Bring It On! Read online

  Bring It On!

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 15

  Deborah Gregory

  Let me holla at my ferocious friend

  Tonya Pinkins,

  who is always calling out the shameless hyenas

  while looking out for the bona fide cheetahs

  in the jiggy jungle.

  You’re simply growlicious, girlita!

  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

  Chapter 11

  Bring It On!

  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, grand-moms, 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

  Saturday is definitely the most dig-able day of the week because I get to go to the Drinka Champagne Conservatory for vocal classes with my crew, the Cheetah Girls. But Sunday is the only time in my crazy-busy week that I get to indulge in my three favorite things: 1) listen to hip-hop music 2) spend time with my favorite foster sister Twinkie and foster brother Corky 3) fantasize about, then sketch some of the cheetah-licious outfits I’m going to make for the Cheetah Girls when we have the duckets to afford my designing skills.

  Lying in my twin-size bed on the supa-lumpy mattress, I close my eyes for a second so I can imagine the Cheetah Girls performing at a supersize place like Madison Square Garden with thousands of peeps in the audience. Yeah, I see it. The five of us descend from the ceiling propped up on a ten-foot-long glittery papier-mâché cheetah. We are dressed in Dorinda Designs—cheetah fur capes over cutout leather hip huggers and halter tops studded with serious sparklies—Austrian crystals shaped like flower petals, bugle beads sewn by hand, okay? When the big, sleek cheetah touches the stage floor, we hop off—swirling and twirling so the supa-bright klieg lights bounce off the spark-lies, causing the audience to go cheetah crazy!

  I know I’m dreaming, but one day I’m gonna get the op to make costumes for us, even if we end up on the chitlin’ circuit (second-banana nightclubs all around America where second-banana singers performed back in the day, to keep duckets in their buckets). All I know is, we’ll be the best-dressed girl group the chitlin’ circuit has ever seen.

  “Dorinda, I don’t have any more clean underwear,” my sister Chantelle yelps, interrupting my fantasy flow. “When you gonna do the laundry?”

  I should have known my ten-year-old sister would find a way to snap me out of my daydreams so early in the morning. See, I share my bedroom with my foster sisters Chantelle and Monie. Luckily, Monie, who is seventeen, has been spending a lot of time at her boyfriend Hector’s house on the weekends. I know I shouldn’t be tripping about Chantelle whining—but she knows I don’t do the laundry until after we eat breakfast. And she’s not the only one who depends on me.

  “Are you coming, Cheetah bear?” Twinkie giggles and peeks her head in my bedroom.

  “I’ll be right there, Twinkie bear,” I call back. Like I said, Chantelle is not the only one who depends on me. Everybody in my family does. And now that I’m in the Cheetah Girls, I’m doubly busy because my crew depends on me too. I’m not flossing: for example, I’m the best dancer in my crew, so I’m sort of the unofficial choreographer for all the Cheetah Girls’ dance moves. Oh, my bad. Let me tell you who the Cheetah Girls are: we are the fiercest singing group in the jiggy jungle, according to Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi, the real leader of the group. There’s also Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons, Aquanette and Anginette Walker and, the youngest member, yours truly, Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers.

  Sitting straight up in my bed, I glance at Chantelle, who is plopped down on the floor—naked from the waist down—with all her clothes in front of her piled up in a big heap. Miss No-bloomers has even left the bottom two drawers of our bureau open, like a thirsty dog with his tongue hanging out.

  “I know you’re going to put your clothes back in the drawers, right?”

  “I was looking for clean underwear, I told you!” Chantelle whines, not moving off the floor.

  “Not in your shirts and tops drawer!” I counter.

  “I thought maybe they was there,” Chantelle protests. “Sometimes you put stuff in the wrong drawer.”

  “No, I don’t,” I reply, but calmly, because I know what Chantelle was really thinking—that I should have given her one of the prizes that the Cheetah Girls won at the Harlem School of the Arts talent show competition. Backstage after the show last Saturday, Chantelle grabbed my goodies bag and blurted out: “I want a prize, too!” Mrs. Bosco put a clamp down on that situation, though. She told me right in front of my ten foster brothers and sisters that I can’t give away any of my prizes (which included a one-year scholarship to the Harlem School of the Arts after-school programs, dinner for six at Maroon’s restaurant, as well as shoportunity gift certificates from Barnes and Noble, Radio Shack, and the Girlie Show Boutique).

  Staring at the big pile of magazines messily stacked next to Chantelle’s bed, I start to feel bad that I can’t buy her more Sistarella and Word Up! magazines for her collection. (There is nothing Chantelle loves more than to sit on her bed and flip through grown-up magazines like she’s in college instead of third grade!) But Mrs. Bosco was right—“The Cheetah Girls earned those prizes and the Cheetah Girls should enjoy them.” And I’m definitely gonna be doing that tomorrow after school: me and my crew are going to the Girlie Show Boutique to cash in on the shoportunity of a lifetime, you know what I’m saying? I’m probably going to be doing cartwheels when I walk into that store! Right now, though, I walk over Chantelle’s big pile of clothing and open the top drawer of the bureau to pick out a sweater. Holding up my khaki ribbed turtl
eneck sweater, I notice a big hole right in the front. I stick it back into the drawer, because I don’t want to deal with that holey drama right now. See, here’s the real deal: ever since I was five years old, Mrs. Bosco has been bringing home bags of secondhand clothes, while we’re supposed to pretend that they’re new, even though most of them have stains or holes in them. I used to fall for that when I was little, but not anymore. One day, even my five-year-old sister Kenya, blurted out, “I don’t want no more holey clothes.”

  Suddenly I get a cute idea. I could put a brown poodle appliqué on the sweater to cover the hole. Yeah, that’ll work. Nah, maybe not. I already put a white poodle appliqué on my gray knit cap last week. I don’t want peeps to start wondering if I’m a dogcatcher working for the ASPCA. See, everybody knows that the Cheetah Girls are obsessed with dogs (only the cute, fluffy ones, though!). The bichon frise dog has become the Cheetah Girls’ mascot because Galleria has a white bichon frise named Toto. Luckily, frisky Toto impregnated Buffy, who belongs to her nasty neighbor, Mrs. Brubaker. As a result, the Cheetah Girls hit puppy payday: we won half of Buffy’s litter after Ms. Dorothea, Galleria’s mom and our manager, took Mrs. Brubaker to court to fight for custody. Of course, Chanel wasn’t allowed to take a puppy, because her mom, Ms. Juanita, wasn’t having it. (Ms. Juanita claimed she was allergic to dogs, even though bichon frise dogs are hypoallergenic.) But Ms. Juanita should have known that Chanel would get her way: for a whole week, Chanel walked around with her bottom lip stuck out so far she looked like a cuckoo bird. Ms. Juanita finally caved in and bought Chanel a bichon frise puppy from Dolly Dog Breeders in Hempstead, Long Island. Now cute little Prada is in the mix with Toto; my puppy, Nobu; Aqua and Angie’s puppy, Coco (in honor of Chanel’s middle name); and Galleria’s puppy, Ragu. And to top everything off, Galleria even wrote a song for our victory: “Bow-wow Wow.”

  Bow-wow Wow—that gives me another sweet idea: I can give the rest of the Cheetah Girls poodle appliquéd knit caps—for their Christmas presents. Then we’ll be the fluffy five for the holidays. “Bow-wow Wow, Yippee Yippee Yay, Yay,” I start humming cheerfully while looking for less holey sweaters in my drawer. I pull my brown long-sleeved T-shirt out and examine it for boo-boos. After it passes inspection, I close my bureau drawer real tight, just in case Chantelle gets any more messy ideas for our room. Now my mind is really percolating. Maybe I could make a felt flower appliqué decorated with sequined petals? Yeah, that would look tight, too. I start getting excited again and pull on my junior size–five blue jeans. (Yeah, that’s right, I’m shrimpy. So shrimpy that Chantelle and me wear the same size jeans even though she is two years younger. But she is not allowed to wear my clothes because then I would really go off.)

  Now Miss No-bloomers is sitting with her legs crossed Indian style like she’s on I Dream of Jeannie waiting for Aladdin to rub the lamp.

  “You could at least put your denim skirt on.” I shake my head. Why am I stressing? Chantelle shouldn’t be so upset that I’m not giving her any of my gift certificates. See, I definitely need to buy some books for school and some clothes without holes in them. And I’m definitely looking forward to that tasty meal at Maroon’s restaurant, with my crew and Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi.

  As if she’s reading my thoughts, Chantelle turns up the volume on her complaining machine: “I wish my birthday was coming up so I could get some presents,” she moans loudly, like I’m supposed to feel sorry for her.

  “Okay, so I won a few prizes and my thirteenth birthday is next Saturday,” I say, trying to reason with Chantelle. “I got your message.”

  “I got your message,” Chantelle mimics, then throws out a not-so-bright idea: “I’m gonna start my own singing group.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out, “Please don’t start singing now.” After all, it’s not Chantelle’s fault that she sings like a hyena having a hiccup attack. Instead, I tune her out and think about the colors of felt I’m going to use to make the flower appliqués—peach, brown, plum—they would make a nice contrast against my khaki sweater. But before I get too creative, I check my supply box to see what color felt pieces I have left. These days, I’m guarding my design supplies like diamonds in the rough, because I don’t have duckets to buy more, and they’re dwindling fast. Plus, I know that Chantelle has been swiping some of my supplies. That’s why I started storing them in my locked metal file cabinet (even though I think she knows where the key is hidden, because sometimes I’ll go into the drawer and notice things have been messed with).

  As I step into my black Mad Monster combat boots, I fantasize about walking into the fabric stores on 38th Street and 7th Avenue and going to town—buying all the fabric and supplies my heart desires. See, aside from being in the Cheetah Girls and performing all over the world, I dream about having my own dopelicious boutique stocked with Dorinda Designs—just like Ms. Dorothea does. She has a beautiful boutique—Toto in New York… Fun in Diva Sizes on West Broadway in Soho, which is really far south from where I live. I’ve only been to Ms. Dorothea’s store a few times, but I think about it all the time. Chanel is the lucky one: she works there on Sundays so she can pay back her mother for going to town with her credit card a few months ago. (None of us knew what Chanel was doing, but sometimes she can be sneaky like that.) Anyway, you’ve got to see this store: it’s decorated in leopard, with pink, orange, and lime-green wall panels. Then there are all these glitter-flecked pink, orange, and red flowers hanging off the ceiling, mirrors, and wall panels. The whole setup is definitely off the cheetah meter.

  “Okay, Chantelle, I’m going to make breakfast, so you can sit there all day in front of that pile of clothes like it’s Magic Mountain,” I warn my messy sister, who goes out of her way to make sure that her side of the room always looks like the Salvation Army.

  “If it was Magic Mountain, then there would be underwear underneath it, Dorinda,” Chantelle says, poking her lip out.

  “After breakfast, I’ll do the laundry already, okay?” I let out an annoyed sigh.

  She doesn’t answer me, so I just walk out of the room to go take care of my new puppy. Ever since Nobu’s arrival, Nestor, Corky, Arba, Topwe, and Twinkie sit at the kitchen table every morning, waiting for me to open the wooden gate at the kitchen entrance so they can watch me feed Nobu and play with him for a little while before we eat breakfast. The only one who isn’t panting for Nobu is my youngest foster sister, Gaye. She is definitely afraid of him. So every morning, Mrs. Bosco lets Gaye come into her bedroom so they can spend a little time together alone.

  I don’t understand how anybody could be afraid of supa-cuddly Nobu. I get so excited every time I open the kitchen gate and see his precious little face. Nobu, who is lying on his little blanket, jumps right up when he sees me. “What’s up, pup?” I giggle and nuzzle his face. Ms. Dorothea said to keep Nobu in his own little space until he is four months old so he can get used to being with us. So I guess the kitchen is his room until he is old enough to stay with me. I put Nobu back down on the blanket so I can throw the soiled Wee Wee Pad in the garbarge, then spray Lysol on the floor and wipe it clean before I put down a fresh Wee Wee Pad. (Nobu also can’t go outside to do his business until he’s had all his vaccination shots.) Even though Mrs. Bosco doesn’t like the idea of Nobu peeing in the kitchen, she is happy that I got a free puppy. A bichon frise puppy from the pet store or a private breeder would cost at least $650. Meanwhile, I was so happy about getting my own puppy and feeling so bad for Chanel when she was puppy-less that I let her name him. (I’m telling you, Scrooge would have broke down if he had seen that sad face!) Chanel chose the name Nobu—after her mother’s favorite Japanese restaurant, where all the Big Willies eat raw octopus for fifty dollars a plate.

  “I sure hope you live up to your namesake,” I coo to Nobu. “But I know you’re gonna be a Big Willie, too.” I go into the cabinet to get his tube of Nutri-Cal paste. My favorite part of feeding Nobu is letting him lick a nice, fat dollop of the vitamin-packed b
rown gooey stuff off my finger twice a day. His little tongue always tickles my fingers. Ms. Dorothea says the paste is supposed to give him a shiny fur coat and help him grow strong. I sure hope so, because Nobu seems so little—like me. When I was younger, it bothered me a lot to be so tiny because peeps was always messing with me. Now at least I go to a high school (Fashion Industries East) where peeps are more interested in dressing skills than fighting ones.

  Now that Nobu is here, though, it seems like everybody is fighting over him: my foster brothers—Twinkie, Nestor, Topwe, and Corky—are pushing each other right outside the kitchen gate, jockeying over who is going to pet Nobu first. (I don’t allow them to play with Nobu all at once, because I know my tiny pooch would get overwhelmed.)

  “You went first the last time!” six-year-old Corky yells out. Corky is my favorite brother—he has a big head of ringlets and the prettiest hazel eyes.

  “Can I play with him now?” Topwe whines, though he knows better. They know my routine—clean up the poop, feed him his paste, put out fresh water and his dry puppy dog food mixed with a little hot water, and let him eat it before anybody gets to pet him.

  “Okay, time for the wolves to come in.” I chuckle and pet Nobu’s head. I always watch while everybody plays with him, to make sure he doesn’t get hurt—especially with Kenya, because she treats Nobu like he is a stuffed toy or something.

  “Corky comes first,” I order, since nobody can agree.

  “Corky comes first!” Twinkie shouts out. Twinkie’s real name is Rita, but we call her Twinkie because she has a big pile of fuzzy blond hair on her head that looks yummy enough to eat like a Twinkie. She is such a trip. She likes to act like a Mini Me, repeating everything I say.

  Corky comes inside and I hand Nobu over to him. “He’s so tiny. Is he gonna grow?” Corky asks, giggling.

  “I think so,” I answer, staring at Corky as he pets Nobu. When I look at Corky and Nobu, I know there is a God. Who else could have created such cuteness and perfection? Other times, though, I don’t think there is a God, because of all the foul things going on—like Gaye’s mother abandoning her on a playground. Why would anybody do such a mean thing if there were a God?