, with a dog named Foxy

  who chomps on moxie,

  who eats Chiquitas

  then slips on the peels

  and starts to squeal,

  begging for a Happy Meal!

  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

  Showdown At the Okie-Dokie

  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

  I still cannot believe that the Cheetah Girls are boostin’ in Houston! That’s right, Kats and Kittys, we, your favorite girl group, are backstage, chillin’ in the talent holding area, after performing on the very stage that Karma’s Children, one of the biggest girl groups in the world, will grace in about fifteen minutes!

  Okay, so we only got to growl one song, as one of Karma’s Children’s opening acts—but that brings us one crispy drumstick closer to making our dreams ’cuzome true in the jiggy jungle, right?

  Cooling my heels on the dingy green couch, I imagine how toodly it will be when we have our own dressing room, just like Karma’s Children. Not that we have managed to get a peek inside theirs yet—it’s right down the hall from ours—but we’re not blowing this Popsicle stand until we do. I mean, how could we come all the way to Houston from the Big Apple and not meet our favorite girl group, or snag a photo op with them, if you catch my drift, swift?

  We, of course, are me—Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi; Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons; Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers; and the twins, Anginette and Aquanette Walker (whom we have finally stopped calling the “Huggy Bear” twins).

  In addition to us, four other groups were also chosen to perform as opening acts for this shindigable benefit concert —“Houston Helps Its Own”—which is raising much-needed duckets for the city’s biggest homeless shelter. In order to get chosen, you had to hail from hot-diggity Houston, but the twins pulled a few strings to get us here.

  The other wannabes on the bill are: the kiddie rap duo, Miggy and Mo; the alternative rappers, Diamonds in the Ruff; the rock ‘n’ roll group Moody Gardens; and the blues combo Fish ‘N’ Chips—which has just gotten a new member: none other than the twins’ uncle Skeeter, who plays a mean harmonica!

  Of course, Karma’s Children are the “mane” attraction (they really do have oodles of hair!). They’re the only reason why peeps shelled out fifty duckets apiece for tonight’s benefit. Everyone wants to see Houston’s very own girl group “wiggle, squiggle, shake, and bake” right here in their own backyard. The place is the Turtle Dome Arena, in back of the Kemah Boardwalk in boot-i-ful Galveston Bay—surrounded by oodles of beautiful water. Trust me, we have nothing like this back in the Big Apple.

  Now, let me explain how we pulled off this extra-coolio holiday hookup: first, Aquanette and Anginette came down to Houston to visit their family for Thanksgiving, but ended up getting an audition for this benefit. Once they landed a spot in the lineup, they got the “Houston Helps Its Own” benefit committee to fly us down, too. Then, once the Cheetah Girls were “in there like swimwear,” the twins hooked up these homeless guys—Fish ‘N’ Chips—by putting in a good word for them. If those weren’t enough good deeds for the day, they also brought Uncle Skeeter along to the concert—and he hooked up with Fish ‘N’ Chips as a special guest star on their bill! I guess you could say the twins have been “doubly busy.”

  I gaze over at Uncle Skeeter, who is humming a melody while wiping his harmonica like it’s Aladdin’s lamp.

  “Lemme hear your flow again,” I coax Do’ Re Mi, who has become very fascinated with Mr. Fred Fish’s banjo. All night, she’s been trying to perfect this blues/rap riff she has created:

  I’m sitting on the porch

  just minding my bizness

  trying to light a torch

  but my bugaboo cat

  is eating like a horse!

  Of course, Fish ‘N’ Chips, who are old-school blues musicians, are fascinated with how Dorinda mixes rap riffs with blues beats. “That’s right, keep plucking,” Fred instructs her.

  “Psst! They’re done—here they come,” Chanel says, motioning to us.

  Miggy and Mo have just finished performing, and their eyes are twinkling like shiny Christmas balls as they run backstage to join us. We made friends with them at the audition for this event—they’re only ten or so, and they’re sooo cute! They’ve got freckles that make you heckle!

  “Act like you know, Miggy and Mo!” I shout to them as they run over to the punch bowl.

  “Are your freckles real, mamacitas?” Chuchie asks the pint-size rappers.

  “Sí, sí!” Miggy giggles, getting a whiff of Chanel’s Spanglish accent.

  Personally, I think it’s way past Miggy and Mo’s bedtime: right about now, they deserve some Krispy Kremes and a dream. I glance over at their mom, Mrs. Majors, but she is engrossed in her knitting. She’s making gifts for Christmas, which is right around the corner.

  “She moves those things faster than chop-sticks,” I mouth to Chanel. I wonder if Mrs. Majors likes managing her kids, the way my mom likes managing us.

  I feel bad about Mom being in New York by herself, but I’m not looking forward to talking to her on the phone later. See, I have to beg her to let me stay here for a few more days, so we can check out this event Miggy and Mo told us about. It’s an urban rodeo
at the Okie-Dokie Corral, and they’re going to be performing there. We figured that the Cheetah Girls should at least wander over yonder and check it out, you know what I’m saying? Maybe they need some more warm-up acts!

  “Even if we don’t get into the show, I wanna try to ride a bull at least once, ’cuz I’ve never been to a rodeo before,” I exclaim in my fake Southern drawl.

  Miggy and Mo let out tiny squeals of laughter. Now, the alternative rap group Diamonds in the Ruff are glaring in our direction. We’ve left them alone, because they’ve been radiating attitude, but all of a sudden they seem supa-dupa interested in our flow.

  I pretend I don’t notice them staring at us, but I can’t help checking out their fashion tragedy out of the corner of my eye. The two girls are wearing these wanna-be cowboy outfits: each one has on a white, ten-gallon cow-boy hat covered in rhinestones, a red bandanna around her neck, rhinestone platform heels, and blue jeans so tight she probably had to slide into them from a parachute.

  “Are y’all going to try out for the show at the Okie-Dokie Corral, too?” I turn and ask them because they’re still staring at us on the sneaky tip.

  “We’re already booked for that,” the taller one with the longer weave says matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes like pool balls. “They’re not looking for any more groups. So I don’t know what those kids told you.”

  Miggy and Mo don’t say a word, but their mother has finally looked up from her knitting needles. “Are y’all ‘bout done, Miggy?”

  “Yes, Mom, we’re finished,” Miggy says, grabbing her sister’s arm and walking over to their mother. Mo smiles at me as she passes, and whispers into my ear, “You should go over to the Okie-Dokie and try to get in anyway.”

  “Oh, we will, Mo, so act like you know,” I whisper back. I look over at their mom again. She is finally packing up her knitting needles and balls of yarn. I’m glad my mom is our manager, ’cuz she would’ve never let those rhinestone-studded wannabes talk to us like that. Actually, it’s probably better Mom isn’t here—for their sakes.

  “They’re just a bunch of kids,” the taller member of Diamonds in the Ruff says. “They don’t know nothing—I’m tellin’ you, you’ll just be wasting your time going over there.”

  “What’s your name?” Dorinda asks, trying to squash the situation.

  “Diamond,” the “weava” girl says in the same nasty tone. “How old are y’all?”

  Dorinda doesn’t say a word.

  “Fourteen,” I say calmly. I wonder why Diamond is trying to stop us from checking out the Okie-Dokie Corral situation. Maybe there’s a pot of gold hidden there in one of the barns or something, I chuckle to myself, looking again at the ten-gallon rhinestone-covered “bowls” on their heads. I’ll bet the only thing Diamonds in the Ruff know about a rodeo is how to clap when the clown comes out. Pleez, don’t try it!

  Chuchie takes a sip of punch, then hands me a cupful. “Hmm, Aqua, even the punch tastes better down here!” Chuchie coos.

  “Lemme taste it,” Aqua says, taking a whiff before she sips the punch, like she’s doing an autopsy report or something. The twins’ Granddaddy Walker runs a funeral parlor down here, and they’ve always been fascinated by everything to do with the dead—like horror movies and that kind of stuff.

  “What’s in it?” Angie asks her sister.

  “I don’t know, but Chanel is right, it’s good!” Aqua says, chuckling.

  “Let’s have a toast,” I say, trying to ignore Diamonds in the Ruff, who are still glued to our groove.

  Aquanette pours punch for each of us, then we lift our paper cups and make a toast: “Whatever makes us clever—forever!”

  “Come on, Sparkle, we’d better get ready,” Diamond says to her partner, waving her hand like she can’t be bothered with us anymore. It’s their turn to go on after Moody Gardens. Once they leave the holding area, I take a deep breath.

  “If you ask me, Miss Rhinestone is a little rough around the edges!” quips Aqua after guzzling her punch.

  We giggle so loud that Mrs. Walker, the twins’ mother, comes over to the couch. “Aren’t you going into the audience to see those girls perform?” she asks, her eyes twinkling.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Aqua huffs.

  “Okay—but I hope you’re not going to let jealousy keep you from seeing Karma’s Children later?” Mrs. Walker says gently. “You’ll be sitting back here all by yourselves.”

  I nudge Aqua gently. The twins are a little green with Gucci envy over Karma’s Children’s success—I guess because they’re both from the same hometown or something. I’ll never forget the first time we met the twins in New York, at the Pizza Pit. Aqua told us the reason why they moved to New York was because “There ain’t enough room in Houston for Karma’s Children and us!”

  We thought that was mad funny, even though we didn’t really like the twins at first—that’s probably because we were jealous about how dopalicious they could sing.

  “Miz Aquanette, I just want you to know that we’re not missing Karma’s Children perform—not for all the turkey in Turkey!” I say, trying to coerce the twins to come out into the audience with us.

  I look at my watch. It’s only a matter of minutes before that quasi-rap/quasi-wack attack group, Diamonds in the Ruff, gets off the stage and makes room for the real stars of the show. “Let’s go now, so we can get good standing room!”

  “I don’t even want to miss Karma’s Children’s entrance,” Chuchie whines. “Anyway, we should be taking notes, and not gloat!”

  “Word,” Dorinda seconds. “It’s not like we’ve got our stage thing down yet.”

  “All right,” Aqua says, giving in. “Let’s go see what those heffas have got that we don’t.”

  “Thank gooseness,” I say, relieved. “After all, we wouldn’t be hanging in boostin’ Houston if it wasn’t for you two!”

  “Oh, you know we weren’t performing here without y’all!” Angie pipes in.

  “I know, but I just wanna give y’all props for your manager skills, looking out for us—even though next time you’d better let my mom do the negotiating. If my dad hadn’t gone to Italy and left her in New York by herself, she would’ve come down here and hit you over the head with a drumstick!”

  “I know that’s right,” Aqua says, looking a little scared.

  “Don’t feel bad—I’m kinda scared to call her later myself,” I admit. “I know she wants me to come back right after Thanksgiving, but I just wanna see if we can get on the bill at that urban rodeo.”

  “Well, you’d better call, ’cuz your mother doesn’t play, Galleria,” Aqua says, giving me a look.

  I stuff my Miss Wiggy camera into my backpack, just in case I get a photo op with Karma’s Children.

  “What are you doing with the camera?” Aqua asks, noticing. “They told us we can’t take any pictures.”

  “I know, but we’re gonna bum-rush our way into Karma’s Children’s dressing room after the performance—so we can get a picture with them:”

  “I don’t know,” Aqua says hesitantly “I’m not going to jail or anything just for a picture….”

  I give Aqua a look, like, “Cut the flimflam and get with the program!”

  “Okay, I should have known you would have a plan, Miss Galleria,” Aqua says, chuckling. “Maybe I’d better ask Mom if we can borrow her camera, too.”

  “I’m going with y’all!” Mrs. Walker says from behind me. “Don’t worry I’ve already got the camera!”

  Chapter

  2

  I can’t believe how many people are packed like shimmy-shaking sardines into the tiny Turtle Dome Arena, just to see Karma’s Children! I mean, they’re everywhere—squeezed into the bleachers, spilling out into the aisles, running back and forth to the concession stands—and mostly, it seems, they’re bumping into us as we try to make our way down to the front, so we can see Karma’s Children “shake and bake.”

  People are beaming at us as we pass, probably because we s
till have our fierce cheetah costumes on. “Go, Cheetahs! Y’all were great!” this girl yells as we pass.

  We try to keep squeezing by, but given the gridlock, I should’ve known it would be a matter of moments before there was commotion in the ocean.

  “OW!!” Dorinda moans, as this girl nails her in the toe with the pointy metal spike on one of her skyscraper heels. The girl, who’s towering over tiny Dorinda like King Kong, wobbles, trying to regain her balance, then plops a big spill from her soda right on Aquanette’s shoulder!

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry,” King Kong lady says, trying to wipe Aquanette’s costume clean with a soggy napkin.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Aquanette yells over the deafening din of the crowd. We keep moving forward, and leave King Kong lady in the dust.

  “I can’t blame peeps for trying to get their money’s worth,” Dorinda says, hobbling along on her one good foot. I guess she’s right: fifty duckets in the bucket, even for a good cause like this, is a lot to shell out for concert tickets.

  “When Chutney Dallas came to town, you couldn’t get a ticket for less than seventy-five dollars,” Mrs. Walker informs us, as we find a tiny centimeter of space where we can stand huddled together and wait for Karma’s Children.

  “That’s all?” I mutter. I’m surprised you could even get to see Chutney Dallas, the biggest singer in the universe, for a measly seventy-five duckets. But that’s probably just the way it is down here. In the Big Apple, I’ll bet even the cheapest tickets in the nosebleed section cost more than that.

  “What did you say?” Mrs. Walker asks me, trying to make out my words over the noise.

  “Nothing,” I mouth back, because I don’t want her to take it the wrong way—like the Big Apple has betta chedda or something.

  The lights get dim, and the crowd roars. “Karma! Karma! Karma!” When the lights go up, a blond girl is standing onstage. She’s wearing a rhinestone tiara and a blue sequined gown, with a banner across it that says MISS HOUSTON. She walks toward the microphone but almost trips over her dress.