Cuchifrita, Ballerina Read online

  Cuchifrita, Ballerina

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 10

  Deborah Gregory

  For Amanda Barber,

  my old school friend,

  who’s got the slander—

  ’cuz what’s good for the goose

  is good for the gander.

  Quack, quack!

  Contents

  The Cheetah Girls Credo

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Miss Cuchifrita, Ballerina!

  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

  Bubbles is plopped in the seat next to mine on the plane—and she is sleeping with her cheetah jacket covering her head, which makes her look like one of those blob creatures from the Wack Lagoon. I think she’s doing it because she doesn’t want to talk to me. Although she hasn’t said it (yet), I know Bubbles thinks the whole drama that went down in Houston is my fault. La culpa mía. Well, I’m not going to feel guilty! I stick one of my purple glitter star stickers on my bubble gum pink pants. Ooo, that looks tan coolio!

  Feeling defiant doesn’t get me out of the Dumpster, though. It’s a sad Sunday, because the Cheetah Girls—that’s Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi, Dorirda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers, the twins (Aquanette and Anginette Walker), and, of course, me—Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons—are flying back to the Big Apple and going back to school. Our little gobblefest in Houston is definitely over. Terminado. I should be grateful that the Cheetah Girls got to spend Thanksgiving in the twins’ hometown—even if it turned into una tragedia.

  Actually, it was more like an episode on the Spanish soap opera Oh, No, Loco! See, the Cheetah Girls performed in the Miss Sassy-sparilla Contest at the Okie-Dokie Corral. Best of all, we won first place, because we sang this coolio song—“It’s Raining Benjamins”—that I, Chanel Coco Cristalle Duarte Rodríguez Domingo Simmons, helped write. (I’ve decided if we ever publish a Cheetah Girls song together, I’m going use my whole name on the credit. Hee, hee—Dominican stylin’.)

  Anyway, it was obvious the Cheetah Girls deserved to win the contest, because we had our lyrics and choreography down. Everyone could tell, because at the end of the song, when we threw the fake Benjamins at the audience, they clapped loud enough to chase away a herd of buffalo.

  After we collected our Miss Sassy trophy, though, our luck went south. One of the losing groups, CMG—the Cash Money Girls—got bitten by the green-eyed monster, and decided to run us out of town. They went around telling anybody who would listen that the Cheetah Girls stole the lyrics from their song “Benjamin Fever”—and even stole their routine bite for bite!

  Well, all right, I did use a couple of words from “Benjamin Fever” for our song “It’s Raining Benjamins.” But how was I supposed to know you’re not supposed to do that? When we called Madrina (my godmother and Bubbles’s mom) in New York, she told us that we had perpetrated “copyright infringement.” And okay, we did throw fake Benjies at the audience, just like CMG does. But I don’t care what anybody says—our song was better than theirs, está bien?

  Sticking more stickers on my pants, I let out a deep sigh. I guess the Cash Money Girls had reason to be jealous. See, we had performed on a bill with them once before—at the Tinkerbell Lounge in West Hollywood, for a New Talent Showcase sponsored by Def Duck Records. (Yes, the same label that has Kahlua Alexander.) We got a lot of attention after the showcase, so maybe CMG thought the record company liked us better than them. Little do they know we’re still sitting around waiting for a record deal, and to get into the studio with Def Duck producer Mouse Almighty.

  I sink back into my seat, and try to cover my face with the little airline pillow, but it falls into my lap. Maybe I should try to write another song? No, I don’t think Bubbles would like that. Without even realizing it, I start humming the chorus to the song that caused all the drama:

  “It’s raining Benjamins for a change and some coins.

  It’s raining Benjamins … again!”

  I just can’t get that song out of my head, but I guess I’d better not let it fly out of my boca grande, because the Cheetah Girls promised GMG we would never sing “It’s Raining Benjamins” again in public. I stick some more glitter star stickers on my pants legs, and before I know it, they look like the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Hollywood Boulevard. Well, we sure aren’t strolling on the Walk of Fame right now!

  I can’t believe Bubbles let the Cash Money Girls bully us around like that. She even offered to give them our Miss Sassy trophy! We won it, not them! Luckily, CMG said, “No, thanks.”

  The truth is, I wish I could take home the Miss Sassy trophy. I’d like to show it to Mom, so she can see that the Cheetah Girls are the best singing group in the jiggy jungle. But Bubbles decided that the twins should keep it. After all, they’re the reason we got to spend Thanksgiving in Happenin’ Houston in the first place.

  “Miss, could you please put your bags under your seat?” the flight attendant says to Aqua, snapping me out of my Houston memories.

  “We don’t put our purses on the floor, ma’am, ’cuz it’s bad luck,” Aqua explains earnestly. “You won’t have any money left if you do that.” She gives the flight attendant a look like she should understand. “You know, it’s a Southern thing.”

  I don’t think the lady understands, because she just says, “Miss, you’re gonna have to put your bags underneath the seat or in the overhead compartments.”

  “We’ll do that, then,” Angie says quietly. She waits until the lady walks away, then hides her purse under her blanket.

  Even though
I don’t believe in their superstitions (only mine!), I can’t blame the twins. It seems like they have a lot of rules in airplanes. For example, you can’t polish your nails. You can’t keep your belongings in your lap. You can’t let animals sit in an airline seat, even though the twins paid seventy-five duckets for a seat for their guinea pigs, Porgy and Bess, so they could take them along. Seventy-five duckets! I’d buy twenty pairs of cheetah anklets from Oophelia’s catalog before I parted with those kind of duckets for two furry creatures that chomp on carrots.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love pets. I even bought my little brother, Pucci, a cute little African pygmy hedgehog for his birthday—Mr. Cuckoo. “I hope Pucci has been taking good care of Mr. Cuckoo while I’ve been away in Houston,” I say to the twins. Pucci’s been staying with our abuela—our grandma—over Thanksgiving.

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” Aqua chuckles back.

  “You never know,” I counter. Thinking about Mom, I start nervously smoothing out my hair again. She’s back now, from her trip to Paris with her boyfriend, Mr. Tycoon.

  I feel flutters in my stomach, and a pang—un poco dolor—in my chest. I wish I had a nice family, like the twins. All my mother and I do is fight, and my brother Pucci only speaks to me when he feels like it. Of course, now he’s being nice to me because I bought him Mr. Cuckoo.

  I wonder if Daddy and his girlfriend, Princess Pamela, are back from Transylvania, Romania. That’s where they went for Thanksgiving, so she could be with her family. I’ll bet if I lived with them, Mom would miss me. Then she’d be sorry she gave me such a hard time….

  “I wonder if Pucci will let me take Mr. Cuckoo to the annual Blessing of the Insects and Their Four-Legged Friends at St. John’s tonight,” I say to Angie. “Probably not, but I’m going to take him anyway. Do you want to bring Porgy and Bess?”

  “No, we have to go straight to our church with Daddy,” Angie explains.

  Maybe Bubbles will bring her dog, Toto, I think. I decide I’ll ask her later, when she wakes up. Then I look around, and see that the lady sitting across the aisle is smiling at me.

  “Howdy do,” the lady says in a Southern twang, which I’m used to now after spending a week in Houston.

  “Hi,” I say back, smiling.

  “Y’all ain’t from Youston, are you?”

  “No, we’re from New York,” I say beaming, then add, “we’re singers.”

  “Is that right?” the lady says excitedly. “Do you sing rip-rap?”

  I look at Dorinda for help, but she is lost in her book, so I shrug my shoulders and ask politely, “Do you mean hip-hop?”

  “Why, yes—isn’t that the same thing?” the lady asks, amused at her own cuckooness, I guess.

  “Um, yeah,” I say, trying to be nice, “but not exactly. We mix all kinds of music and vibes together.”

  “Oh,” the lady says. “Well, variety is the spice of life.”

  “We must be very spicy, then, because we mix a lot of music!”

  The nice lady sees me eyeing the crumpled newspaper resting on her lap. “Would you like to see the paper?” she asks me. I nod yes, and she hands it to me.

  “Ooo, Krusher’s new album is out!” I coo to no one in particular, as I gape at the full-page advertisement for my favorite singer in the whole world. His eyes look so dreamy … like he’s smiling right at me!

  Dorinda takes her nose out of her book and peers over my shoulder.

  “I think you have un coco on Krusher!” I tease Dorinda.

  “I think he’s cute, but I’m not mackin’ him like you are,” Dorinda says, throwing me a sly look.

  “What happened? I’m gonna write him a letter,” I say, like I have made a very big decision in my life, mi vida loca. Suddenly, I feel a sting in my chest, remembering the 1-900-KRUSHER contest that I entered. How could I have lost that? The deejay lady who won the stupid contest couldn’t possibly feel the same way I feel about him.

  “How old is he?” Dorinda asks, yawning.

  “Nineteen,” I say dreamily, touching his picture.

  Dorinda gives me a funny look. “You really are goo-goo ga-ga for him!”

  I get so embarrassed that I flip the page quickly. “You’ll see,” I say firmly. “What if we get to perform with him—I mean after we become famous, está bien?”

  “We don’t even have a record deal yet,” Dorinda reminds me, sighing heavily and spoiling my gran fantasía.

  “Maybe Def Duck records forgot about us,” I say sadly.

  “I hear that,” Dorinda says matter-of-factly, but I can tell she feels sad, too.

  My heart flutters even more when I turn the next page of the newspaper. It’s a full-page ad for the American Ballet Theatre. A beautiful girl who looks a little older than me is pictured in a ballerina tutu, standing on her tippy-toes in pointe shoes with her arms outstretched over head. REACH FOR THE STARS! is sprawled across the picture in big letters. Underneath it says, “Auditions for the Junior Corps Division begin soon. Deadline for applications, November 24.”

  That’s three days ago. This paper must be a week old!

  I shoot a quick glance at Dorinda, to see if she notices how excited I am. Luckily, she’s too busy staring at the picture in the ad to notice.

  My heart is pounding like a jackhammer—I didn’t realize the auditions were coming up so soon! See, about a month ago, I secretly sent in my application—and I’ve been waiting to hear from them ever since, practicing hard in case I got an audition. Now I realize that the first thing I have to do after school tomorrow is find out if I got an audition for the Junior Corps!

  “Can you do that?” Dorinda asks chuckling.

  “What happened?” I ask absentmindedly. Then I realize Dorinda is asking about the exquisite ballet pose in the picture. “Sí, mamacita,” I say defensively.

  Dorinda giggles, because I fell in the twins’ bedroom in Houston while trying to do a battement tendu jeté to the side, then leap across the room. I sprained my ankle, and it still hurts.

  “The area rug in the twins’ bedroom was slippery—that’s all!” I complain.

  “Is your ankle okay?” Dorinda asks gingerly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my ankle,” I shoot back. “It was just a little sprain. It’s okay, está bien?” I stare adoringly at the ballerina in the picture, who is obviously playing the part of Princess Aurora in “Sleeping Beauty”—my favorite classical ballet. Mom took me to see it when I was little. In my fantasies, I sometimes pretend that I am Princess Aurora.

  “How long did you and Bubbles take ballet classes?” Dorinda asks, nudging me out of my daydream.

  “Lemme see—we started when we were six or seven, then stopped in the sixth grade—no, it was the year Bubbles won the intermediate spelling contest … um, the second semester in seventh grade. I think that spelling contest went to her head.”

  “Well, you know how Bubbles likes the lyrical flow,” Dorinda chuckles, like I should stop complaining. “Why didn’t you keep doing it though—even after Bubbles stopped?”

  I look at Dorinda like she is cuckoo. She knows that Bubbles and I are like sisters. Whatever Bubbles does, I do. That’s just the way it is, ever since I can remember.

  But now I’m beginning to wonder. I miss ballet, and this may be my last chance to prove I can do it—even if Mom thinks I can’t. I can hear her now: “Chanel, your butt sticks out too much to be a ballet dancer!”

  “I don’t know, Dorinda—Bubbles didn’t want to do it anymore, and I didn’t want to do it by myself,” I respond.

  “I wish I could do it,” Dorinda says wistfully.

  Suddenly, I feel bad for whining. Dorinda never even had the chance to take ballet lessons, because she lives in a foster home, and they don’t have any money. She probably could’ve danced circles around all the snobby girls that were in our class.

  Now I know why Dorinda tried out for Mo’ Money Monique’s tour without telling us: she wanted to see if she could do it. Maybe I could do this witho
ut telling anybody, too….

  “Did you really want to go on tour with Mo’ Money Monique?” I tease Dorinda. I know how badly she feels for trying out without telling us a little bo-peep about it.

  “I guess not. I just wanted to make my teacher happy—she wanted me to do it,” Dorinda says, trying to justify her actions.

  Suddenly I hear the words come out of my mouth. “I’m going to try to get into the Junior Ballet Corps.”

  “Word?” Dorinda asks, surprised.

  “Sí, mamacita—this may be my last chance, last dance,’ and I’m going to do it,” I say, convincing myself. “You’ll see.”

  The nice lady is looking over at us. “You seem to be really enjoying that newspaper. Why don’t you keep it?”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says, waving her hand.

  I look one last time at the picture of the ballerina, then fold it up carefully. I put it into my cheetah backpack, like it’s a wish I have to put in Aladdin’s lamp. In some ways, it is—I have to convince Mom to let me spread my wings again!

  Chapter

  2

  As soon as I put my key in the front door, I start feeling nervous again. Ay, Dios, please don’t let Mom pick a fight with me!

  I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to tell Mom that I’m trying to get into the American Ballet Theatre’s Junior Corps division. I know Mom is not feeling me these days, está bien, and part of it is my fault. Tengo la culpa. See, I got the baboso idea to charge up her credit card after she let me use it to buy me a new outfit. You can bet Mom is never gonna let me forget about that catástrofe. She will probably be telling my grandchildren the story when she’s old and in a rocking chair! Qué horrible!

  Maybe Mom will be happy for a change, now that she got to spend a whole week in Paris with Mr. Tycoon. He is her new boyfriend, and she seems to be pretty cuckoo about him—even though he never looks me straight in the eye, or asks me anything about myself. I don’t think the tycoon approves of my being in a singing group. Well, neither does Mom—so I guess they are perfect for each other!