Cuchifrita, Ballerina Read online

  Suddenly, I hear this screeching noise—Whhrrrr, whrrrr, whrrrr—coming in my direction from down the hallway. Just as I’m looking up, not only do I almost get my head sawed off by a fast-moving blur, but I trip and fall on my butt, letting out an involuntary scream. “Aaayeee!”

  “So how was your trip, loco Coco?” Pucci giggles, making his way back toward me on this—scooter? Pucci likes to call me by my middle name—Coco—so he can prefix it with loco—crazy. He thinks he’s funny. I’ll show him.

  “Baboso,” I wince, eyeing the shiny silver scooter with the big purple Flammerstein and Schwimmer logo on its deck. That store is really expensive—that scooter had to cost at least $100! “Where did you get this?” I ask Pucci, grabbing his wrist.

  “None of your business!” he smirks back, then wiggles his way out of my grip and makes a mad dash back down the hallway.

  “Pucci!” I hear Mom’s muffled voice yelling from the den. “I told you not to ride that thing in the house, está bíen?”

  Pucci scoots by like a loco Road Runner, then comes back down the hallway again.

  “You heard Mamí—párate!” I hiss at Pucci until he finally stops.

  “Why’d you have to come home?” he asks, scowling at me.

  I ignore my pain-in-the-poot-butt brother. “Who got you that thing?” I demand.

  Seeing me eye his new prized possession, Pucci huffs, “Mamí got it for me in Paris.”

  “Por qué?” I ask astounded. “It’s not your birthday!”

  “’Cuz I wanted one!” Pucci shoots back, grinning like the Cheshire cat—large and in charge.

  That is so unfair! I say to myself. Mom would never buy me anything “just cause I wanted it.” “Is Daddy back?” I ask Pucci, feeling the need to complain to somebody about Mom.

  “Yup—he called me.”

  “Where?”

  “At Abuela’s house,” Pucci snaps, like I’m stupid. “Daddy met Dracula—and he brought back his teeth.” Snorting like Mr. Piggy, Pucci scurries away.

  “He did not. And get off that thing!” I yell. Pucci is always telling fib-eronis. But who knows, maybe Daddy did meet some of Dracula’s relatives in Transylvania! See, his girlfriend, Princess Pamela, is almost like royalty in her native land. She comes from a long line of Gypsy pyschics—and they are treated with respect in Romania—not like here.

  I grab the newspaper out of my suitcase, and walk into the den. If I’m going to have a fight with Mom, it might as well be over something really important.

  Anyway, I need to get this handled right away, because the auditions are coming up really soon. On the way into the den, I’m thinking, Mom can’t say no. If she doesn’t like me singing with the Cheetah Girls, why can’t I join a ballet group? She wanted me to be a ballerina—and I stopped because Bubbles got tired of it. She should be happy that I want to do it again.

  Ay, Dios mío! I gasp when I see Mom. What has she got on her face? I know that she does her beauty mask every Sunday afternoon, but this isn’t like her yucky yellow mask—it’s a lot scarier! It’s a white plastic thing that kinda looks like a hockey mask, but creepier—and it’s vibrating! I try not to stare, but her whole face is covered—except for the two holes for her eyes, the two dots for her nose, and the round hole for her mouth. Usually, when she does her mask ritual, she looks like the Mummy—but now she more resembles Hannibal the Cannibal in that scary movie we saw, Silence of the Lambchops, or whatever it’s called.

  Mom is sitting on the couch, flipping the pages of Hola! magazine. She looks up at me, her brown eyes like two beads peering out of the holes. Suddenly I feel too nervous to ask—because I can’t even look at her!

  “Don’t stand there staring at me,” Mom moans in a muffled voice. “This is a new skin-tightening mask. I got it in Parrris, at Maison Bouche—the most prestigious skin care institoot in Parrrris,” Mom says, stretching out the rrr’s. Wow, I think—her phony French accent has gotten better.

  Wait a minute—how do I know this is my mother? Maybe this hockey face is really a clone, because Mr. Tycoon got rid of Mom!

  “What’s that noise coming from it?” I ask gingerly, backing up against the wall in case she tries to attack me or something.

  “It vibrates to get the circulation going in the skin,” Mom moans, like she wants me to stop bothering her. Now I’m sure the spooky hockey lady is Mom, and not a clone, because she is annoyed with me as usual. Defeated, I rest the weight of my body against the bookcase.

  “Thank you for letting me go to Houston. We had a really good time,” I say, telling una poca mentira—a little fib-eroni—so shell be in a better mood. I’m not going to let her know what really happened.

  “That’s nice,” she says, no longer looking at me, but engrossed in the pages of the magazine again. Mom is writing a book—It’s Raining Tycoons—about women who date oil tycoons from Arabia-. She is constantly doing research now, trying to find candidates—even though the book company told her she has to get a ghost writer or they won’t publish it, because her writing isn’t that good.

  “We ate fried alligator sandwiches in Houston,” I say, giggling.

  “Eeuw—that sounds disgusting!” Pucci blurts out, sticking his big head into the den. He’s so nosy, he gets on my nerves! I throw him a quick scowl and squint my eyes at him. “Too bad the alligator didn’t bite you!” he snaps at me.

  “Shut up, Pucci,” I snap back, because I can’t resist.

  “Mamí, can I go to the park now?” Pucci asks. I should have known he was angling for something from Mom—he sure didn’t come in here to see me!

  “Did you clean your room?” Mom asks him.

  “Yeah,” Pucci says, rubbing his head.

  “I don’t want you going to the park by yourself.”

  “Moham is coming with me,” Pucci protests.

  “I don’t want you two going any farther than the park on Thompson Street, tú entiendes?” Mom says, but I know she’s really telling him, “You two had better not go uptown on those scooters.”

  “Okay,” Pucci says, like he’s kinda disappointed.

  The doorbell rings and nobody moves. “Excuse me,” Mom says, looking at us like we’re loco. “It’s the butler’s night off—go answer the door!”

  Pucci runs to the door, and I hear him talking to Moham. Then the two of them come into the den.

  “You told Moham he could pick you up without checking with me first?” Mom asks, in that muffled, facial mask voice. It sounds like she’s wearing a muzzle!

  “He’s just coming over. I didn’t tell him I was going,” Pucci protests.

  Moham stands very politely in the doorway, waiting. He is so nice, I don’t understand how Pucci and he can be friends.

  Mom is not very happy about Moham being in the den. She is staring at his muddy sneakers.

  “Hello, Mrs. Simmons,” he says, staring warily at her fright mask.

  “Hello, Moham.”

  “I’ll … see you later,” Moham says, scurrying out of the room followed by Pucci.

  “I’m taking Mr. Cuckoo Cougar to the Blessing of the Insects and Their Four-Legged Friends,” I call after Pucci.

  “I don’t want you taking him anywhere!” Pucci yells, turning around and glaring at me.

  “You two stop it!” Mom shouts, as loud as she can with her hockey mask over her face.

  “I want Mr. Cuckoo to be blessed!” I hiss.

  “Pucci, let her take him to church!” Mom commands.

  “Awright, but nothing better happen to him,” Pucci says, shooting me a dirty look.

  Moham smiles serenely, then asks curiously, “Where is it?”

  “Saint John the Divine,” I reply.

  “Maybe I should bring my turtle,” he chuckles.

  “Don’t laugh—there are people there with fishbowls, too!” I exclaim.

  “We’re not going there,” Pucci mutters to Moham.

  “Don’t worry,” Moham tells him. “We’re Muslim—my mother wouldn’
t approve anyway.” Moham drags his scooter out the front door, and Pucci is right behind him.

  I go back into the den, to push my ballet scheme with Mom. I start by chatting away about Houston, to get her in a better mood.

  “You should have seen the restaurant Mrs. Walker took us to,” I say cheerfully. Mom loves five-star bistros, and I guess the Spindletop Café counts.

  “That was very nice of her,” Mom says, like, “I know I didn’t pay for that.”

  I feel guilty, because I’m not telling Mom the real reason why Mrs. Walker took the Cheetah Girls to the Spindletop. It was because she felt sorry for the whole tragedia that happened between us and the Cash Money Girls.

  Sighing, I realize that the real reason I don’t want to tell Mom what happened is because shell just be, like, “I told you so.” She doesn’t really want me to be in the Cheetah Girls, because she says it’s only gonna bring me heartache.

  I don’t want to admit it, but in a way she’s right. We sure have had a lot of heartaches, bellyaches, and toothaches, if you ask me. But it’s all worth it when things go right. And anyway, it’s my life, not hers. Truth is, I’m afraid she’s gonna take the same attitude about me and ballet.

  “What’s the name of the restaurant?” Mom asks me.

  “Um, it’s called the Spindletop. It has a revolving rooftop, so when you’re sitting inside, looking out at all the skyscrapers, it seems like they’re moving—but it’s because you’re rotating!”

  “I’m dizzy just listening to you,” Mom says, dismissing me.

  Suddenly, I’m getting annoyed with her, So what if it wasn’t the Gay Paree Café or something? Maybe if she would’Ve taken me to Paris with her, I would know what a five-star bistro is!

  I wince at the thought. I don’t want to go anywhere with Mom. I would rather spend fifty years in a Chinese torture dungeon!

  “Kashmir took me to the most fabulous restaurant in Paris,” Mom says, wistfully, calling the tycoon by his first name. “La Butte Chaillot.”

  It sounds like she said, “Da butt Shall Move,” so I don’t try to pronounce the name of the restaurant, but I want to seem interested in her historia. I must have ballet on my brain, because it seems like I can’t concentrate on anything. “What kind of food did they have at, um, the restaurant?” I ask, knowing how Mom loves to talk about food, evert though she doesn’t eat much.

  “Oh,” Mom says, perking up, like she’s surprised I’m interested. “The chef is renowned—Guy Petit Le Fleur. The food is what you call country bistro cuisine—sophisticated, of course….”

  Of course, I think to myself, wondering if Mom is gonna have any skin left once she takes that contraption off her face.

  “The snails were so delicious—oh, and the oysters with cream mousse. I could have stayed in Paris and never come home,” Mom says, like she really means it.

  Now I’m angry. She likes that tycoon of hers better than she does me! And did she say she ate moose? Well, I wish it ate her and she didn’t come back!

  Suddenly, I feel guilty for thinking something so awful. After all, Mom let me go to Houston and spend Thanksgiving with my friends. I should be grateful!

  Suddenly, just as I’m about to broach the subject of ballet, I feel a wave of light-headedness come over me. Maybe it’s because I haven’t eaten since last night’s dinner. The twins’ family kept feeding us so much that I must have gained at least five pounds! So I made up my mind then and there to stop eating until I lost the weight again.

  Not eating on the airplane was easy—their food is totally wack—but I guess Miss Cuchifrita’s gotta eat her three square meals every day, ’cuz now I’m feeling dizzy. I clutch at the newspaper as it falls from my hand and drops to the floor.

  “What’s that?” Mom asks, not noticing my little fit of dizziness. Recovering before she sees me stumble, I grab the newspaper off the floor and show it to her.

  “Um, look at this,” I say, fumbling to find the page with the ad for American Ballet Theatre. I try to remember to breathe while Mom looks at the ad, so I don’t pass out altogether.

  “So, what do you want to show me?”

  “Um,” I say, feeling my throat constricting, “I want to try out for the Junior Ballet Corps Division.”

  “Chanel, you haven’t taken ballet classes with Mrs. Bermudez in two years. What makes you think you can get into the Junior Corps?”

  “I practice all the time—really hard,” I say, flustered.

  “You call doing a few tendu exercises every once in a while practicing?” Mom retorts in a nasty voice.

  I try not to let Mom’s remark get to me, but my voice cracks. “I do practice! I do my warm-up exercises five times a week, then adagios at the barre in the exercise studio, then floor exercises, and then—”

  Mom cuts me off before I finish—which is good, ’cuz I was about to blurt out that I can’t work at the barre in the exercise studio because she is always in there, practicing her stupid belly dancing just to impress her boyfriend!

  “If you want to try out, fine—but don’t expect me to pay for any more classes,” she says, without putting up any more of a fight.

  I can’t believe it! She didn’t even try to talk me out of it! I feel guilty and sad now, for thinking all those bad things about Mom. All she ever really wants is for me to do what she says. I’ll bet if I went along with her more often, we wouldn’t be fighting all the time.

  “But I don’t think you should try out for the Junior Corps—” she blurts out, deciding after all to argue with me. I should have known it was too good to be true!

  “But that’s the only way I’m gonna get in without paying!” I whine.

  “The Junior Ballet Corps Division?” Mom repeats, surprised. “You want to get into the professional company?” She gives me a look like she thinks I’m cuckoo, then says, “And what about your singing group?”

  I stand there, with tears forming in my eyes. “I—I’ll just have to do both,” I stammer. “I’m fourteen years old. This is my last chance to see if I can be a ballerina, Mamí. I want to try.”

  Mom softens. “I don’t think you’re ready for it, Chanel, but I’m not going to stop you. If you get in, then we’ll talk about it.” Then she adds, “Maybe your father will pay for everything.”

  She looks away and pretends to read her magazine, but I think she’s embarrassed that she snapped again about Daddy. She always tries to pretend it doesn’t bother her that he loves Princess Pamela and not her.

  Right now, I don’t want to think about Mom and Daddy fighting, or how sad I feel because I don’t see Daddy as much as I’d like. Obviously, he doesn’t love me any more, either.

  “Thank you, Mamí, you’ll see—I’ m gonna get into the Junior Ballet Corps Division—then I’ll decide if I want to be a ballerina or not.” I bend over to touch her ponytail.

  “What are you thanking me for?” Mom asks.

  “Um …” I stutter, because I am still scheming, “because … you’re going to give me money to buy new pointe shoes?”

  “Ohhh …” Mom says, pausing. “Oh, all right. Go get my purse.”

  “Yes! I love you, Mamí!” I prance all the way to her bedroom to get her purse, and when I open the door, I gasp. I can’t believe all the shopping bags flung around the room! She must have brought back everything but the Eiffel Tower!

  I feel my temples getting hot again. How could she buy Pucci a scooter? I wonder if she brought me back anything?

  I resist the urge to peek in the shopping bags. That’s all I need is for her to catch me —I’d be grounded for life. Maybe she’s gonna surprise me later, I think, trying to calm down. What counts now is that I’m gonna show her—and everybody else—that I can be a ballerina.

  I hear the doorbell ring again, and Mom yells, “What is this, Halloween?”

  I run to the door and answer it. “It’s the delivery guy with flowers, Mamí,” I say, feeling my face get flushed, because I know the flowers are not for me. I mean, Krusher
doesn’t know where I live, está bien? And who else would ever send me flowers?

  “Thank you,” I say to the guy, and take the big box tied with bright red ribbon to Mom. I love boxes with big ribbons!

  “Ooo!” Mom says, her face lighting up, because we both know who the flowers are from—Mr. Tycoon. Mr. Sheik. Mr. Moneybags.

  I don’t know if I’m gonna make it as a Cheetah Girl, or as a ballerina, or even something else I don’t know about yet. But one day, I’m going to get more flowers than anybody has ever seen—even if I have to send them to myself!

  Chapter

  3

  After I clean up my room, dust off the twenty-seven dolls in my collection, and put them back on the shelves, I kneel down and say a silent prayer: Please let me get into the American Ballet Theatre Junior Corps.

  Then I tiptoe over to my red Princess phone to call Daddy. I want to see him and Princess Pamela, and hear all about Transylvania, and about Dracula’s relatives. If Daddy is back, then he is probably at one of his restaurants—The Return of the Killer Tacos—because Daddy works even on Sundays.

  “Chanel!” yells Mom from her bedroom. I feel so guilty about calling Daddy that I automatically hang up the receiver, even though someone has already picked up the phone. Mom would be upset if she knew I was calling Daddy—and even more upset if I talked to Princess Pamela.

  “Coming, Mamí!” I yell back, so she doesn’t get suspicious. Suddenly, I get excited—maybe Mom’s calling for me because she brought me a present from Paris! The last time she went there, she brought me these coolio French berets—which I love, even though when it’s really hot they make me break out around my forehead.

  Right now I can’t afford to break out, because I want to look perfect for my audition at the American Ballet Theatre—if I even get one, of course. The judges at dance auditions sit very prim and proper, while you dance and sweat your heart out—and they’re judging every adagio step, every petit allegro, every port de bras arm movement—which should be as graceful as a swan floating on a pond.