Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Page 3

  “Galleria, you’re full of stuffing! I’m not sitting home by myself on Thanksgiving! Not one more day!” Mom screams into the phone.

  Mrs. Walker hovers by the dining-room table. My crew is sitting around, too—listening to me duke it out with Mom over the phone.

  “But Mom, we wanna see if we can at least get into the Urban Rodeo show. It’ll be good exposure for us!”

  “If you want exposure, you can open the window and stick your head out! I don’t care about any rodeo. Now, don’t make me come down there and lasso you myself!”

  I feel my ears burning. What is wrong with her? Nobody is more upset about Nona being in the hospital with a broken hip than I am. I mean, Nona’s my grandmother, not hers! I was supa crushed that she couldn’t come to New York and spend Thanksgiving with us, and that Daddy had to go to Italy to see her.

  All of a sudden, I blurt out, “Mom, how come it’s always Daddy’s relatives we see? I mean … why don’t you have any family?”

  Mom starts crying into the phone. “How could you ask me something like that right now?” She is crying so hard, I can’t even understand the rest of what she is saying.

  I can’t believe I asked her that—but I guess … Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve always kind of felt that my mom was hiding something from me. I don’t know why I feel that way—but somehow, I know it’s true. It’s little things, like tonight on the phone, that make me so sure.

  Why can’t she be open with me? I’m her daughter, for goodness’ sake! I want her to tell me the truth. Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad, can it?

  Dorinda motions for me to give her the receiver. “Please let me talk to her,” she whispers.

  “Good luck, duck. You talk to her, pleez,” I say, gladly giving Dorinda the cordless phone.

  “Ms. Dorothea?” Dorinda whispers into the receiver. Cradling it to her ear, she walks into the other room.

  Chanel looks at me, like, “Wazzup with that?”

  But I don’t care what’s up. Right now, I’m just happy to get a break from Mom’s wicky-wacky behavior.

  “Is everything okay, Galleria?” Mrs. Walker asks me.

  “No. My mom says she doesn’t want me wearing out my welcome or anything. She wants me to come home. She doesn’t care about any rodeo.”

  “I’II talk to her, and let her know you’re welcome to stay here,” Mrs. Walker says confidently.

  All of a sudden, I wish I was in Chanel’s shoes. Her mom, Juanita, is off in Paris with her boyfriend, Mr. Tycoon. Chuchie is happy to be away from her mom. Why is my mom always breathing down my throat? Why can’t she just leave me alone for a change, like Juanita does with Chanel? I mean, sometimes Mom just suffocates me. I’m even starting to wonder if it’s a good idea, her being the Cheetah Girls’ manager….

  Aquanette puts down the breakfast plates. I shoot her a smile. “I can’t believe Mom doesn’t even care about us trying to get into the Urban Rodeo. Usually, she’s the one pushing us to do more, more, more!”

  “Yeah, well, it is Thanksgiving, Galleria,” Aquanette says, taking Mom’s side. “All she can probably think about is being with her family.”

  Dorinda walks back into the room and hands the phone to Mrs. Walker. “She wants to talk to you.”

  “What were you two talking about?” I ask Do’ Re Mi.

  “Oh, it was just girl talk,” Dorinda says.

  “Girl talk? My mom is forty-two years old and you’re fourteen.” I chuckle sarcastically, even though I feel a twinge of jealousy. I love Dorinda, just like she’s my sister—I’m not jealous of her being close to my mom, but something is bothering me…. It’s like they’ve been keeping a secret from me or something.

  I think back to the day of Dorinda’s surprise adoption party. We all helped her foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, plan the party, and everything went great—even though later we found out Dorinda didn’t get adopted after all.

  Anyway, a weird thing happened at that party. My mom was in the bathroom, boo-hoo-ing about something as usual (I’m sorry, but my mom cries even more than me). Dorinda went in there to talk to her, and they’ve been acting real chummy ever since. I don’t know what they talked about, but it sure must have been important, because neither one of them will tell me what it was—and now, here we go with more secrets!

  Dorinda squirms in her chair. “She just feels bad about being alone—so I tried to talk to her. Okay, Galleria?” Dorinda yells at me.

  “Okay, Do’ Re Mi—just be chill-io,” I say, backing off. “Why is everybody being so sensitive?” What I really want to know is, if Dorinda was able to talk some sense into my mom when I wasn’t. “Did she say I could stay?”

  “Only if we get the gig at the Okie-Dokie,” Dorinda says matter-of-factly.

  “Yes!” I jump up and down with dee-light. “Ya-hoo!”

  “Bubbles, we didn’t exactly get the gig yet, está bien?” Chanel squeaks at me.

  “I know, Chuchie, but we’re in the flow, so you never know!” I say. “We should burn some of those candles of yours for good luck.”

  “Oh, I left my Santeria candles at home,” Chuchie says sarcastically.

  “Yeah, but they must sell them at Piggly Wiggly’s,” I persist. “Come on, Chuchie, wax is wax and that’s a facto.”

  “Piggly Wiggly?” Aqua asks in surprise. “We don’t have that supermarket down here.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-uh. Our big chain is the Garden of Eden Supermarkets,” Angie explains.

  “That’s too bad—I’ll betcha if your father’s girlfriend, Abala Shaballa Cuckoo, came down here, she’d be very disappointed,” I howl. “You know how much she loves those cuckoo ingredients they sell at Piggly Wiggly’s for the witch’s brew she makes!”

  Aqua and Angie give me a look, like I’m the one concocting witch’s brew. Omigod—I forgot about Mrs. Walker! She’s been right here in the room the whole time—and she probably didn’t know about their father’s new girlfriend! Not until I just opened my big mouth, that is!

  I put my head in my hands. I’m just stepping on everybody’s toes—like the girl with skyscraper heels who stepped on Dorinda’s toes last night at the concert.

  Luckily, Mrs. Walker is across the room, talking on the phone. We all look at her, trying to see if she caught a whiff of my riff. Feeling our gaze, she automatically turns and smiles, while muttering, “Huh, huh,” to my mom. I take a deep, relieved breath.

  Aqua mouths to me, “Not one more word about her!”

  I mouth back, “What did you say?”

  “You know what she said,” Angie hisses. I can tell they are not playin’.

  “Okay, sassy-frassy,” I say, embarrassed. I’ve never heard Angie speak up before, but I guess the twins really don’t want their mother to find out about the “wicked witch of the north,” who is posing as their father’s girlfriend.

  Aqua scurries to the kitchen to put the breakfast grub-a-dub on the table, and we begin eating.

  Mrs. Walker finally gets off the phone. She sure can talk. “Galleria, your mom is real nice. Don’t worry—we’re not changing the return date on y’all’s plane tickets—not just yet.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walker,” I say politely. Suddenly, I wish I had the twins’ mother for a mom instead of mine. She’s so nice and calm—not a drama queen like my mom.

  Mrs. Walker pauses as if she’s contemplating something. “Girls, I would prefer if you called me Junifred instead of Mrs. Walker,” she says. “I’m sure Aquanette and Anginette have told you that I’m divorced from their father.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry … Junifred,” I say warmly.

  “Yes, ma’am, they do know, ” Aqua says awkwardly, then throws me a look, like I’d better not say one more peep about their Daddykin’s girlfriend, Abala Shaballa, or the twins are gonna lasso me with a rope around my neck!

  Mrs. Walker doesn’t catch the glare, because she is too busy looking at her pretty gold watch. “I can’t believe what time it is. You kno
w I have to go over to Eden and shop for Big Momma.”

  Aqua jumps to explain. “Our grandmother walks with a cane, so she doesn’t get around like she used to. But wait till you eat her food—her fried chicken and peach cobbler—you’re gonna wanna slap your momma!”

  “Well, I wanna do that already!” I blurt out. We all giggle nervously.

  “What time is Skeeter coming?” Mrs. Walker asks; smiling softly at our silliness.

  “He should be here by now,” Aqua moans. Then they look at each other like, “Uh-oh, not Tales from the Tomb’ again!”

  See, last time the twins’ Uncle Skeeter went missing, we found him in his daddy’s mausoleum—you know, one of those big tombs you see in cemeteries. He was hiding out there, feeling so low he couldn’t get any lower. Then we found him, and hooked him up with Fish ‘N’ Chips as the third member of their band. He’s been ridin’ high ever since—until now, that is. He’s supposed to be taking us over to the Okie-Dokie Corral, where we will try to weasel an audition for the Urban Rodeo celebrations. I can tell we’re all a little worried that he’s not here.

  Mrs. Walker makes a “shoo” motion with her hands, like, “bad thoughts be long gone.” “Skeeter never did get anywhere on time. Don’t expect that to change,” she tells us.

  Aqua and Angie laugh. They seem so much more comfortable around their mother than they are with their father.

  “If he doesn’t show, I’ll take y’all to the rodeo, all right?” Mrs. Walker offers.

  “Yes, ma’am,” we all say.

  Just then, we hear a car horn honking. “That’s him!” Angie says, jumping up and running outside like it’s Christmas. Aqua runs after her, and the rest of us grab our cheetah backpacks and head out to join them.

  Skeeter drives a red Cadillac convertible with the top down. If that isn’t enough, he is wearing a red fedora and a red fake-fur jacket. He is grinning from ear to ear as he waves us inside.

  “Can you believe Uncle Skeeter’s outfit?” Aqua says, seeing the look on my face.

  “I got it at Born Again Threads, baby,” Skeeter explains. “I was gonna wear it to the benefit the other night, but I figured with all the trouble I’d already caused your momma, I’d better put on that flower shirt she got me for my birthday!” He slaps his metallic purple bell-bottoms, laughing.

  “Ooh, this is la dopa!” Chuchie exclaims as she hops in. Chuchie would do anything to glide in a ride. Me? I’m a typical New York girlina—Mr. Taxi, pleez! Let someone else do the driving, okay?

  “We iz so glad you’re here,” Aqua tells him. “Ma has to go buy groceries for Big Momma—and we thought she was gonna tiptoe through the turnips if you didn’t get here in time!”

  “Not to worry—life is a flurry, so you girls just sit back and enjoy. It’s time to saddle ’em up and ride ’em, cowgirls!”

  Chapter

  4

  I have never been to a rodeo before, let alone an “urban rodeo,” so I’m kind of excited about finding out the real deal-io. As if reading my mind, Aqua is on the case like Mace, trying to find out more details. Apparently, a lot has gone down in boostin’ Houston since the twins moved to the Big Apple in search of their rainbow. “I don’t remember them having an urban rodeo here before, do you, Uncle Skeeter?” she asks, nestling up to her favorite uncle.

  I start feeling sad again, thinking about my Italian aunt—Zia Donatella—who was supposed to come over to the States with Nona for the Thanksgiving holidays—but who never got airborne because of Nona’s tragedia. Daddy hopped on a plane to Turin right away to be with Nona, and I’II bet he’s lonely without me and Mom. He’d better be, I think, fuming inside. He’s not the one who has to put up with how grumpy Mom is acting—I do.

  “That’s ’cuz they ain’t never had no ‘urban rodeo’ in Houston before,” Skeeter says. “I can tell you that for sho’. I heard some promoters from Philly are doing it—just throwing in a little soul flavor for entertainment in between some bulldogging. I heard they got big acts coming down here, too.”

  “Is that right?” Aqua mumbles.

  “Yessirree, trying to bring some flavor down to the Lone Star State, I reckon,” Skeeter chuckles.

  “What’s bulldogging?” Dorinda asks. She’s definitely the most athletic one of our crew—what with her skateboarding moves, she probably can’t wait to saddle up.

  “Steer wrestling—that’s what regular folks call it,” Skeeter explains. “See, when you’re competing in the bulldogging contest, you gotta get one o’ them hazers to help you.”

  “A hazer?” Dorinda asks hesitantly.

  “Yeah—that’s the guy that keeps the steer—you do know what a steer is, don’t you?” Skeeter interrupts himself, chuckling.

  Do’ Re Mi looks at Chuchie, who shrugs her shoulders. The twins burst out laughing.

  “I know it’s something you ride, that’s what I’m talking about,” Do’ Re Mi says, smirking and folding her arms across her tiny chest.

  “That’s right—it’s something you ride, all right—and they be winning some serious cash doing it, too,” Skeeter says, slapping his knee. “Boy, you get that hazer running that baby in a straight line, all you got to do is slide off your horse and grab its horn, then wrestle it to the ground.”

  He nods his head, satisfied with his explanation, while Do’ Re Mi, Chuchie, and I look at each other like, “Where’s the mall? Yikes!”

  “Now, I know you two aren’t any bulldog-ging queens, you know what I mean?” I hiss at Aqua and Angie.

  “No, ma’am, we izn’t,” Aqua admits with a smile, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t enjoy watching it.”

  “Where’s the Okie-Dokie Corral at?” Dorinda asks.

  “On Rat Tail Road,” Skeeter says, pointing to a huge billboard on the highway as we approach it.

  “Ay, Dios mío! Krusher is performing!” Chuchie squeals.

  “And MC Rabbitt!” gasps Dorinda. “Bring on the Forty Karats, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  “Omigod—and Sista Fudge too!” the twins exclaim.

  Of course, my eyes bug out when I see that Karma’s Children are also on the bill. I guess everybody is still sore that we didn’t snag at least one measly autograph from Houston’s finest, but there’s always one last chance, last dance, if you get my drift.

  Then, suddenly, I get a bad case of the squigglies. How are we gonna pull off this hoedown? Even if it’s an urban rodeo, they probably aren’t gonna let us perform with headliners like these.

  Do’ Re Mi sees the look on my face. “Miggy and Mo said they were booked at the Okie-Dokie, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, still feeling queasy and uneasy.

  “I wonder where the, um, unknown acts perform at?” Angie asks apprehensively.

  “Probably in the barnyard, with the baby bulls who stubbed their little bitty toes during a hayride!” I say sarcastically.

  “Well, I’d rather have a hayday than no payday!” smirks Do’ Re Mi.

  “That’s a song!” Chuchie squeals.

  “I got a hayday. That’s my best payday,” I hum nervously, as the rest of the Cheetah Girls join in.

  “Hay, ho! Hay, ho! Hay, ho!” we chant for the chorus, causing Skeeter to chuckle.

  We drive for twenty more minutes before we see the big red barnyard. “Hey, ho, here we are!” Skeeter says in sing song style as he drives up to the entrance of the Okie-Dokie Corral. “Come on, girls, let’s go rope ’em in!”

  “It sure looks like a big barnyard,” Dorinda observes.

  “Wow, they must have built this just for the show!” Aqua exclaims as we walk toward the wide entrance. Once inside, we see millions of men running around—carpenters banging their hammers, men in construction caps wielding electric drills. Sparks are flying everywhere. There is also lots of sawdust on the floor, and piles of wood.

  Skeeter makes eye contact with this guy in a red baseball cap, with greasy-looking, stringy hair hanging out of it. The guy motions for us to step aside,
and talks with Skeeter. I can’t hear what they’re saying because of all the noise. He motions for us to walk back outside and into another building—the office.

  “They’re building all the booths for the event,” Skeeter explains. “We’ve got to find a guy named Mr. Steer—he’s handling the talent.”

  “Well, talent is what we are,” Aqua mumbles.

  “The corral where they’re gonna have the stock events is in the back,” Skeeter goes on to explain.

  “What’s that?” Dorinda asks.

  “The main events of the rodeo,” Aqua says proudly.

  “The rough stock events are where the cowboys—or the cowgirls, ’cuz you know we got a lot of ’em down here—” Skeeter chuckles, then coughs. “Anyway, they get on these wild bucking horses, you know, or sometimes they use bulls—whichever—and they try to ride those babies for however long they can.”

  “See, they win by how the judges award the points—you know, for their form, and how well they spur the animals,” Aqua adds.

  “How much do they win?” I ask, ’cuz now I’m curious.

  “For first prize?”

  “Yeah,” I say “Like, what other prize is there?”

  Aqua chuckles. “They could get up to five thousand dollars.”

  “For those kinda duckets we should forget singing, and just become cowgirls!!” I heckle.

  “You know they got all-girl rodeos now, too,” Skeeter says.

  “Yeah—they do bull riding, too,” Angie says, laughing.

  “Bull riding?”

  Seeing my face, Skeeter smiles and says, “They don’t have to spur the bull, they just gotta stay on him for eight seconds, by holding on to an unknotted rope around his belly with one hand!”

  “Ooh, mira, look at the cows!” Chuchie exclaims, pointing to some cattle being led down the plank of a big truck.