Bring It On! Page 2

  “How do you say his name again?” Corky asks.

  “Nobu?”

  “No, not that—his other name?” repeats Corky.

  Now I know what he’s asking me. “Oh, you mean his breed name,” I answer, chuckling. “Bichon frise.”

  Corky tries to say it, but he fumbles over the French name. Ms. Dorothea told us that back in the day, bichon frises were bred as lapdogs for royal families. I could see Nobu sitting on some fancy king’s lap, just chilling.

  Corky gives up trying to pronounce Nobu’s breed name, and asks pleadingly: “Can I go see the singing frogs today?” Corky is as obsessed with frogs as the Cheetah Girls are with dogs. I wish I could take him to the planetarium, but I can’t. Not with all the chores and homework I have to do today.

  “I’m sorry, Corkster, but not today, okay?” I say sadly I hate turning Corky down for anything. Suddenly, we hear a loud bang outside in the street. I hear the kids running to the window to see what is happening. I pick up Nobu, and his little body is trembling. “Well, I hope you like being in such a big family, otherwise you’re going to be shaking and quaking all the time,” I coo, snuggling my nose up to Nobu’s.

  “Can I do that?” Corky asks.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I say.

  “Yeah, go ahead. We can’t go see the frogs today!” Twinkie shouts out, mimicking me again. “Can I play with him now? I made him a name tag!”

  “Okay, Miss Twinkie Dink, it’s your turn now,” I say, motioning for her to come in. Corky doesn’t want to leave, so I have to nudge him out of the kitchen. Twinkie proudly shows me a square piece of plastic with a bone drawn on it. She made it out of Shrinky Dink and even put a hole in the corner so it could fit on a dog collar.

  “That is so cute,” I say. Twinkie loves the shrinky dink kit I got her for her birthday. Nobu looks at me with his shiny black eyes. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Maybe he wonders where his mother is, like I do sometimes.

  “I’m making you a birthday present!” Twinkie announces.

  “You don’t have to,” I say. I know I should be looking forward to my birthday, but I’m not. It just reminds me that I haven’t told my crew yet that I’m only twelve going on thirteen. I don’t know how the Cheetah Girls are going to react when they find out—but I have a feeling I might become an endangered species, if you know what I’m saying.

  “Well, I’m making you a present anyway, you cheetah bubblehead!” Twinkie shrieks, getting a little giddy. Then she picks up one of Nobu’s mini milk bone biscuits and throws it. Nobu jumps and runs after it. Twinkie giggles hysterically.

  After all the kids take turns playing with Nobu, I kick them all out of the kitchen so I can fix breakfast. “Awright, everybody out,” I say firmly.

  “Come on, Dorinda, can’t we play with him some more?” Kenya whines.

  “Awright, everybody out!” Twinkie shouts, dragging Kenya out of the kitchen.

  “You know I have to make breakfast—unless everybody wants to go on a diet,” I say matter-of-factly while I start making breakfast. “We can start right now, if you want.”

  “You want to go on a diet? Then sit down!” Twinkie says sharply.

  Mrs. Bosco cooks all week, so on Sundays I give her a break—at least for breakfast, anyway. Usually I make bacon and eggs with toast, or sometimes I make fried apples with cheese and potatoes. Today I’m going to make Twinkie’s favorite—waffles with fried bologna, ham, or salami on the side.

  I put a bowl of Ritz crackers and the orange juice container on the table so everybody can get their drink on while I’m cooking breakfast.

  “I want the ‘Make-It-Bake-It’ Kit for Christmas,” Kenya says, like she’s placing her order with Santa Claus. Ever since we passed by the stationery store and saw the jewelry and charms crafts kit in the window, that is all she can talk about.

  “I threw a ball and Nobu caught it!” Twinkie brags to Nestor.

  “No, you didn’t—that was a stupid dog biscuit—and he ate it!” says Chantelle.

  I go back to the kitchen to whip up the waffle batter. I start fantasizing about Christmas dinner. I know Mrs. Bosco probably would like for me to eat Christmas dinner here, but I want to go over Galleria’s house. Her father, Mr. Garibaldi, can really throw down—like the gourmet chefs you see on television.

  “I don’t want potatoes!” Kenya yells from the kitchen table.

  “We’re not having potatoes today,” I yell back, looking in the refrigerator at all the cold cuts. I always cook the one that has a little brown around the edges and is about to dry up. The bologna looks okay so I put it back on the shelf, then open the package of ham. Yeah, the ham is definitely getting browner by the minute, but it’s still kicking (that means it’s not totally rancid and unedible). Now I push Nobu’s blanket farther away from the stove, because I like to fry the ham until it’s popping in the frying pan and I don’t want Nobu to get stung in the face by hot, flying grease.

  I hear Mrs. Bosco and Gaye come into the living room and sit down on the couch to watch cartoons together (the couch is covered with plastic slipcovers that creak loudly when someone sits down). “Can I watch cartoons, too?” Corky asks.

  “No,” I tell him, because I know that Mrs. Bosco wants to sit with Gaye alone. Gaye just sits there and doesn’t say anything. They are watching The Kernels, this cartoon about a family made out of popcorn. I can hear Mrs. Bosco trying to explain the show to Gaye, but she doesn’t say one word.

  While we’re eating breakfast, Twinkie talks enough for everybody. “Can we put fifty candles on Dorinda’s birthday cake?” she asks excitedly.

  “She ain’t that old.” Mrs. Bosco chuckles.

  “No—but I wanna watch Dorinda blow them out like a big cheetah bear!” explains Twinkie.

  “Awright, but Smokey gonna be on your tail—Lord, it sounds like you trying to start a forest fire,” Mrs. Bosco says.

  Twinkie laughs so hard she causes a chain reaction and we all start laughing. Even Gaye finally broke down and cracked a smile. Breakfast turned out to be a real Kodak moment.

  Chapter

  2

  After breakfast, I turn the dial on the radio to Whammy Jam 99, my favorite hip-hop station, so I can begin my laundry routine. First, I gather all the dirty clothes out of the hampers, throw them in a big pile in my bedroom, then separate everything into two groups—light and dark—before stuffing them into laundry bags and heading to the laundry room in the basement. Twinkie loves this routine as much as I do, because we get our groove on, too.

  When the tight new single “Yeah, I’m Chinese” by the rapper Jin comes on the radio, Twinkie starts rapping along to the song. “Y’all gonna learn Chinese when the punks come at ’cha, y’all gonna speak Chinese!”

  I join Twinkie in her rap attack because Jin is one of my favorite new rappers. He has real serious freestyle flow, so it’s not surprising he was getting a lot of play on the street when he didn’t even have a record deal. Jin just hung tight, making beats in his family’s basement in Chinatown till he got his—a record deal with Ruff Ryder Records.

  Pulling one of Topwe’s sweatshirts out of the pile, my stomach starts to turn, because it’s covered with vomit stains. “Ooh, that’s disgusting,” I moan, squinching up my face as I blast the stains with the stain remover and ball up the sweatshirt so it gets a good pre-soaking. My brother Topwe is infected with the HIV virus (he ended up in foster care when his mother died from a drug overdose). Now that it’s cold outside, he gets sick constantly because he hates bundling up. I take a deep sigh because I’m gonna have to say something to Topwe, and he gets so upset when anybody tells him he is doing something wrong.

  “Yuk, that’s disgusting,” Twinkie says, wiping her hands like she touched the shirt.

  “You’re gonna be Chinese! You’re gonna speak Chinese. You’re gonna pass the peas!” I start rapping so she’ll follow me. I check the pockets of Kenya’s corduroy jumper, and sure enough, there is an empty M&M’s wrapper. I shake my
head.

  “Ooh, she stole candy,” Twinkie says, throwing the wrapper in the garbage can. I don’t respond because I don’t know how Kenya gets the candy. But her kindergarten teacher has called here twice because some of the kids in her class have accused her of stealing their snack money.

  Twinkie starts rapping to the song again, spitting in my face.

  “Say the weather, don’t spray it!” I moan back at her.

  Finishing up the laundry piles, I start thinking about the Cheetah Girls getting a record deal. Winning the Harlem School of the Arts competition was definitely the move. See, we can’t afford to lose our street cred before we get a record deal—because then we will be a done deal-io. Even Jin had a hard time keeping the hype going because Ruff Ryder Records took so long to put his record out even after he got signed to the label. I mean, Jin had fans from Chinatown to Compton—just waiting for his product to drop—but they couldn’t get their hands on nothing. God, I hope that doesn’t happen to the Cheetah Girls.

  “Awright, Twinkie Dink, put all the other piles in separate bags and I’ll see you in a minute,” I tell her.

  “Please, can I come with you?” Twinkie begs.

  “Only if you’re gonna be Chinese,” I riff back at her.

  Twinkie squeals, then drags the bag to the hallway and opens the door, “Yes, I’m gonna be Chinese!”

  Our neighbor Mrs. Gallstone is locking her door at the same time we come into the hallway. “What y’all carrying on about. Y’all going to the Chinese laundry?”

  Twinkie giggles hysterically.

  “No, we’re going to the basement,” I chuckle.

  “We’re going to the basement,” Twinkie repeats.

  Coming out of the elevator in the basement and walking toward the laundry room, I decide that if the Cheetah Girls do become famous, I’m definitely going to become real friendly with the peeps in the Chinese laundry, you know what I’m saying? Suddenly, I hear a loud banging noise coming from inside the laundry room, then I hear our neighbor Ms. Keisha groan, “You dag on good-for-nothings pain in my butt!”

  “Uh-oh.” Twinkie winces.

  Uh-oh is right. Ms. Keisha is probably yelling at her kids, Pookie and Tamela. At least that’s one good thing about living with Mrs. Bosco—she would never embarrass us in front of other people like that. Once, Ms. Keisha even hit Pookie upside the head with her bedroom slipper out in the courtyard. We were so embarrassed for him, but Twinkle pointed out that it wasn’t such a bad thing. “Ms. Keisha’s slipper is made out of sponge and Pookie’s head is so hard!” Walking inside the laundry room, though, we realize that Ms. Keisha was talking to herself, because she is alone. That can only mean one thing:

  “Are all the machines broken?” I ask, but I already know the answer.

  “They’re all broke and that’s no joke,” Ms. Keisha snaps back. As usual, she is wearing a headful of pink rollers tied with a pink scarf, and a pink terry-cloth bathrobe. Sometimes on Sundays, Ms. Keisha will spend the whole day in her bathrobe, hanging out in the courtyard or out her window, depending on the weather.

  I roll my eyes. Twinkie rolls her eyes, too. Now we’ll have to go to the laundry room in the basement of Building C.

  “I hate going over there,” Twinkie moans, plopping down the laundry bag for a second so we can catch our breath. There are three buildings in the Cornwall Projects, where we live. We live in Building A and secretly call Building C Peeville because the elevators and stairwells stink even worse than the ones in our building. I think more people cook in our building, because sometimes you can actually smell good things, like bacon, corn bread, collard greens, and other aromas wafting through the air. Ms. Keisha told us there are a lot more people on public assistance (welfare) in Building C—and a lot more drug addicts and winos, too. Ms. Keisha is also on public assistance, but the only bad habit she has is gossiping all day.

  “Pookie, get in here and help me!” Ms. Keisha yells. Unlike most of the kids in our building, Pookie and Tamela hang outside in the courtyard even when it’s cold.

  All of a sudden, one of our strange neighbors, Mr. Horn, barges into the laundry room. He has a slick, teased-up pompadour hairdo like James Brown or Elvis Presley, and big yellow teeth that look like fangs because they’re so crooked and crowded together. Mr. Horn even dresses like singers from back in the day—today he is wearing a brown short-sleeved alpaca knit sweater and skinny sharkskin pants in a metallic brown shade. But what really trips me out are all the tiger tattoos crawling down his arms. I wonder if he has tattoos crawling over his whole body. Before Mr. Horn can even put his basket down, Ms. Keisha lets him know the machines are broken. Mr. Horn’s bulging eyes dart around like a frog, then he picks up his laundry quickly and bolts out.

  “You know he buys ten, twenty pounds of ground beef at the Piggly Wiggly supermarket every week?” Ms. Keisha asks me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Mmm hmm. Chancia told me. He buy the old packages of meat, too. Don’t care none. Always asking if they have any meat gone bad he can buy.”

  “Maybe he’s a vampire,” I respond as I fiddle with the dials on all the washing machines. I don’t mean to insult Ms. Keisha, but I just want to make sure all the machines have definitely croaked before Twinkie and me head over to Peeville.

  “Yeah, well, even if he wore a long black cape and slept in a coffin I wouldn’t pay him no mind. Something else about him just ain’t right,” Ms. Keisha says, nodding her head like she’s a private detective about to fill out a case report. “But don’t you worry, I’m gonna find the thorn in Mr. Horn’s game plan. You can bet on that.”

  I’d definitely put the odds on Ms. Keisha finding out something shady. She could outsniff the pet detective even with her sinus condition, if you ask me.

  “I’ll go knock on Mr. Hammer’s door afterward and tell him the machines are broken,” I announce to Ms. Keisha. Mr. Hammer is our super, and we’re not supposed to bother him on Sundays, but I figure it’s worth a try. Mr. Hammer is always really cool with me. Once, somebody threw a computer out on the sidewalk, and Mr. Hammer fixed it up and gave it to me. Of course, Chantelle and Monie try to hog my computer.

  “Well, there goes my day,” gripes Ms. Keisha as we follow her down the hallway. We cut across the courtyard to Building C.

  “I hate having to stay there,” I reply. When we do our laundry in Building C, we can’t leave it for a second because there are a lot of peeps with sticky fingers over there, if you know what I’m saying.

  “I hate staying there, too,” Twinkie says, squinching up her nose.

  As soon as we open the door to the courtyard, the crisp chill hits our faces. I can’t believe Pookie and “Walkie-Talkie” Tamela are posturing on the benches. Tamela, who is about Chantelle’s age, earned her nickname because she talks a lot, like her mother, and today is no exception. She is blabbing away with our neighbors, Wanda, and her mother, Mrs. Bigge, who live in the same building we do.

  “What y’all looking at? I told you to come help me with this!” Ms. Keisha sets her load of laundry on the ground.

  “Dorinda, I got to talk to you!” Pookie says, running up to me.

  “You better grab this bag before I talk upside your head!” Ms. Keisha warns Pookie.

  Pookie is motioning with his eyes at a man in a gray wool overcoat who is standing in the corner of the courtyard all by himself. I’ve never seen him before. He isn’t wearing a hat, and has lots of curly brown hair, but I can tell that he is kind of cold. Ms. Keisha stares at him too, then says out loud, “Who is that man?”

  Pookie grabs his mother’s coat and whispers loudly, “That is what I’ve been trying to tell Dorinda!”

  “Tell Dorinda what?” Ms. Keisha asks suspiciously.

  I feel a case of the bugaboo chillies hitting my stomach, and I try not to stare at the man, but I know something is wrong.

  “That man asked me if I knew Corky,” Pookie says, trying not to talk too loud.

  “What’s he want with Corky?” Ms.
Keisha says, eyeing him.

  “I dunno,” I say. Who could this man be?

  “I dunno,” Twinkie repeats.

  “I ain’t afraid of him—let’s go talk to him. He can’t be standing around here,” Ms. Keisha says.

  Ms. Bigge and her daughter Wanda are looking at us, wondering what is going on. We walk over to the strange man, and he smiles politely.

  “Can we help you?” Ms. Keisha asks.

  “Are you Mrs. Bosco?” he asks nervously.

  “No, I ain’t, but I would like to know what you are doing hanging around here,” Ms. Keisha responds.

  “Um, I’m not trying to be rude or anything, but I just wanted to see my son, Corky, and where he lives, before he comes live with me, you know, maybe talk with Mrs. Bosco and thank her for everything,” the man keeps babbling on.

  “What you mean—before he come live with you? Ain’t nobody said nothing about him living with you, as far as I heard,” Ms. Keisha says, like she is correcting the man.

  “Um, well, I have gotten custody of my son, but I don’t think Mrs. Bosco knows yet—and I don’t mean any harm, I just thought I could see where he lived,” the man says apologetically.

  “You’re not Corky’s father,” Twinkie says, pouting.

  “I beg your pardon, little girl?” the man says.

  “We don’t have a father—that’s why we live with Mrs. Bosco,” Twinkie says adamantly. “We don’t have a mother. We don’t have anybody.”

  I’m so embarrassed that Twinkie is telling some stranger our business. The man pauses as if he is trying to figure out what to say. I feel my heart sink into my combat boots. Now the man is staring at me, but I can’t look at him. Maybe he is crazy, I realize suddenly.

  “I’m sorry, but I just wanted to see where Corky lived, that’s all. I didn’t mean any harm,” the stranger continues.