It's Raining Benjamins Read online

  Chapter

  2

  The bathroom at Fashion Industries East High is right out of a prison movie—kinda dark and creepy-looking. I make Bubbles take off her Mary Jane shoes, then throw both of them in the sink and turn on the faucet.

  Nothing comes out of it. “Oh, come on,” I moan. The faucets at our school are broken more than half the time. At last, a little water spurts out—then suddenly, it gushes out, flooding the sink, and totally soaking Galleria’s shoes!

  “Chuchie!” Bubbles yells, running to turn off the faucet. The water is splashing everywhere now—all over the floor, and us.

  All of a sudden, Kadeesha Ruffin flings open the bathroom door and stands there with her crew. “What’s up, y’all—is it laundry day?” she asks. Her crew starts whooping it up and high-fiving each other.

  I don’t say anything, because Kadeesha is kinda nasty and I’m scared of her. Bubbles just ignores her while Dorinda—politely—explains the situation.

  “Don’t tell me y’all have never stepped in poop—So here’s the scoop: back off and get out of our loop. Just leave us alone,” she says. Vaya, go, Do’ Re Mi! Her snaps are as good as Bubbles’s. Te juro. I swear.

  “Awright, shortie,” Kadeesha says. She snaps her gum really loud, then marches out the bathroom without using the sink. Her crew follow behind her, still grinning, even though they’re not laughing out loud anymore.

  Galleria is staring at her soaked shoes, shaking her head like she’s about to cry. “Now what do you expect me to do, Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina?” she challenges me. “Plié down the hallways all day without shoes?”

  Meanwhile, I’m busy yanking brown paper towelettes from the dispenser and trying to blot her shoes dry. The truth is, I feel stupid, like a babosa.

  Dorinda looks at the dripping shoes, and suggests hopefully, “We could put paper towels in the bottoms.”

  “No, olvídate!” I say, suddenly bursting into tears. “Just forget wearing them, okay? I’m a ding-a-ling, all right? Now just put them on the paper towels.”

  I can’t believe I yelled at Bubbles. Suddenly I realize that it’s not just the wet shoes that are bothering me. There’s something else … something that was annoyándome before we went out to L.A. In all the excitement about the New Talent Showcase and the chokers, I’d forgotten all about it. Well, I tried to forget it, anyway, and now, that Pucci’s birthday was almost here …

  “Chuchie, what’s the matter with you?” Bubbles blurts out when I can’t stop crying.

  “Nada,” I whine. Then I take out my Yves Saint Bernard perfume spray. I spritz it in her shoes, then spritz the air for good measure. “You know how I am about stinky-poos!”

  “Yeah—but what’s really wrong?” Bubbles insists, waving away the mist of my perfume (which she hates). “You’re not crying over my shoes, girlita, so don’t lie or you’ll fry.” It’s unbelievable how Bubbles knows me inside and out!

  All of a sudden, I blurt out the truth. “Saturday is Pucci’s birthday, and my mom hasn’t said one thing about buying him a Chihuahua like she promised!”

  “Chuchie,” Bubbles says, instantly putting her arm around me. “I didn’t know you were so upset about that.”

  “You know how much I want a dog. I mean for Pucci,” I confess. “Remember when we were at Madrina’s store, and my mom said she would think about getting Pucci a Chihuahua for his birthday?”

  “Yeah, I remember—but I guess she doesn’t,” Bubbles says, in that tone she gets when she’s trying to push me to do something. “You’d better ask her yourself.”

  “I don’t want to,” I shoot back, wiping Bubbles’s shoes furiously with the paper towels. Little wet balls of paper are now decorating her shoes.

  “Oh, I get it, you’re scared to ask her, because you haven’t paid back all the money you owe her,” Bubbles says.

  I can’t wait until I pay back all the money I owe my mother for charging up her credit cards—then I’m gonna seal Bubbles’s lips closed with Wacky Glue! “So?” I hiss at her. “You’d be afraid, too.”

  “You know it, so don’t blow it,” Galleria admits. She gives me a little squeeze. “I know how much you’ve always wanted a dog—and you know that little Chihuahua would be your dog, ’cuz no way is Pucci gonna take care of it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Do’ Re Mi steps in. “What if you offer to pay for part of the Chihuahua?”

  “What happened? How am I gonna pay for anything?” I ask. “I got nada for nada.”

  We both look at Do’ Re Mi like she’s cuckoo, but she continues: “We’re gonna sell these Cheetah Girls chokers we’ve made, ri-ight?”

  “Yeah,” Galleria chimes in. “But so far, we only got orders from Derek and LaRonda. One plus one makes two.”

  “Yeah, but if the three of us go around all week taking orders for Cheetah Girls chokers, we can get Chanel enough money so she can go to her mom and say she’ll put in thirty dollars to help buy the dog for Pucci’s birthday.”

  Do’ Re Mi looks to Bubbles for approval. “I mean, we’ve got all week to sell them, ri-ight? And they’re dope, ri-ight?”

  Bubbles thinks hard for a minute. Then she looks at the both of us, wild-eyed, and asks, “If all three of us take orders, how many of these you think we can sell?”

  “I don’t know—a lot, ri-ight?” I offer, smiling. We all give each other the Cheetah Girls handshake, and then get busy helping Bubbles put her wet shoes back on. I feel so much better now that I’ve told Bubbles and Dorinda the truth about what’s been on my mind. They are really my crew, es la verdad.

  “It’s our dime—and choker time,” Bubbles says, handing over Cheetah Girls chokers for us to wear. Then she puts one on herself. The three of us just stand there, gazing in the dirty mirror at our cheetah-fied reflections.

  “That does look so money, ri-ight!” Bubbles says, satisfied.

  “Sí, señorita,” I say with a grin. “I can’t wait to show Abuela Florita what we’re doing. I’ll bet you she’ll like our chokers.” I turn to Dorinda and pinch her cheeks. “Abuela would love you, too—because she just loves dimples.”

  “Well, it’s time to turn some Cheetah Girl chokers into duckets,” Bubbles says, tickling our fingers as we do the Cheetah Girls handshake one more time. “Homeroom’s about to jump off—we’d better get shaking if we want to sell some of these while they’re still baking.”

  “I know what you’re going to buy with your choker money, mamacita,” I tease Bubbles as we leave the bathroom and start running down the hall.

  “What?”

  “A new pair of shoes!”

  Chapter

  3

  Both Bubbles and I major in fashion merchandising, while Dorinda majors in fashion design. Our homeroom classes are in Building C, on the other end of the second floor. When we get there, there are still fifteen minutes till homeroom starts. We hang in the hallway till the last minute, hoping to run into Derek Ulysses Hambone—“Mr. DUH”—and give him his choker.

  “Maybe Mackerel will take the bait, too,” I say excitedly. “Let’s hook him on a choker!”

  “Just don’t get caught in his trap,” giggles Bubbles.

  Mackerel Johnson is Derek Hambone’s best friend. He has a crush on me—un coco that is never gonna happen, because he doesn’t know that I’m going to meet Krusher.

  Krusher, in case you live on Mars and have never heard of him, is a tan coolio singer, with the brain, heart, and courage to live his wildest dreams in the jiggy jungle. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t win the 900-KRUSHER contest, which would have taken me on a trip to Miami for a date with my favorite papi chulo—I’ll find another way to meet him, you just wait and see!

  “If Mackerel didn’t bounce around like a jumping bean, would you go out with him?” Bubbles asks, smirking at me. She doesn’t believe that my heart belongs to Krusher, but I won’t settle for less, está bien?

  “Oh, word, I’ve got a dope idea,” Dorinda suddenly says, then whips out a book
from her cheetah backpack and hands it to me. “Check this out, Chanel,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this when we were talking about it before!”

  “What is it, Do’?” I ask, curious.

  “I’ve been reading about these African pygmy hedgehogs,” she says.

  I flip through the book, and I can’t believe what I’m seeing. These pygmy creatures look sooo cute—brownish and small, with sticky spiny things on their backs. “Qué monos!” I coo.

  “See, I was thinking maybe you could get Pucci one of these for his birthday instead of a dog! They don’t shed, so your mother won’t have to clean its hairs off the sofa—and you don’t have to walk them, like with a dog. I think they’re cheaper than a Chihuahua, too—and look how cute!”

  “How do I get one, Dorinda? Do I have to go to Africa?”

  “No, they have special pet stores here that buy them from breeders in New Zealand,” Dorinda explains. “See, I’ve been kinda hoping Mrs. Bosco will let me get one for my brother Topwe, because he really wants a pet.”

  I think Dorinda’s the one pining for a pet, ’cuz that’s how it is in my house. It’s supposed to be for Pucci, but I’m the one who’s all upset he isn’t getting a pet for his birthday.

  “Why do they call them hogs?” I ask, my curiosity all worked up. “They look more like porcupines.”

  “I guess ’cuz they’re always looking for food or something,” Dorinda guesses, shrugging her shoulders.

  “Always looking for food, huh?” That sounds more like Dorinda’s stepbrothers and stepsisters—especially Topwe. At Dorinda’s adoption party Topwe ate the whole tray of candied yams topped with baked marshmallows before I even got a whiff of one!

  Pobrecita, Dorinda. Poor thing … How is her family gonna find room for a pet, with thirteen people squeezed into a tiny apartment? She’s even less likely to get a pet than I am!

  “Lemme see that book,” Bubbles asks curiously. She looks over our shoulders as we flip through the pages, oohing and aahing at the cute, furry, funny creatures. Most of the pictures show the hedgehogs crouched under woodpiles—obviously looking for their next meal.

  I’m thinking Dorinda might be right … Maybe I can talk Mom into letting me get one of these for Pucci’s birthday. I’ll bet Mom wouldn’t be allergic to those spines—they’d just stick her when she gets nasty, that’s all!

  “Maybe you can ask your mom to buy one for Pucci,” Dorinda asks.

  “Yo no sé,” I mumble, lapsing into Spanish unconsciously. I put my hand around my choker, and feel the metal letters which spelt GROWL POWER. I need all the growl power I can muster up to ask Mami for anything. These days, it seems like all we do is fight—la guerra Dominicana, está bien? Heaving a sigh, I finger the letters on my choker again, and say proudly to Bubbles, “See, I told you this Wacky Glue was the move, está bien? It holds the letters on real well.”

  “You were right—it’s the move,” Bubbles says, nodding absentmindedly. She is still glued to the book, and muy fascinada with the pygmy pets.

  At last, I see Derek and Mackerel bopping down the hallway in our direction. “Red Snapper Alert,” I whisper softly, nudging Bubbles’s arm.

  She waves at Derek from down the hall, motioning for him to come over to us. Usually, we just ignore Derek (whom we call Red Snapper behind his back), but today we’re happy to see him … and even Mackerel.

  “Mr. Hambone, here you go. You are the proud owner of a Cheetah Girls choker,” Bubbles says, handing him the choker, which we made extra wide just for him.

  Derek examines the merchandise with a smile on his face, and fingers the shiny silver metal letters that spell SCEMO. “Oh, that’s how you spell that word you’re always calling me. Shame on you, Cheetah Girl. I dig it,” Derek says, flashing his gold-toothed smile. (A lot of la gente where Abuela lives have gold teeth. Cuatro yuks!)

  “Do you really like it?” I ask Derek proudly.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, nodding his head. “You Cheetah Girls got skills, no doubt.”

  “No doubt on that tip,” Mackerel says, nodding along, trying to get me to look at him—but it’s too early in the morning for me to look at his snaggletooth smile.

  We stand there waiting for Derek to whip out the duckets. Finally he gets the hint.

  “Word, I guess it’s time to dole out the duckets,” he says, laughing and reaching into his deep-sea pockets.

  We wait patiently as the Red Snapper retrieves a ten-dollar bill and hands it to Bubbles.

  Wait a minute—I thought Bubbles told him the chokers cost twenty dollars!

  “Did you get amnesia or something?”

  Bubbles asks Derek on the sarcástico tip. “We said twenty dollars, my brutha.”

  “Yeah, well, we heard you was charging LaRonda ten dollars, my sista,” Derek retorts, slapping Mackerel a high five.

  Derek always has good comeback lines. I think that’s why Bubbles doesn’t like him—because he can snap better than she can, and Bubbles thinks she’s the best—la mejor.

  “Can’t blame a Cheetah Girl for trying to get more ‘pounce for the ounce,’ now can you, Derek?” Bubbles snaps back, with a smirk on her face that says she’s satisfied with her comeback line.

  “No, but I hope you don’t mind that the ‘Red Snapper’ is always gonna be ‘off the hook!’” Derek says, heckling and slapping Mackerel a high five, like he is supa-satisfied with his snap.

  How’d he know we call him the Red Snapper? Uh-oh. Somebody probably told him. Fashion Industries East peeps are like telenovelas, it seems—there is always some “drama” to watch.

  “No, we don’t mind, Derek—especially if you come back and buy another choker,” I throw in, giggling. Bubbles doesn’t always have to get the last word. Then—even though it kills me—I blurt out, “You know, Mackerel, you would look tan coolio with a choker, too!”

  “Is that right?” he says, perking up and grinning ear to ear.

  Oh, no! I don’t want to see his vampira teeth—they’re so crooked and pointy, they make me cringe!

  Luckily, Dorinda steps up to the snap plate and says, “You two try to roll like you’re the dynamic duo, right? Well, do it, duo! Buy another choker, joker!”

  “Ayiight. I’ll take one of them, too,” Mackerel says—quietly, because he’s kinda shy. That’s when I notice that Mackerel’s eyebrows are kinda arched high—just like High Priestess Abala Shaballa Cuckoo or whatever her name is. (She is the girlfriend of Aqua and Angie’s father. We went over to the twins’ apartment before we flew out to Los Angeles, and we had to drink this nasty “good luck” witches’ brew she cooked up.)

  Maybe Mackerel is a vampira, too, like her. You never know how la gente are getting around these days—on broomsticks or the bus, está bien?

  Mackerel gives Bubbles a five-dollar bill, then fishes around for more money out of his pocket.

  “I got your back, Mack,” Derek says, diving into his deep-sea pockets for more duckets. “Here you go, Cheetah Girl,” he says, handing it to Galleria. Then he moves a little closer to her. “Maybe y’all wanna come to the fashion show at Times Square Tabernacle Church on Tuesday night. Tickets are ten dollars. It’s for a good cause, and you’ll get to see how a brutha works the runway, you know?”

  “Maybe,” Bubbles says, giving Dorinda and me a look, like, “We’ve got bigger fish to fry first.” “We’ll let you know, though, if we’re gonna go with your flow, you know? But in the meantime, you know where to find us, if you need more product.” She runs a finger slowly up between his choker and his neck, and Mr. DUH breaks into a goofy grin.

  “Yeah, I’ll look you up in the jiggy jungle!” he says, winking at Bubbles. “I gotta bounce—I’ve gotta go right now for a fitting. I’ll check you by lunchtime, though.”

  “We’ll save you some noodles. Toodles!” Bubbles says, waving behind her as the two of them go off, heckling like hyenas.

  “He can heckle all he wants,” Bubbles huffs, “’
cuz we are about to get paid. We got chokers. What’s he got to sell—jokes?”

  “Word!” Do’ Re Mi chuckles.

  “What boca grande told Derek that we call him Red Snapper behind his back?” I ask, frowning.

  “Probably that Kadeesha. They play basketball together sometimes. Can’t blame her. She’s probably trying to get Derek to ask her out. He’s tall enough for her, right?” smirks Bubbles.

  “What happened?” I chuckle, then I get my mind back on our business at hand. Turning to Dorinda, I say, “So listen. LaRonda’s in my geography class. I can give her the choker and collect the duckets for us.”

  “Bet, mamacita. Better you, Do’, than Miss Cuchifrita—she’d probably run off to some pygmy pet shops before we go to lunch,” Bubbles says. “And you’d better check out Oakland on the map today!”

  Bubbles would bring up the little “boo-boo” I made in California. While we were backstage, getting ready for our showcase, I started talking to one of the other groups who were performing—CMG, the Cash Money Girls—and they said they were from Oakland. Me with my boca grande, I asked, “Where it that?”

  How was I supposed to know Oakland is in California? I mean, I’m representing the East Coast, está bien?

  “I bet you didn’t know where it was either,” I shoot back in protest.

  “Yeah, well, I sure wouldn’t have let Miss Abrahamma Lincoln in on that tip, that’s all I’m saying,” Bubbles says with a grin, then waves her hand in my face.

  “I wonder which one of them writes the raps for their songs,” I say, changing the subject. Bubbles has got me annoyed now, and I figure it’s as good a time as any to bring up my new pet peeve. “Maybe they write them together?”

  “Why?” Bubbles asks, smirking.

  “Porqué—because—I don’t know. Maybe we could write songs together,” I blurt out.

  There. I said it. Why can’t I write songs for the Cheetah Girls, too? How come Bubbles is the only one who gets to write songs?

  “We who?” Bubbles asks, like she doesn’t get what I’m talking about.

  “Me and you, está bien?”