Dorinda Gets a Groove Read online

  “Well, I guess you girls learned a new word in your vocabulary—plagiarism.” Ms. Dorothea chuckles, then winks.

  I know she’s right. Galleria and Chanel should have known better than to crib another group’s lyrics—’cuz it just looks like we’re trying to bite their flavor.

  All of a sudden, the twins let out a scream in unison: “AAAAHHH!” Aqua lifts her feet in the air and looks over in the corner. “We just saw a mouse run by!”

  “A mouse?” Mrs. Simmons asks in disbelief.

  “Sí—a mouse, I saw it too!” Chanel shrieks.

  I just sit quiet and be chill. I’ve seen a lot of mice up in the projects where I live, so I’m not afraid of them at all—but it is kinda strange that a mouse would be hanging out in a nice restaurant like this, you know what I’m saying?

  The hostess and the waiter scurry over to our table with a million apologies. “We are terribly sorry. We can’t believe that happened. Are you okay?”

  ”We’re fine, darlings,” Ms. Dorothea says, trying to take control of the situation.

  “Well, please—desserts and after-dinner drinks will be complimentary,” the hostess says.

  After we accept, Galleria quips, “I wonder if that was Mouse Almighty, trying to find us some tracks for our test demo!”

  “I wish it was!” Aqua says, trying not to act scared anymore. “Then at least we could offer him a complimentary dessert, too!”

  Chapter

  2

  Even though it’s already dark by the time I hit the courtyard in front of my building, Ms. Keisha is still sitting there with her children, Pookie and Tamela. I can see Ms. Keisha’s pink-flowered housecoat peeking out from under her gray plaid overcoat, and her pink bedroom slippers are so fluffy it looks like she’s wearing Martian-sized marshmallows on her feet. As I walk up to the bench they’re sitting on, I can feel a bad case of the squigglies coming on, because I know she is dying to tell me something.

  “Betty sure has her hands full now,” Ms. Keisha starts in on her story. Betty is the first name of my foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, who doesn’t like Ms. Keisha a whole lot. “You didn’t come home today after school, did you?” Ms. Keisha asks, but I can tell she already knows the answer.

  “No I didn’t. ’Member Ms. Dorothea, our manager?”

  “Yeah—that lady who was up here dressed like a tiger, at your ’adoption’ party—I mean, well you know what I mean,” Ms. Keisha says loudly.

  “She wears cheetah stuff,” I correct her, my cheeks burning from embarrassment. It figures Ms. Keisha found out that my ’adoption’ didn’t go through.

  “Um, she took us out to dinner to this fancy restaurant, and some mouse decided to get in on the action, too,” I babble, because I’m scared about what Ms. Keisha is gonna tell me.

  “At least he didn’t go home hungry—’cuz he sure wouldn’t have found anything to eat in my house!” Ms. Keisha snarkles like a hyena. Then Tamela and Pookie let out little hyena snarkles, which is kinda scary, because they sound just like their mother.

  “Well, you got a new sister,” Ms. Keisha pipes up, finally getting to the point of this joint.

  Now I’ve got a pain in my chest. How does Ms. Keisha know about Tiffany? I can’t believe Mrs. Bosco told her! Now Ms. Keisha will tell everybody in the projects that I have an adopted sister! I’ll bet Mrs. Bosco invited Tiffany over here behind my back, so she can see how messy and tiny our apartment is!

  “You should have seen that child crying—she cried all the way upstairs,” Ms. Keisha says, nodding her head.

  Why would Tiffany be crying? Why was she here? Well, I guess it figures that she would be a big crybaby. She probably gets her way all the time, what with her parents living over on Park Avenue.

  “Annie Buckus in 3C says that’s the same child that was on the news last week. That’s what she said, all right.” Ms. Keisha folds her hands in her lap and rocks back and forth. When she sees the alarmed look on my face, she quickly babbles, “I don’t know how Annie could remember something like that, but she swears it’s the same child. But you know Annie—she never gets anything right.”

  “Yeah,” I say, completely dumbfounded. What could be wrong with Tiffany that she would be on the news?

  “’Member when Gus got robbed across the street, and Annie swore up and down she saw the guy—and that he was a big ole tall guy with an Afro? When the police caught the thief, he looked like a little beady-eyed raccoon—he wasn’t nothing like Annie said!”

  “No, I don’t remember that,” I respond, but I’m not really listening to Ms. Keisha. I’m lost in my own thoughts, trying to catch my breath, because it feels like somebody is standing on my chest or something.

  “Yeah—that’s right, you was too young to ’member that. You’re so mature, sometimes I forget you’re just a little bitty thing,” Ms. Keisha says, chuckling.

  I wish Ms. Keisha wouldn’t call me little. I hate being called little—but now I’ve gotta find out what’s going on, so I ask her nicely, “What was the girl on television for?”

  “Annie says that they found the child wandering by herself in Coney Island, over there in Brooklyn. Now you know her mother went and left her there. The child was sitting on the bench wailing for so long, that finally one of the security guards took her to the police station.” Ms. Keisha wraps her coat tighter around her chest. “She got a West Indian accent, too. I could tell, even though she was carrying on and screaming all the way to the elevator.”

  Now I think Ms. Keisha doesn’t know what she’s talking about. At least, not Tiffany. “Um, what did the girl look like?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Oh, little ole thing with pigtails and a big pout on her face,” Ms. Keisha responds.

  “Her sneakers were dirty!” Tamela blurts out. “They had holes in them, too.”

  “Hush up, Tamela—the poor child was probably scared to death, and all you talking about is her sneakers!

  Now I know she isn’t talking about Tiffany. I feel so relieved! “Well, I’d better be going,” I say, turning so red I can’t even look at Pookie and Tamela.

  Ms. Keisha yells after me, “Dorinda, let me know tomorrow if it’s the same child Annie saw on the news.”

  “Oh, right,” I say, but now I’m wondering what really is going on upstairs. This must have something to do with what Mrs. Bosco was talking about on the phone this morning.

  When I open the apartment door, Twinkie greets me as usual. Her blond, fuzzy hair is plopping all over the place, and her cheeks are more red than usual. “We got a new sister,” she whispers to me, grabbing my arm. “Mr. Bosco is home, too.”

  I feel the squigglies in my stomach again. I should have known Ms. Keisha was right. She seems to be the only one around here who knows what’s going on—because I sure don’t!

  “That’s her,” Twinkie says, pointing into the living room at this sad, pouty-faced girl. “She doesn’t like us. I don’t think she wants to be here.”

  Neither do I, shrieks a voice inside me, but I give Twinkie a hug and whisper back, “Don’t say that, Twinkie. Don’t you remember how sad you were when you came here?”

  Twinkie nods, and says, “You let me eat all your pretzels.”

  “That’s right,” I chuckle. Twinkie’s real name is Rita. She has lived with Mrs. Bosco for almost two years, and we have grown very close. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have Twinkie’s fat cheeks to squeeze every day. But now I have to deal with this new situation. Why didn’t Mrs. Bosco ask me if I wanted another foster sister? Nobody ever asks me anything!

  I heave a deep sigh and walk into the living room. My foster brothers Nestor and Khalil are helping Mrs. Bosco fold the laundry. One good thing about Mrs. Bosco is, she makes the boys do as much housework as the girls, or they don’t get to go outside and play.

  Mr. Bosco is sitting on the end of the couch that isn’t covered with clothes. I wonder why he isn’t at work, even though he is wearing his security-guard uniform.

 
“Hi, Mr. Bosco,” I say, trying to act normal. See, I’m not used to seeing him that much, because he’s either working, sleeping, or hanging out at the Lenox Café down the block, where he can smoke his cigarettes in peace. Mr. Bosco isn’t allowed to smoke in the living room, and sometimes I hear Mrs. Bosco fussing with him to clean the butts out of the ashtray in their bedroom.

  “Oh, you got yourself a nice bag for school,” Mr. Bosco says to me as I drop my cheetah backpack on the floor.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Ms. Dorothea, um, the manager of the Cheetah Girls, gave it to me.” I already told him where I got it, but I know he has a lot of stuff on his mind.

  I wish Mr. Bosco would keep talking, so I could avoid dealing with the situation at hand, but he’s gone back to watching TV.

  “See the new butterfly I made?” Twinkie says to Mr. Bosco, holding up a butterfly she cut out of paper. She loves butterflies more than anything.

  “That’s nice—lemme see that,” he says, and Twinkie moves closer.

  I wish I could fly a million miles away, like one of Twinkie’s butterflies. Without seeming obvious, I glance over at the new girl. She is sitting frozen like an angry statue on the faded orange couch. Her pretty face is covered with dried tears, and her eyebrows are squinched into a scowl. She is a real pretty caramel color, and I can tell, even though it’s kinda dark in the living room, that her skin is smooth, and she doesn’t have any scars on her face. She looks well taken care of—unlike Kenya. When Kenya first came here, her whole face was covered with white spots and scabs. The doctor said it was from a vitamin deficiency.

  Suddenly I realize I’m staring, so I look away, just as part of the chocolate-chip cookie the new girl is holding in her hand drops on the floor.

  “She doesn’t want the cookie—I’ll take it!” volunteers Kenya, trying to take the rest of the cookie out of the girl’s hand. The girl lets out a piercing scream.

  “Kenya, I’ve told you to please leave her alone!” Mrs. Bosco snaps in her gruff, cracked voice.

  I go over and pick the cookie crumbs off the floor, right by the girl’s legs. Looking up at her, I smile and say, “Hi.”

  But she doesn’t respond. She sits like a stone, and stares at me with her big, black, intense eyes, which are filled with so many feelings that it almost scares me.

  “Dorinda, can you come in the kitchen for a second?” Mrs. Bosco says suddenly, getting out of her chair and picking up a pile of kitchen towels.

  “Okay,” I say, following her into the kitchen, and waiting to hear what she has to say.

  “Gaye is going to be staying with us for—I don’t know how long,” Mrs. Bosco starts in, stuffing the hand towels into the kitchen drawer. Then she pauses, like she’s uncomfortable. “So I guess you got yourself a new sister.”

  I don’t want another sister! I shriek inside, but I hear myself say, “Okay.”

  “They found her wandering around in Coney Island,” Mrs. Bosco continues. “Nobody seems to know how she got there, or nothing. I know we don’t have the room, but we’ll just have to make do.”

  “Ms. Keisha says somebody saw her—um, Gaye—on the news,” I tell her.

  “Well, she’s probably right, ’cuz if anybody knows everybody’s business, it’s Ms. Keisha.”

  Suddenly, I feel so sad for little Gaye. I remember when a strange lady came and took me from Mrs. Parkay’s house—the first home I remember—without telling me why.

  “I’ll see you soon,” Mrs. Parkay said to me, and waved good-bye. Even though I was only five, I remember thinking she was lying, because she had packed up all my clothes and handed them to the lady, who told me to get into her car. I remember asking the lady why my foster sister Jazmine wasn’t coming with us. Now I know why, of course—Mrs. Parkay gave me away, and Jazmine wasn’t my real sister—but someone named Tiffany is!

  My legs feel weak, like spaghetti—so I sit down at the kitchen table.

  “Are you okay, Dorinda?” Mrs. Bosco asks me.

  “Yeah, I’m okay How come Mr. Bosco didn’t go to work?” I ask, curious.

  “Oh, he wanted to help out with Gaye and all. She was carrying on like a hurricane.” Mrs. Bosco wipes her forehead with a tissue. “But she done settled down now, so he’s gonna go to work late.”

  Suddenly I feel tears trickling down my cheeks. Mrs. Bosco is silent, then tells me, “Dorinda, we’ll get through. She’ll be all right. We’ll all be all right.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, wiping away the tears.

  I sure hope so. But I can’t help thinking of my half sister Tiffany, who was lucky enough to get adopted, and by rich folks, at that. Why do some people have all the luck, and others —like me and Gaye—have none?

  Chapter

  3

  Going to school in the morning is a big production in my house on a normal day. But today, everybody is on edge, because our new foster sister Gaye stayed up the whole night crying. She is sitting at the table, staring at her breakfast, and I don’t think there is much hope of getting her to eat it.

  “Here,” Mrs. Bosco says, placing a bowl of ice cream in front of her. It reminds me that Mrs. Bosco gave me ice cream the first day I came to live here, too.

  At first, Gaye just stares at the bowl. Then, slowly, she picks up her spoon and starts fiddling with it. Finally, she starts wolfing down spoonfuls of ice cream.

  “Why can’t I have some?” Kenya asks, moaning like a big baby.

  “No, Kenya. Can ya just eat your breakfast?” Mrs. Bosco snaps.

  “Kenya, can ya please just shut up!” snipes Nestor.

  “That’s enough, Nestor,” Mrs. Bosco says, then stands over Kenya. “I found some candy wrappers in your pants pocket when I was doing the laundry Keep it up and you won’t have a tooth left in your—”

  Mrs. Bosco stops talking because the phone is ringing. Maybe someone from the agency is calling, because they found out more about Gaye’s mother or something.

  “Yes! Hi, Tiffany,” Mrs. Bosco says warmly into the receiver.

  Oh, no, not Tiffany! Why is she calling here before school?

  “Yes, you just caught her,” Mrs. Bosco says. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. She’s gotta leave by seven-fifteen to get to school on time—you know, with the trains and all. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.”

  What is Tiffany gonna do, talk Mrs. Bosco’s ear off? Finally, Mrs. Bosco hands me the receiver, even though I wish I could do a Houdini and disappear.

  “Hi, Dorinda—remember me?” Tiffany asks, then lets out a nervous giggle.

  “Of course I remember you,” I respond, even though I can hear how stupid it sounds. I wonder if Tiffany’s parents know she’s running up their phone bill. They probably wouldn’t care, with all the money they have.

  “Well, I hadn’t heard from you, so I thought I would give you a call What’s the deal-io?” Tiffany asks, giggling again.

  “Um, nothing,” I say, noticing that Tiffany is trying to talk like me.

  “Um, I was wondering if you wanted to meet today after school?”

  “Well, I’m not sure—I have to check and see if we have rehearsal today—you know, my group, the Cheetah Girls.” I turn to see if Mrs. Bosco is within earshot, and she is—so I turn my back to her quickly.

  “Um, I’ve gotta go to school now, so I can meet Chanel and Galleria,” I say, hoping Tiffany will get off the phone.

  “Oh, okay—so, you’ll let me know if you can come over after school?” Tiffany is like a dog with a bone who won’t leave it alone.

  “Come over?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah—my parents won’t be here, and we can just hang out. ’Member I told you I wanted you to play my new keyboard?” Tiffany says, like she’s dangling a carrot.

  “Um, I don’t know how to play keyboard,” I say, unsure.

  “It’s fun—I’ll show you,” Tiffany says, not taking no for an answer.

  “Um—I’ll call you later and let you know.”

  After I hang up the phone, I wolf down the rest of
my cereal, but Mrs. Bosco is staring at me. “You know, it’s one thing when family leaves you, but it’s another when they find you. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Dorinda—just check to make sure it has hooves.”

  I’m sure this is another one of Mrs. Bosco’s Southern expressions. Thanks to her and the twins, I know a lot of them now—except for this one.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to see her,” I protest, wiping the milk from the corner of my mouth with a paper napkin.

  “I heard you tell that poor child that you have rehearsal. How you gonna rehearse when one of you has lost a hoof?” Mrs. Bosco snaps.

  I chuckle involuntarily. Mrs, Bosco is funny sometimes, and she doesn’t even know it. Now I feel stupid for telling a lie in front of her.

  My brother Topwe drops his bowl on the floor, and I’m so relieved for the distraction. “I’ll get it.”

  Topwe coughs, spitting a mouthful of cereal onto the table.

  “Cover your mouth next time,” Mrs. Bosco says softly.

  “His cough doesn’t sound good,” I say, concerned. Topwe was born HIV-positive. Now he’s seven, but he still gets bad colds sometimes.

  “I’m gonna keep him home from school today,” Mrs. Bosco says, like she has just decided it. “Dorinda, before you leave, get me the number for his school.”

  I dial the number for Mrs. Bosco and hand her the phone instead. This way I can leave without talking any more about Tiffany.

  When I open the door downstairs in the lobby, I accidentally step in something really mushy and disgusting, that almost makes me slip. Someone has taken the garbage out of the cans and strewn it all over the courtyard— again. During the night, a lot of homeless people tear open the garbage bags that sit tied and ready for collection.

  Once I close the door, I notice that our super, Mr. Hammer, is behind the railing trying to clean up some of the strewn garbage.

  “We’re gonna get another ticket from the Sanitation Department,” Mr. Hammer says gruffly, shaking his head in disgust. “I don’t know why they don’t just take the cans and sell them, instead of going through all the garbage and making this mess. Say, how’s that computer working, Dorinda?” Mr. Hammer yells after me.