Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars Read online

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 16

  Deborah Gregory

  To the ferocious onscreen Cheetah Girls, Kiely Williams (Aquanette), Adrienne Bailon (Chanel), and Sabrina Bryan (Dorinda), who are always flexing their growl power. Ayiight, you’re tight, mamacitas!

  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

  Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars

  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

  I’m probably the only person north of Houston, Texas, who knows what a good fake-tress my twin sister, Angie, is. (She truly deserves a gingerbread-baked Academy Award.) Here we are trying to get ready, and Angie has just laid out an outfit on her twin bed that she wants me to think looks cute in this dag-on chilly weather—a white cotton peasant blouse, a denim skirt with a white dust ruffle underneath it, and white tights stuck inside black cowboy boots.

  “Galleria told us that wearing white after Labor Day is a fashion crime that should not be committed,” I say tersely, delivering a warning. “Why do you want to cause problems with the Cheetah Girls?” See, we are going to our annual Christmas meeting for the Kats and Kittys Klub—a national teen social organization that we originally joined in Houston and now belong to in the New York chapter. That’s where we met Galleria and the rest of the Cheetah Girls—which is the best thing that could have ever happened to two singing thirteen-year-old twins who moved up from Houston to live with their dee-vorced father in the Big Apple and start a whole new life. (Daddy got the deal of a century on a duplex apartment through his boss.)

  “We do not look like country hicks, Aqua—we look tight,” Angie hisses back at me, standing defiantly in her white bloomers. Now my sister the fake-tress is imitating Chanel, the Latin spitfire member of our singing group who is the most obsessed with clothes, but unlike Galleria, would never say a mean word even if we showed up to the meeting in Big Bird costumes.

  “Okay, Miss wannabe Hognate heffa,” I humph at her, referring to the high school with the biggest cheerleading squad in Texas. “Don’t forget your pom-poms.”

  Shaking my head, I change the paper lining in Porgy and Bess’s cage (they’re our treasured pet guinea pigs), then carefully lay out my blue denim skirt, brown turtleneck sweater, and black opaque tights on the bed, just to show Angie what I had in mind. Before I put on my tights, I run my fingers through them to check for holes (sometimes sneaky Angie runs my tights, then puts them back in the drawer!). Now I’m starting to feel uncomfortable about the meeting. See, some of the Kats and Kittys members didn’t come to the Cheetah Girls “Bring It On!” fund-raising benefit. I guess that was their way of telling us that they really do think we’re corny. See, Angie and I are on the volunteer services committee, but nobody seems all that interested in our plans for a food drive for the homeless at our church, either. Maybe we should have come up with a better idea. That reminds me about the flyers we made for the drive. “Don’t forget to put the flyers in your backpack,” I instruct Angie. Wiggling my tights up to my thick waist, I start thinking about the first time we met Galleria and the rest of the Cheetah Girls. She made a crack about my white frosted lipstick, so I stopped wearing it because I had to admit she was right—that shade did make my lips look like two flying saucers lost in space!

  I guess you can tell by the now that Galleria is a handful. And do pardon my manners, please—the Cheetah Girls are Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi, who is the leader of our group as you will see by her extra-picky dress code; Chanel “Coco” Simmons (but she isn’t the only Coco anymore, since we just named our new adorable puppy in her honor!); Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers (sweet as she wants to be); and us, of course, Aquanette Marie and Anginette Vivian Walker. Those are our full and proper names, even though we don’t use our middle names since we moved in with Daddy.

  “Why do you care a heap of beans what Galleria thinks?” Angie says, rolling her eyes around like pool balls, then answering her own question. “Because you liked that sneaky Eddie Lizard and he liked her!”

  Now Angie is cutting deep. Eddie Lizard is this boy who slithered his way into Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory, where we all take vocal classes on Saturdays. It’s true that I liked Eddie and he liked Galleria, but it doesn’t matter now, because, luckily, he has crawled back under whatever rock he came from in California. He even left without saying good-bye to anybody. I mean, it’s obvious he doesn’t have any “home training,” as Big Momma would say, so I have gotten over him real quick.

  “You know good and well that’s water under the bridge,” I say, shaking my head. It’s true that I talked about Galleria behind her back to my sister, but now that the Cheetah Girls are finally going back into the studio with big-time record producer Mouse Almighty, to finish our demo tape (which Mouse is submitting to Def Duck Records in the hopes that we get signed to the label), I don’t have time to think about that ole beef jerky.

  “And don’t change the subject. She is right about our outfits—that’s all I’m saying,” I moan, wasting my breath. See, Galleria talked us into wearing pink cheetah outfits for the “Bring It On!” benefit, and lo and behold, the Def Duck Records executives in attendance started quacking to Ms. Dorothea (our manager and Galleria’s very fabulous mother) about getting us back into the studio with Mouse Almighty. Then faster than a Bisquick minute, Mouse called Ms. Dorothea and said he was ready to get back in the saddle with us
.

  I smooth down my hair one last time, then shuffled out of our bedroom and down the spiral staircase to wait for Angie to get it together before I bop her on the head. (Don’t get nervous. Fighting with my other half is as natural to me as singing in a church choir—both of which we’ve been doing since we could get sound out of our vocal chords!) I figure if I leave her alone, maybe she’ll come to her senses and change her outfit. That’s all right, I’m gonna fix her broken wagon real good: this weekend, when Angie isn’t looking, I’m packing all the summer clothes in the plastic garment bags, where they belong.

  Landing in the living room, I notice a strong scent in the air. I sniff carefully, trying to place the aroma. One look at Daddy who is standing at the counter, filling his pipe with tobacco and I know what it is: Daddy is wearing some strange new cologne or aftershave. Something must be up, because he never wears anything that strong. And that’s not all: Daddy is also wearing his black velvet sports jacket and dressy black slacks. In other words, Daddy is looking sharp and smelling like the gigantic fern plants they have at the botanical gardens.

  “You look nice, Daddy,” I say casually, to see if he will tell me where he’s going—and most important—with whom.

  “Thank you,” Daddy says, staying tight-lipped. That’s just like Daddy not to tip his hand (that’s why he is real good at card games, even though he lost his card-playing buddies when he moved to New York).

  Well, it takes more than that to keep my big nose out of somebody’s business—even Daddy’s. “Are you going somewhere, Daddy?” I ask cautiously.

  “Yes, I am,” he replies sharply, letting me know that this conversation is over.

  “Well, we’re going over to the Pizza Pit to meet the rest of the Cheetah Girls before the Kats and Kittys meeting,” I say, defeated. That’s also my signal for him to fork over some money for our dinner tonight.

  “Oh, right,” Daddy says, absentmindedly reaching into his back pant’s pocket for his wallet.

  I wish I could tell Daddy that his cologne is too strong, but I know better. Instead, I ask him if I can remove the lint from the back of his jacket. “Go ahead,” Daddy responds gruffly, which I know means “hurry up.” Now I realize Daddy is just waiting for us to leave, so he can go about his business, and I have a feeling that business has something to do with a woman. I freeze with fear for a second. I hope Daddy hasn’t picked up again with that kooky ex-girlfriend of his. Let’s just say that Angie and I were part of a plot (successful, I might add) to help rid Daddy of his last nut, High Priestess Abala Shaballa Mogo Hexagone, a whole lot of trouble in a head wrap.

  While I’m brushing the lint off Daddy’s jacket, Angie clumps down the staircase like a cow. Looking up, I see she is still wearing her cowboy boots and denim skirt and petticoat underneath, but at least she has put on a black turtleneck. From the way Angie scrunches up her nose, I can tell she is thinking the same thing I am. Why is Daddy wearing some new stinky cologne?

  Daddy watches us carefully as we put on our coats, and I know what he is thinking, so I grab my black-and-white checked muffler and matching wool hat from the closet so he can see we’ll be dressing warm.

  Angie stares at me hard. “That is my scarf!”

  “No, it’s not—you got the brown set,” I hiss back. See, now when we buy stuff, we get different colors, even if we are getting the same thing. I mean, we’re almost fourteen years old—we’re getting a little too old to be dressing like twins. Angie stomps to the closet and grabs the brown-and-white checked knit muffler and cap. I guess we have borrowed each other’s mufflers and hats so many times, Angie forgot which one was really hers.

  Daddy yells, “Get to bed by eleven, you hear?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I holler back, then stop myself from blurting out, “I’ll see you later,” since he is obviously trying to tell us that he won’t be home by the time we get back from our Kats meeting.

  “I know he has a hot date,” Angie squeals as we run to the Pizza Pit. For once I think Angie is right about something.

  When we walk into the Pizza Pit on Columbus Avenue—Galleria, Chanel, and Dorinda stare at us like hungry cheetah cubs.

  “Starve a cheetah, why don’t you?” barks Galleria, then jumps up and gets on the food line. They obviously have been waiting for us before they ordered.

  “Sorry, we had to change,” I say, shooting Angie a look.

  “What’s this—your get-a-record-deal dress?” quips Galleria sarcastically.

  “No,” I say, paying her no mind. I have learned that Galleria doesn’t mean anything by being a smart aleck, that’s just the way she is. Besides, we only wear cheetah outfits when we’re handling Cheetah Girls’ business. Of course, for Galleria, every meeting and outing has to do with Cheetah Girls business, so it’s normal that she is wearing her brown cheetah corduroy pants, turtleneck, and big cheetah fake-fur coat and hat.

  As usual, Galleria’s mind is moving like lightning/until she finds something else to flash on besides my outfit.

  “Wait till all the Kats and Kittys hear we’re in the house with Mouse again!” she boasts, her eyes darting with glee.

  “I didn’t hear you tell them extra cheese,” Angie says, interrupting Galleria’s gloating. Angie is a piglet when it comes to pizza. I think she’d eat it even if it was topped with a pile of hay.

  Galleria twirls around quickly and says to Angie, “Hold your horses,” then twirls around to the waiter and says, “Hold the extra cheese, please.”

  “Galleria!” Angie protests.

  “Before you dig in with your spurs, can we compromise?” insists Galleria, the boss of our sauce.

  The look on Angie’s face tells Galleria that compromise is not one of her strong points.

  “Come on, let’s pass on the lactose. I’m feeling gas-eous. That’s even worse than feeling nauseous,” admits Galleria, holding her ample stomach.

  “That’s not true, Bubbles. You don’t want them to put on extra cheese because that guy called you juicy!” Chanel blurts out, giggling. Bubbles is Galleria’s nickname, thanks to her infamous addiction to chewing wads of bubble gum nonstop since she was five years old.

  “Well, I am tired of being the poster girl for big-butt comments,” Galleria snaps back.

  “Say it ain’t so,” Dorinda heckles.

  “Uh-huh,” Chanel says, nodding. “This wack-a-doodle guy walking behind us snuck up to Galleria’s ear and hissed, ‘Girl, you’re juicy!”’

  “That’s truly foul,” snaps Dorinda. “But don’t let it shrink your ego, Bubbles—or your size. You’re my role model on the real.” Dorinda is extra tiny, but she obviously has big aspirations.

  “Come on—how about two extra helpings of anchovies?” chides Galleria.

  “Awright,” Angie says, giving in to Galleria’s insecurity attack.

  Personally, I can’t stand those fishy-looking things, but I don’t mind taking them off.

  “You can’t get gas from anchovies?” Dorinda asks curiously.

  “Nah, just puckered lips ’cause they’re so salty,” Angie says, licking her lips.

  “Well, you’d better start puckering up, buttercups,” riffs Galleria, before asking the waiter for the disgusting addition to our pizza pie.

  “Word, I can’t wait till tomorrow night—I’m gonna suck on those oxtail bones so hard, somebody might call the police!” Dorinda laughs.

  See, tomorrow night, the five of us are m for a real treat. We’re going to Maroon’s restaurant in Chelsea, with Ms. Dorothea—thanks to the gift certificates we won at the Harlem School of the Arts “Can We Get a Groove?” competition.

  “I wonder why Mrs. Bugge didn’t come to our benefit?” Galleria ponders thoughtfully.

  “She couldn’t fit it into her schedule?” Chanel queries gingerly.

  “I bet she gets in a twizzle with all the preparations for the Christmas bash,” adds Dorinda.

  Galleria ignores both possibilities and continues chewing her gristle: “As a matter
of fact, a lot of Kats and Kittys did a no-show.”

  “Well, it is a crazy-hectic time of year—for everybody,” offers Dorinda, squirming in her chair.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t see why they’re taking so long to ask us to perform at the Christmas bash,” counters Galleria. “You know what I’m saying? Now that we’re going into the studio—oops, maybe we won’t fit them into our busy schedule.”

  “What happened?” Chanel asks, her eyes widening to the point that the pink sparklies on her eyelids look like they’re about to burst into shooting stars. “They’re probably going to ask us tonight, mija. Don’t worry. No te preocupe.”

  Shoot, Galleria is right—going into the studio with a Grammy-winning producer is more important than performing at the Kats and Kittys Christmas bash. But I do hope Mrs. Bugge asks us anyway. “Do we know when we’re going to work with Mouse again?” I ask, trying to shake off the left-out feeling like extra bread crumbs on a drumstick before it gets fried and tasty.

  “Oh, my bad bad, as Dorinda would say.” Galleria pulls herself away from her pizza slice. “Cancel all extracurricular plans for the month of December. I mean all of them—Mouse has us on a very tight schedule. He wants to hand in the demo to Def Duck so we get first dibs on first quarter.

  “What happened?” squeaks Chanel. She always asks “what happened?” when she doesn’t understand something and feels embarrassed.

  “Mom says that from January to March of every year—first quarter—is when record companies have the most money in their budget to throw around,” Galleria says confidently, because she sure has got the music biz lingo down. “So that’s when they decide on who they’re going to bring into the fold.”

  Angie shoots me a look. I want to blurt out, “What’s the matter—ain’t half a pie of crawly creatures enough anchovies for you?” even though I know she is trying to tell me something with her eyes. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what she is thinking.