Growl Power! (The Cheetah Girls Book 8) Read online

  Growl Power

  The Cheetah Girls, Book 8

  Deborah Gregory

  For supa-dupa Davida,

  Wait till you meet her

  ’Cuz you’re gonna say,

  There’s a cheetah

  With growl power

  Who couldn’t be sweeter!

  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

  It’s Raining Benjamins

  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

  Angie and I are soooo grateful that school is out for the Thanksgiving holidays! A whole week off this year, too—thanks to construction at our school, LaGuardia Performing Arts League. All we can think about is heading home to Houston, and telling everybody about the Big Apple till they’re green with envy!

  We, of course, is me, Aquanette Walker, and my twin sister Anginette—but I’m usually the one doing the talking, because I can’t help thinking of the two of us as one person. (It’s something you’d understand if people were always confusing you for your twin!)

  Right now, we are fixing up a special dinner in the kitchen of the big New York City apartment we share with our daddy. We’ve been living here since June, and already there’s been more excitement than we had in all those years back in Houston!

  But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to go back home to visit. Our ma is down there, still living in the old house we love so much. And her mama—our grandma, whom we all call “Big Momma,” still lives in the house she and Granddaddy Selby lived in for fifty years or more. Granddaddy died seven years ago, but that don’t stop Big Momma. Nothing stops her!

  Granddaddy Walker will be waiting for us, too. Angie and I can’t wait to visit the Rest in Peace Funeral Parlor again—that’s where he lives! It’s granddaddy’s business, and he lives up top, two floors above the corpses. I guess that’s why our daddy has always been such a serious person—and why Angie and I just loooove horror movies!

  The dinner we are fixing is not for our daddy. He wouldn’t eat it, so why bother? He only eats the kind of food his new girlfriend makes him—seaweed shakes and stuff like that. Daddy is looking thin and peaked, if you ask me; but he thinks he’s never looked better.

  I believe he’s been bewitched by High Priestess Abala Shaballa Bogo Hexagone. That’s his girlfriend’s name, believe it or not. She claims to be a real high priestess. I don’t know about that, but she sure is strange. I don’t like her one bit, and neither does Angie.

  Anyway, we’re cooking a holiday dinner for the Cheetah Girls right now—that would be Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi, Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers, and Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons. The five of us are a cheetah-licious girl group, and we’ve got mad skills, too. Being Cheetah Girls is the best thing that ever happened to me and Angie. Not only do we have a crew of our own, but we’re close as can be to getting a record contract! Can you believe it?

  The first time the Cheetah Girls came over to our house, Princess Abala Shaballa was doing the cooking. She made up this good-luck brew for us out of some nasty roots and herbs. It was supposed to help us win the Apollo Theatre Amateur Hour Contest—which it didn’t. We came in second.

  Right now, Chanel and Dorinda are sitting at the kitchen table, watching me and Angie do the cooking. Suddenly Chanel stands up and puts her dirty, sneakered foot up on the edge of the sink to stretch it!

  Angie and I look at each other like, “Yes, she really is doing that!”

  “I’ve gotta stretch my legs, or I’ll get rigor mortis, and they’ll fall off or something,” Chanel giggles. Ever since Chanel and the rest of the Cheetah Girls found out that our grand-daddy owns Rest in Peace Funeral Parlor, they are always trying to take a stab at us with “corpse jokes.” Ha, ha, yes, ma’am.

  I would say something back, and make her get her feet off my clean sink, but I know Chanel’s legs are extra tired. See, she ran in the Junior Gobbler Race in Central Park this morning. She won, too! They gave her a big ol’ turkey, but she turned around and gave it to Dorinda’s foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, so all those foster kids in their house would have turkey for Thanksgiving.

  “That was real nice of you to give Dorinda your turkey, Chanel,” Angie says, thinking the same thought as me, like always.

  “Don’t worry, mamacita,” Chanel says. “At least someone’s gonna get to eat it—because I sure can’t eat all of it by myself.” Chanel is laughing at the thought of it, making a face like she just ate a whole turkey.

  Angie and I are laughing with her, but then I get a look at Dorinda, and I realize she has been sitting like a frog on a log ever since she and Chanel plopped in.

  “Are you tired or somethin’?” I ask her. “Did you run in that race, too?”

  “I did,” she says. “But I’m not tired. I’m just …” She heaves a big sigh and looks at Angie and me. “You two are so lucky you’re going home for the holidays,” she moans.

  I guess we do still consider Houston our home, even though we live in the Big Apple. But sometimes it seems like something is missing—I guess it just doesn’t feel right without the smell of Ma’s Shalimar perfume wafting through the air.

  Still, at least I’m going home to see my ma. Dorinda doesn’t even remember her real mother. I can see she is depressed. This must be a hard time of year if you’re a foster child like Do’ Re Mi. She lives with ten other foster kids uptown in Harlem. She likes it there okay, but
around the holiday season, I’ll bet she misses having a real family—even a split-up one like ours.

  “Here, Do’ Re Mi, why don’t you cut these up?” I say, passing her a knife and chopping board. I figure it’s better to put her on onion patrol than have her sitting there looking glum.

  Not that we need her help. Angie and I are cookin’ this special dinner for our friends without anybody’s help, thank you.

  “I wish I was going somewhere for the holidays,” Chanel pipes up. “You two get to have all the fun.”

  Our lives back in Houston may seem glamorous to Chanel, but what she doesn’t realize is that Angie and I were sleeping in twin coffins before we became part of the Cheetah Girls—that’s how boring our lives were. But, like Big Momma says, “the grass always looks greener on the other side.”

  “Bubbles should be here soon,” Chanel says, trying to lick some cream off the spatula.

  At least Galleria is happy about spending Thanksgiving in New York. That’s mostly because her grandmother and favorite aunt—I think her name is Aunt Donie-something (it’s hard for me to pronounce)—are flying in from Bologna, Italy.

  Imagine that—having family in another country! Now to me, that is glamorous. Bubbles is late today because she had to go to the airport with her father, Mr. Garibaldi, to pick the relatives up.

  “You gonna eat at Bubbles’s house too, right?” I ask Chanel delicately.

  “I guess so. Mamí’s going to Paris to see her boyfriend—”

  “The sheik that makes you shriek?” Dorinda asks, scrunching up her cute little nose.

  Chanel’s parents are dee-vorced, just like ours, but Ms. Simmons has this strange new boyfriend who lives in Paris, Zurich, and Saudi Arabia.

  “Sí, mamacita. The loony tycoon!” Chanel says, giggling at her own joke. Then she stops smiling and adds in a sad voice, “And Daddy is going to Transylvania with Princess Pamela, to see her family over there.”

  Princess Pamela is Chanel’s father’s girlfriend. She has a hair salon and a fortune-telling parlor, and she is quite mysterious—just Angie’s and my cup of tea. Chanel is really crazy about her, too. But her father and Pamela didn’t invite Chuchie to Romania with them. They left her home with her abuela—her grandma. I know Chanel loves her abuela, but I also know she’d rather have gone along to Transylvania.

  If you ask me, it’s a good thing Galleria’s family invited the two of them over. That Abuela Florita of Chanel’s is getting too old to cook a big dinner all by herself. And forget about Chanel. I don’t think she knows how to make anything except reservations.

  “I don’t know why y’all are so sad about staying in New Yawk,” Anginette says to Chanel. “At least you’ll have fun over at Ms. Dorothea’s. Not like at home with your mother.”

  Chuchie doesn’t respond, even though I can see Dorinda is trying to take her side. I know Chanel has problems at home, always fighting with her mom—but nobody told her to run up her mother’s credit card behind her back! That isn’t exactly the best way to win brownie points!

  “At least we’ve all got some money to spend,” I say, trying to cheer Chanel up. You’d think she’d be happy we won a hundred dollars each for coming in second at the Apollo Theatre in the “Battle of the Divettes” Competition. That’s right—we came in second in that one, too! It seems like when it comes to the Apollo, the Cheetah Girls always come out second best. Lord, keep me away from that place from now on!

  Galleria, Chanel, and even Dorinda were upset that we only came in second. But not me. A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, that’s what I say. Shoot, Angie and I got over it real quick—as soon as those bills touched our palms! We were just so happy to win anything!

  “What are you gonna do with your share?” Angie asks Chanel.

  I frown at Angie. She should know better than to ask her such a nosy question. I’ll bet Miss Shopaholic has already spent her share.

  “I … I paid back my mother with the money,” Chanel whispers sadly.

  “Well, that’s real good, Chanel,” I say, genuinely surprised. I know how much she must be hurting to part with all that money. I feel terrible for thinking badly of her before, so I put my arm around her shoulder and give her a hug.

  “Sí, mamacita,” Chanel says, “but you’re getting to go home, while we have to stay here and freeze to death or die from boredom, whichever one happens first.”

  “I’m not going to lie, it’ll be nice to go home,” Angie sighs.

  “And you get to go to the Karma’s Children benefit concert, too!” Chanel laments. “I wish I could go. They’re tan coolio!”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think we’re going—even if half of Houston is,” I huff.

  Karma’s Children may be the biggest singing group in Houston, but I don’t have to like them. Ever since Angie and I were little girls, singing in the church choir, it was always, “Someday they’ll be as good as those Karma girls.”

  They are older than we are, from the same neighborhood, and definitely our nemesis—they’re big time, and we aren’t, ’cuz they’ve got a record deal—and we don’t!

  “That’s all anybody is talking about back home—Karma’s Children, Karma’s Children—I’m so sick of those girls!” Angie says, trying to stick a finger in my eggnog to “test” it.

  “You’re just green with Gucci envy, both of you,” Dorinda says, breaking into a sly little smile.

  “I guess so.” I have to admit it, ’cuz it’s true—we are jealous. And we’ll stay jealous, until Def Duck records finally calls us back and tells us the Cheetah Girls have got themselves a record deal!

  The doorbell rings, and Angie goes to open the front door. Galleria is finally here with her father.

  “Hi, cara, cara, and cara!” Mr. Garibaldi says, greeting us with hugs and kisses. He is such a sunny personality—he always makes us smile.

  Meanwhile, Galleria waltzes into the kitchen and plunks her cheetah backpack down on the linoleum floor. She looks upset.

  “Aquanetta—when are you going home?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, hovering in the doorway. He always puts an extra “a” at the end of my name, making it sound soooo beautiful.

  “I’m gonna name my eggnog ‘Aquanetta-does-it-betta Eggnog’ in your honor, Mr. Garibaldi,” I coo. Then I answer his question. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “Chè pecato. I wanted your mother to try my specialty—chocolate cannolis. I think if she takes one bite, she would fly to New York to live, no?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, grinning from ear to ear.

  Then his eyes widen. “I know—tomorrow morning, I can take you to the airport and I bring the cannolis—specially made for you, no?”

  I hesitate, only because I know our daddy will have a proper fit if we agree to let Mr. Garibaldi drive us to the airport.

  Angie knows it too, because she pipes right up. “Our father is driving us, but that is so sweet of you, Mr. Garibaldi.”

  “Call me Franco, please, cara Anginetta. I come by in the morning anyway, and bring them for you.” I open my mouth to say he doesn’t have to, but Mr. Garibaldi shoos the words away.

  “Won’t you have some eggnog?” I say, trying to tempt him. “I’ve outdone myself again!”

  “Okay, va bene. I’ve been charmed once again by the Cheetah Girls,” Mr. Garibaldi says, sitting down.

  Suddenly, Galleria blurts out what’s on her mind. “You are not going to believe what happened. Nona was supposed to arrive on Flight #77, but the airlines from Italy are on strike.”

  Mr. Garibaldi comes to his daughter’s aid real quick. “I tell you a funny story. When I was a young boy, I cut school one day so I could go to Lake Como just to see a girl I like.” Mr. Garibaldi sips my eggnog. “Hmm, this is per-fecto,” he says, and I blush with pride.

  “So I go to see this boot-i-ful girl—her name, by the way is Pianga, which means ‘to cry’ in Italian—so I should have known. My mother thinks that I’m going to school, and I tell her we have soccer practice afterward, so I
will be home late. No problem. Well, when I’m ready to leave Lake Como and sneak back home to Bologna, the train is on strike! Scioporro! I cannot believe it!” Mr. Garibaldi moves his left hand like he is shaking flour off chicken drumsticks before frying them.

  “You got in trouble?” Dorinda asks.

  “I cannot tell you how much trouble,” Mr. Garibaldi says, shaking his head, “all because on that day the train workers decide to strike and ruin my life!”

  “How did you get home?” Dorinda asks fascinated.

  “I come back to Bologna the next morning—but believe me, when I saw my father’s face, I wish the strike never ended!”

  Galleria is unfazed by her father’s story. You can see the disappointment on her face, even though I know Mr. Garibaldi is trying to make her feel better.

  “I know, cara, how much you wanted to see Nona and Zia Donatella,” he says, giving her a hug.

  “Who is Zia Donatella?” Dorinda asks, making sure to pronounce it right. She is always transfixed by family stories.

  “She’s my sister—Galleria’s aunt,” Mr. Garibaldi offers, his face beaming.

  “I wanted you to meet her,” Galleria says sadly. Then she looks at me and Angie and coos, “I’m gonna miss you two.”

  Now Dorinda slumps in her chair—glum as a plum.

  “When are you going to perform again, Cheetah Girls?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, trying to make us all happy again.

  “Your guess is as good as ours!” Dorinda quips.

  “Don’t you worry, the Cheetah Girls are gonna be bigger than the Spice Rack Girls—even bigger than the invention of oregano!”

  We burst out laughing, then get quiet again.

  “Sitting around waiting to hear from Def Duck Records is making us a little daffy, if you know what I’m saying,” Galleria moans.

  “Well, caras, I’d better go,” Mr. Garibaldi says, getting up. “I’ll see you in the morning with those chocolate cannolis. And again—the eggnog was primo—perfecto!” He kisses Angie’s and my hands, and we giggle. Then he tips his cap and leaves.