Shop in the Name of Love Read online

  When I was little, I used to lock my bedroom door, use my hairbrush as a microphone, and sing into the mirror, thinking about all the people who would love me if they could only hear me sing. That’s all I ever dreamed about—me and Bubbles singing together, and Abuela Florita sitting in the first row clapping and crying joyfully into her handkerchief.

  I have always felt closer to Abuela than to my mother, because she understands me. She would never try to get in the way of my dreams the way my mom does. I know Mom’s just trying to protect me from the heartbreak of failure, but why can’t she believe in me the way Abuela Florita does?

  I can hear Abuela’s voice now, telling me what a great singer I am. She says, “Querida Cristalle, tú eves las más bonita cantora en todo el mundo.” I know it’s not true, because Chutney Dallas is the best singer in the whole world, but it makes me want to sing just for her. Why, oh why, can’t my mom see me the way Abuela does?

  I let out a big yawn. Suddenly, even though Bubbles hasn’t called back, even though it’s not even dinnertime, I cannot keep my eyes open anymore.

  Chanel is so sweet, huit, huit, huit…. I think, as I fall asleep, just like a real-life mummy….

  Chapter

  2

  The sound of the doorbell wakes me up out of my deep sleep. I’m still too scared to come out of my room. I can hear my mom talking with Aqua in the hallway. Aquanette Walker is one of the “Huggy Bear” twins (that’s my and Bubbles’s secret nickname for them) from Houston, Texas. We met them at the Kats and Kittys Klub barbecue last summer. They were singing, swatting mosquitoes, and eating hot dogs all at the same time. We had to have them in our group!

  My little brother, Pucci, is running down the hall to the door. “Hi, Bubbles! I’m a Cuckoo Cougar! I’m a Cuckoo Cougar! You wanna see if you can outrun me?”

  So Bubbles is here, too. I crack the door open and sneak out, to see if I can get her attention without my mom seeing me, and before Pokémon-loco Pucci drags Bubbles into his room to floss his Japanese “Pocket Monsters.”

  “I know you can run faster than me, Pucci. You are ‘tha man,’” Bubbles says, hugging Pucci back.

  “Are you singing, Bubbles?” Pucci whines, holding Bubbles by her waist. She is like his second big sister.

  “We’re all singing, Pucci—we’re the Cheetah Girls—me and Dorinda and Aquanette and Anginette—and Chuchie, too,” Bubbles says, pointing to our crew, who have all assembled in the hallway

  Pucci looks up at Bubbles with the longest face, and asks, “Why is it only for girls? Why can’t there be Cheetah Boys, too?” Leave it to Pucci to whine on a dime.

  “I wanna be a Cheetah Boy!” Pucci says, yelling even louder, then hitting Bubbles in the stomach. Pucci is getting out of control. When I see my dad, I’m gonna tell him.

  “That’s enough, Pucci!” Mom yells. I can tell she is still mad, by the tone of her voice. My crew can tell, too, and Bubbles looks at me like, “What’s going on, girlita?”

  “Hey, Mamacitas,” I yell at them in the hallway. I pop my eyes open real big when my mother turns her head, so my crew knows there is something going on. Ayúdame! Help me, my eyes are screaming.

  “Go on, sit down at the table and I’ll bring your dinner in.” Mom sighs with her back turned. “I’m not eating now because I’m expecting a call from Paree.”

  She means Paris, of course. These days, Mom uses her new French accent “at the drop of a croissant,” as Bubbles says. I can tell Mom is still mad, but I also know she’s not going to yell at me in front of everybody. So for now, at least, I’m safe.

  As we file into the dining room area, I squeeze next to Bubbles. “What’s going on?” she whispers in my ear.

  “You got here just in time. I think my picture was about to end up on a milk carton!” I say, bumping into her.

  We hightail it to the long dining room table, so we can eat dinner and practice the “soup-to-nuts situation.” That’s what we, the Cheetah Girls, call table manners.

  My godfather—Galleria’s dad, Mr. Garibaldi— is from Bologna, Italy, and he can cook like a chef. He says Europeans have better table manners than we do, so Bubbles knows everything. I have good table manners, too, because Abuela taught me. Dorinda, on the other hand, has table manners like a mischievous chimpanzee. That’s why we are doing this dinner. She eats too fast and never looks up from her plate. One day, Aquanette, with her boca grande—her big mouth—blurted out to Dorinda, “Girl, the way you eat, you’d think you wuz digging for gold!”

  Dorinda wasn’t even embarrassed! She just giggled and said, “You gotta get it when you can.” Do’ Re Mi, as we call her, looks the youngest of all of us, and we all kind of treat her like our little sister. But in a lot of ways, she’s lived through more than any of us.

  Do’ Re Mi’s had kind of a hard life. She lives in a foster home uptown, with a lady named Mrs. Bosco and ten other foster kids. Dorinda says that sometimes they even steal food from each other’s plates if Mrs. Bosco isn’t looking.

  So now that she is one of the Cheetah Girls, we’re teaching Do’ Re Mi how to “sip tea with a queen and eat pralines with a prince,” as Bubbles says.

  “Mamacita, the braids are kicking,” Bubbles whispers to me, then touches my new headband and snaps it back into place.

  “Ouch,” I whimper, then giggle, adjusting my headband again.

  “They got any leopard ones? How much was it?” Bubbles asks as we sit down at the table, on our best behavior.

  “Eight duckets,” I reply. “They came in green, and pink, and I think, black.” Bubbles loves animal prints. She’d be happy if she could buy a headband that growled.

  “You’re gonna be broke and that ain’t no joke,” Do’ Re Mi says, cutting her eyes at me. “How much money do you have left from what we earned at the Kats and Kittys show?”

  “Not enough to buy an outfit for the lonchando,” I say, cutting my eyes back. Compared to her, I’ve always had it easy—Mom and Dad always got me lots of things. Even now that they’re not together, I can usually get what I want, up to a point. But see, I guess Princess Pamela was right about me being “royalty,” because nothing ever seems to be enough for me. I never met a store I didn’t like, esiá Men? I never had a ducket that I didn’t spend first chance I got. And now, my first “duckets in a bucket” for doing what I always dreamed of doing—singing with Bubbles onstage—are drizzling away fast.

  “I didn’t buy anything,” Do’ Re Mi grunts back at me. “I had to give all my money to Mrs. Bosco to help pay for her doctor bills.”

  “But we gotta look nice for the big meeting, don’t we?” I moan. “We can’t have you showin’ up in old clothes from Goodwill!”

  “Shoot, don’t worry about it,” Aqua huffs. “We ain’t gotta impress nobody yet. Let’s see what Mr. Jackal Johnson can do for us first.”

  “What do managers do, anyway?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “Nowadays, they just get you record deals and book you on tours,” Bubbles explains to us. “You know, back in the day of groups like the Supremes and The Jackson Five, managers taught you everything, just like in charm school. How to talk, dress, sing, do interviews. That’s what Mom says.”

  “Word. Well, maybe Mr. Jackal Johnson is just a jackal who’ll make us cackle!” sighs Do’ Re Mi, making a joke from one of the lines of Bubbles’s song “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle.”

  After we stop giggling, I add, “Yes, but they are still talking about our show at the Klub.”

  “That’s right. We are all that, and Mr. Jackal Johnson knows it.” Aqua pulls out a nail file from her backpack to saw down her white frosted tips, which are covered with dollar-sign rhinestone decals. It’s her trademark. She’s “on the money”—get it?

  “Aqua, you are not filing your nails at the table. That is so ticky-tacky!” screams Bubbles, then slaps her hand. “We’re supposed to be learning table manners here—this is a big meeting and greeting, Miss ‘press on.’”

  “At leas
t she ain’t whipping out a Big Mac from her backpack,” Do’ Re Mi quips, making a joke about the twins because they always carry food or hot sauce with them.

  “No Big Macs in my backpack, just got room for my dreams,” Galleria says out loud, grooving to her own rhythm. Then she whips out her Kitty Kat notebook and starts writing furiously. “That’s a song!”

  “Shhh, my mom is m-a-a-d!” I whisper to her, then turn to Do’ Re Mi. “To answer your question, I only have about thirty-seven duckets left!”

  “That’s all!?” the four of them say, ganging up on me.

  “I knew you went and bought those Flipper shoes! You didn’t fool me, Miss Fib-eroni!” says Bubbles, who is always supposed to be on my side but hasn’t been lately.

  “I don’t care if you don’t like them, I think they’re la dopa!” I protest, talking about the sandals I bought the other day behind Bubbles’s back. See, we were hanging out at the Manhattan Mall on 34th Street, and I saw them at the Click Your Heels shoe store. They are made out of vinyl, and have a see-through heel with plastic goldfish inside.

  “I don’t know why Auntie Juanita wants you to be a buyer, ’cuz you are a shopaholic waiting to happen,” Bubbles quips. She calls my mom “Auntie” even though we aren’t related. But we are just like sisters. Bubbles has a big mouth, but I’m used to that because she always used to back me up when my mouth wrote a check I couldn’t cash. “Now what are you gonna do for a dress for our big lonchando with Mr. Johnson?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, feeling like I want to burst out crying. “I’ve got these great diamond earrings Princess Pamela gave me, and those great shoes … but no dress. Bubbles, you still got some duckets left?”

  Bubbles whips out her cheetah wallet to show us that she still has the money we earned from performing at the Kats and Kittys show stuffed inside. “I got all the duckets in this bucket, baby,” she says, flossin’. “I’m not buying nada—and definitely no Prada!”

  “Word, Galleria. Your wallet looks like it’s having triplets,” Do’ Re Mi quips. She would be impressed.

  “Maybe you could lend me some till our next gig?” I start to say, but Galleria cuts me off.

  “No way, Miss Cuchifrito!” she says, putting the wallet back in her bag. “Duckets just fly through your fingers, girlita. I’d never see mine again. Maybe you ought to just borrow a dress from somebody—or make one, even!”

  Just then, my mom comes into the dining room, so we all shut up about money. My mom puts the piping hot panecitas and butter on the table. These little rolls are my favorite. Do’ Re Mi grabs one and starts spreading butter on the whole panecita, then does a chomp-aroni like Toto, and eats the whole thing!

  “At least you’re using a knife,” I say, being sarcástico, then giggle. Everyone looks at me, because Do’ and I are very close now. We talk on the phone a lot, and I even help her with her Spanish homework. So I guess I’m the one who’s supposed to get this choo-choo train in motion.

  “Do’ Re Mi, watch this,” I say, trying to be nice to her. “Break off a piece of the roll, then butter it and put the knife back across the plate like this.”

  “Word. I got it.” Do’ Re Mi giggles, then makes fun and starts spreading butter on the bread—oh so delicately, like a real phony baloney.

  “You’re on a roll, churlita!” I crack, then cover my mouth because I’m talking with food in it— and my mom has walked back in the dining room with the platter of arroz con pollo. She gives me a look that says, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Aqua and Angie are giggling up a storm, like they think it’s funny Do’ Re Mi has to learn how to eat butter on a roll.

  “Don’t you two worry, we’re gonna steam roll over your choo-choo train, too,” Bubbles warns them.

  See, me, Bubbles, and Do’ Re Mi have tan coolio style. We all go to Fashion Industries High School. The twins, who go to Performing Arts, dress, well, kinda corny, and act even cornier.

  “Now, assuming Miss Cuchifrita here can make herself an outfit, all we have to do to get the Cheetah Girls on track is get you two some new do’s—and outfits you can’t wear at church!” Bubbles loves to tease the twins, who are unidentical but very much alike.

  “Oh, and I got some virtual reality for you two,” I add.

  “Virtual reality?” Aqua says, taking her pink-flowered paper napkin off her lap and patting her juicy lips.

  “I got the Miss Wiggy Virtual Makeover CD-ROM. It has one hundred fifty hairdos we can try, and one of them has just got to be fright, I mean, right for you!”

  “We could do a sleepover here the night before our lonchando, right, Chuchie?” Bubbles asks. “That way we could take care of the do’s right before the luncheon.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say, croaking. “My mom’s kinda down on me even bein’ a Cheetah Girl. Maybe we better do it at your house.” I roll my eyes at Bubbles, then toward the den next door, where my mom is talking on the phone to Mr. Tycoon in Paris.

  I’m scared for my crew to leave, because then I will have to be alone with her. I take a deep breath, which is what Drinka Champagne, our vocal coach, tells us we have to do to help our singing voices stay strong.

  After today’s craziness with my madre, lonchando with Mr. Jackal Johnson will be a piece of cake. A piece of Princess Pamela’s pound cake …

  Later that night, I’m on the Internet chatting with my Cheetah Girls crew, when I hear my mom yelling over the phone to my dad. “I have a prediction for that Princess Pamela,” my mom says all sarcástico into the phone receiver. “If she doesn’t stay away from my daughter, The Wicked Witch of the Yeast is gonna slice her up like that cheesy pound cake she sells!” my mom snarls, then hangs up the phone. Mom always has to have the last word. I hear her bare feet pounding down the hallway.

  “Ciao for now!” I type furiously on the keyboard. That’s the signal we use when a grownup is coming. I run to my bed and open up my history book. All I need is for my mom to see what I’m talking about with my crew on the Internet, and she may figure out a way to stop that, too.

  I know she’s about to come in, and I’m dreading the screaming fight we’re about to have. But to my total surprise, the knock on my door is so low I almost don’t hear it.

  “What!” I yell, pretending that maybe I think it’s Pucci.

  “Can I come in?” Mom asks, in a voice so soft and sweet I barely recognize her.

  “Sure, Mamí,” I say more quietly.

  When she walks into my room, she is smiling at me. Now I feel guilty for thinking bad thoughts about her. I’ve been assuming she was going to get on my case about every single thing in my life, and here she is, being sweet and nice.

  “Hi, Mamí,” I say, trying to act normal.

  “Hi. What are you up to? You and the Cheetah Girls have been talking in the chat room, right?”

  She is still smiling! Weird.

  “Yeah.” I giggle, shutting the cover of my history book. No use pretending now. Besides, it doesn’t seem to be necessary. She’s obviously not mad—but why? Qué pasa?

  “I’ve been wondering—what are you going to wear for the lunch meeting with Mr. Johnson, Chuchie?” Mom asks me, plopping down on my pink bedspread. She then crosses her legs, like she is practicing a pose for the Chirpy Cheapies Catalog. My mom used to be a model, you know. Right now, she has put her wavy hair up in a ponytail. She almost looks like she could be my big sister instead of my mother.

  “Yo no sé,” I answer. “I don’t know. I really don’t have anything good to wear.”

  “Well, why don’t you go ahead and order that green leopard pantsuit from Oophelia’s catalog,” she says with a satisfied smirk.

  “Well, I can’t buy it, because I only have thirty-seven dollars left from the money I got from the show,” I say, kinda nervous. Don’t get the wrong idea—I didn’t just buy shoes and headbands, okay? I also bought a new laser printer for my computer, so that we, the Cheetah Girls, can make flyers for our shows—if we have any more.
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br />   “I know you don’t have any money left, but I’m glad you bought a printer. So the outfit is on me. A little present. Here,” Mom says, holding out her credit card. “You can use my credit card and order that one outfit.”

  I sit there frozen, not even able to breathe. This is like, unbelievable! My mom offering to let me, the shopaholic deluxe, use her credit card? What is up here?

  “You sure?” I ask nervously, not daring to take it, for fear I’ll be struck by lightning or something like that.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day. You and I haven’t been spending enough time together lately—what with me bein’ with my new boyfriend, and you hangin’ with the Cheetah Girls. I miss bein’ close.”

  I smile. “Me too, Mamí.”

  “And I know how much this lunch meeting means to you and the girls. So I decided I want you to look your very best.”

  “Wow” is all I can say. I can feel the tears of gratitude welling in my eyes.

  My mom looks up at the ceiling. “And it just bothers me that that bruja Pamela has been pushing her way into your heart, trying to buy your affection with diamond earrings and such. If anybody’s going to buy you nice things, it’s going to be me.”

  So that’s it! “But, Mamí—”

  “Now, you just tell her you can’t accept them, and that she’s to stop giving you expensive gifts. It puts a wedge between you and me, baby, and we don’t want that.”

  “But—”

  “Now, now,” she says, stroking my braids. “I can afford to get you even nicer earrings, if that’s what you want.”

  “I can’t return them, Mamí,” I say, holding my ground now that I know what she’s after. So, all this niceness is just a trick, to try and turn me against Pamela! Well, it won’t work. If people I like want to give me things, I should be allowed to accept them. “I can’t and I won’t!”