Hey, Ho, Hollywood! Read online

  I’m so scared, I wish we could see a horror movie right now. When Daddy gets out of the car to find out where he should park, we all start cackling about last night’s strange events.

  “Did any of y’all dance with a teddy bear or a poodle last night?” I ask. Then I wonder, What on earth did Abala mean by giving us stuffed teddy bear heads in a shoe box? How was that supposed to help us win this competition?

  “I couldn’t believe Aqua got up in the morning and checked our shoe boxes in the closet, just to make sure they were still taped,” Angie says, acting all grown.

  “Angie, don’t act like you didn’t look at your box, too,” I shoot back.

  “Can you believe Abala says Galleria was probably Egyptian royalty in her past life?” Dorinda remarks, still in disbelief about last night.

  “Well, she’s definitely not psychic, or she would know that we don’t like her!” I say, huffing and puffing. Angie and I are squeezed into the front seat, and we’re trying not to breathe, so we don’t bust out of our Cheetah Girls costumes.

  “I’m gonna ask Princess Pamela about her, para seguro,” Chanel says. “Just to be safe. You can count on that, está bien?”

  Like I said before, Princess Pamela is Chanel’s father’s girlfriend. Chuchie’s parents have been divorced for a while, and she just loves Pamela. The Princess owns a whole lot of businesses—she does hair and nails, bakes the best pound-cake in New York, and tells people’s fortunes. Princess Pamela is a psychic. She may not be a High Priestess like Abala, but I like Pamela a lot better. She can tell my fortune any time.

  “I think my jumpsuit is tighter than it was the last time,” I say.

  “Those sweet potato pies you made for Dorinda’s surprise adoption party were dope-a-licious, but did you have to eat five of them all by yourself, Miz Aquanette?” Galleria asks, laying on that syrupy Southern accent again.

  “No, I guess not, Miz Galleria,” I sigh back, playing along with her. “And I guess it didn’t help that I ate all of your father’s chocolate cannolis at the same time!”

  “Aah, mama mia, I wondered who ate them all!” Mr. Garibaldi says, waving his hand.

  I take another deep breath. I’m scared I’m gonna pop out of my costume right on stage, and the Sandman is gonna tear the rest of my costume with his big ol’ hook!

  Now I feel like poor Dorinda did when she tore her costume onstage at the Cheetah-Rama. You should have seen her face when she ripped her jumpsuit. That’s right—there we were, in the middle of a song—and Dorinda did a lickety-split, right there on stage!

  “Don’t worry, Aqua. You won’t be a witch without a stitch,” says Galleria, leaning from the back of the car and whispering in my ear. “And it’s just a matter of time before we pull the curtain on the High Priestess of Hocus Pocus. The Wizard of Oz she ain’t, or I’ll faint!”

  “What does she do when she isn’t concocting Vampire Spells?” Dorinda asks.

  “Daddy says she teaches this, well … witchcraft stuff to people. And she has a store called Enchantrixx up here somewhere.”

  Then I see Daddy on his way back to the car. “Shh, he’s coming,” I whisper, then announce loudly as he opens the door,“Well! Here we are at the world-famous Apollo Theatre.”

  Mentioning the Apollo reminds me of why we’re here tonight, and how much is at stake. It makes me start feeling nervous, and when I get nervous, my stomach starts churning like it’s mashing potatoes or something.

  “Y’all feeling scared like I am?” I ask, this time turning around so I can look at Galleria.

  “Sí, mamacita,” admits Chanel.

  “I guess that’s natural, right?” Dorinda asks Ms. Dorothea. Ever since the adoption party, the two of them seem like two peas in a pod—which we’re all real happy about.

  Dorinda needs all the love she can get. She’s been a foster child all her life—till now, that is. The day her foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, adopted her was the best day of Dorinda’s whole life. It sure made Ms. Dorothea cry a lot, though. I wonder what that was all about. She seemed so sad about something.

  “Darling, when the day comes that you’re not afraid as you walk on that stage—cancel the show immediately!” Dorothea says, reaching for the door handle to get out.

  But Mr. Garibaldi quickly says, “Cara, no, let me get the door for you!”

  Mr. Garibaldi is such a gentleman. Galleria says he’s very “old school,” because he grew up in Italy and not here in the States.

  That’s probably true. When we were at Ms. Dorothea’s store, Galleria showed us the personals ad from New York magazine that Ms. Dorothea answered to meet Mr. Garibaldi. We almost died right there on the spot! He called himself a “lonely oyster on the half shell” in the ad. I can’t imagine him like that. He seems like the happiest man we’ve ever seen. We wish Daddy was more like that—just a lot of fun, that’s all I’m saying.

  After Mr. Garibaldi helps all of us out of the car, we take a look up at the sign for the Apollo Theatre. “Look at all the lights up there!” I exclaim.

  “They should have our name up there in bright lights, taking up the whole marquee!” Galleria says, giggling.

  “Darling, one day they will,” Ms. Dorothea says, then flings her fur boa around her neck, which hits Mr. Garibaldi in the face.

  “Don’t knock me out with your love, cara!” he quips, then puts the boa back on her shoulder.

  We are giggling up a storm, because we are just so happy to be here. People are looking at us as we walk in, and Ms. Dorothea tells the usher that we’re The Cheetah Girls and we’re here to perform.

  “Go right in, ladies,” the usher says, smiling at us. He looks so nice in his uniform. He’s wearing a red jacket, black pants and white gloves—and his teeth are almost as bright as the neon lights in the sign!

  As we’re walking by all the people waiting to buy popcorn and stuff at the concession stand, these two tall, skinny guys with baseball caps and real baggy pants start calling to us. “You’re grrrr-eat! Yo, check it, D, there’s Tony the Tiger with his girlfriends!” They stand there stuffing popcorn in their mouths, and heckling up a storm. They are so loud that everybody turns and looks at us.

  “Well if it isn’t the baggy, bumbling Bozo brothers, trying to get full at the concession stand!” Galleria hisses back.

  “Shhh, darling, never let them see you sweat,” Ms. Dorothea tells her. “Besides, those children look like they could use a home-cooked meal.”

  It’s still so hard for me and Angie to believe how rude people in New York can be. I mean, we have some “bozos” in Houston, but not like this. People will just walk up to you anywhere and get in your face, for no reason!

  “Dag on, I hope everybody ain’t like him, or this is gonna turn into a ‘Nightmare on 125th Street,”’ I turn and say to Galleria. (One of my favorite horror movies is Nightmare on Elm Street, ’cuz that scar-faced Freddy Krueger always finds a way to get in your dreams and scare you to death!)

  “Not to worry, Aqua. There is always one sour bozo in a bunch of grapes!” Galleria mutters.

  “Let’s find our dressing room,” quips Ms. Dorothea, acting now like our manager—which is what she has been, ever since she helped us get rid of that no-good Mr. Jackal Johnson.

  “Darling, I’ll see you later,” Mr. Garibaldi says, kissing Ms. Dorothea on the cheek. Then he says good-bye to us, so he can find some seats up front for himself and Daddy.

  “Try to sit in the first row, Daddy!” Galleria yells back to him, as we walk toward the back.

  Ms. Dorothea speaks to another usher in a red jacket who points straight ahead of us. “Right that way, ladies.”

  “Look at all the people!” Chanel says excitedly. Lots of them are already filing into the theater and finding their seats.

  “It is as big as it looks on TV!” I whisper to Angie.

  “You think it’ll get filled up?” Dorinda asks, kinda nervous.

  “Sí, sí, Do’ Re Mi,” says Chanel, giggling.“As soon
as they find out we’re here, está bien?”

  At the base of the stairs, there is a woman with a walkie-talkie and earphones. Before Ms. Dorothea says anything to her, the woman tells us in a brisk voice to “go up the stairs.”

  Dag on! She could be a little friendlier, I think to myself, as we all climb up a real tiny staircase. It seems like the longest time before we get to the stairwell landing for dressing room “B”.

  When we open the stairwell door, there are a lot of people crowded in the hallway! Are we supposed to share a dressing room with all these people? I wonder.

  “Excuse me, darlings,” Ms. Dorothea says firmly, pushing her way through the throng of people.

  “You’d think we were at the mall or something, and they were giving things away!” Angie exclaims.

  As we pour into the dressing room, just to plop down our things, Ms. Dorothea quips, “They said the dressing room would be small, but this looks like a prison cell!”

  “I guess it’s a good thing we already have our costumes on,” I say nervously, looking around at the other people. They are in costumes too, but not like ours. One man looks just like The Cat In the Hat or something, his hat is so high up on his head. He has striped kneesocks, too, and shorts, and big cartoon-looking glasses!

  Galleria whispers, “If all we’ve got to deal with is The Cat In the Hat, then we’ve got it made, like green eggs and ham!”

  I sure hope so, I think nervously—because between my too tight costume, this too tight dressing room, and High Priestess Abala’s too spooky Vampire Spell, this whole thing is turning into a New York frightmare!

  Chapter

  4

  I bet Dressing Room ‘A’ is for the stars,” Dorinda says, looking kinda sad, then puts her cheetah backpack down on the floor.

  “What stars, darling?” Ms. Dorothea says. “In my humble opinion, you girls are the most cheetah-licious thing the Apollo Theatre has ever seen—or will ever see!”

  We may not exactly believe her, but at least her words make us feel less nervous. Now we have to push through the people again, and climb all the way back down those steep little stairs until we get backstage. Then we have to wait backstage for our number to be called.

  “I’m exhausted already!” I moan to Dorinda, who is scratching herself through her costume. Oh, no, not again. She can’t be busting out of her costume, after Ms. Dorothea took all that time to fix it!

  As if reading my mind, Dorinda squints her eyes and says, “Don’t worry, Aqua, my costume is not gonna rip again. I must have got bitten by mosquitoes or something last night. Our screens at the house have holes in them.”

  “Maybe it was the little teddy bear vampire from your shoe box!” Galleria says, her eyes lighting up.

  “Lemme see,” Chanel says to Do’ Re Mi, who rolls up the left leg on her cheetah jumpsuit. “Ay, Dios! Look how red they are. Mamacita, it sure looks like mosquito bites to me.”

  “Maybe you got bitten by those mosquitoes carrying the killer virus!” Galleria says, concerned.

  “Maybe it was one of those six-foot bloodsucking mosquitoes like in the movie me and Aqua saw,” my twin blurts out.

  “I’m not trying to hear this,” Dorinda says, getting upset.

  “Don’t worry, Dorinda. I know how to stop the itching,” I say.

  “How, brown cow?” Bubbles asks, giggling.

  “Darling, that’s not funny,” Ms. Dorothea says suddenly.

  “What, Mom? I’m just riffing off a nursery rhyme!” Galleria protests.

  “Even so, darling, sometimes you have to give your ‘riff’ the ‘sniff test’ before you ‘flap your lips’—if you ‘get my drift,”’ Ms. Dorothea says, looking at Galleria like she’s not the only one with rhyme power.

  Galleria gets real sheepish. Ms. Dorothea is real nice, but she doesn’t play.

  “That’s all right, Ms. Dorothea, I know Galleria didn’t mean anything bad. She’s just being, well, herself,” I offer as an explanation.

  “Well, she can stir that saying with some jam, and make flimflam,” Ms. Dorothea says, closing her cheetah purse with a loud snap.

  We all get quiet, but I don’t want Galleria to feel bad, so I say, “I can go upstairs and get the deodorant out of my backpack.”

  “For what, mamacita? You trying to say we smell now?” Chanel asks me.

  “No, Chanel! It’s an old Southern remedy. If you rub deodorant on a mosquito bite, it stops the itching!”

  “Word?” Dorinda asks hopefully.

  “Well then, go get it, Aqua, ’cuz we don’t want Dorinda wiggling around like Mr. Teddy Poodly onstage,” Galleria says, making a joke about the stuffed teddy bear head and poodle tail in the shoe boxes Abala gave us.

  “Dag on, I hope that thing doesn’t try on any of my clothes while I’m gone!” I retort. That gets everyone laughing, which is good, because we don’t want to get a bad case of nerves before we perform.

  “I’ll go with you, Aqua,” Ms. Dorothea says. “You girls stay here, so nobody takes our spot.” She looks annoyed. “Of course, at the rate they’re going, we’ll be here until the Cock-a-doodle Donut truck pulls up to make a morning delivery!”

  When we get back upstairs, I can’t believe that those bozo boys we met when we came in are hanging out near our dressing room. They’re putting on yellow satin jackets, with the words “Stak Chedda” written on the back in blue letters. That must be the name of their group, I figure.

  I grab the deodorant for Dorinda and we head back downstairs. “I bet they’re probably rappers,” I say to Ms. Dorothea, once we’re safely out of hearing range.

  “Like I said, darling, that is still no excuse for bad manners!” Dorothea quips.

  When we get backstage and rejoin the others, I give Do’ Re Mi the deodorant for her legs, and she starts working on herself.

  “Guess who’s performing!” I moan. “Those bozos we met outsi—”

  Galleria jabs me before I can finish, so I turn around. Can you believe it? Those rude boys are coming our way!

  “Whazzup, ladies?” the one with the Popeye eye sockets says to us, chuckling under his breath.

  “Are you performing too?” Dorinda asks. Galleria is propping her up while Angie puts the deodorant on the mosquito bites on her leg.

  “Yeah. We’re rappers—’Stak Chedda.’ I’m Stak Jackson and this is my brother Chedda Jackson,” Popeye says to us.

  “Who are you lovely ladies?” Chedda asks. His head is bigger than his brother’s, but the rest of his body still looks like he could use a home-cooked meal—just like Ms. Dorothea said.

  “We’re the Cheetah Girls,” Galleria answers for us, then gives them a smirk, like, “don’t try it.”

  “See? I knew y’all were related to Tony the Tiger!” Popeye riffs. “Those costumes you’re wearing are fierce, though.”

  “They’re not costumes—it’s our survival gear for becoming stars in the jiggy jungle—not wanna-be’s like you.” Galleria sniffs, then adds, “And you two must be related to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

  “Oooops,” Chedda says, then slaps his baseball cap at the crown.

  “I mean the rappers, not the loony doctors,” Galleria assures them. “But maybe …”

  “We could have it like that. You never know, with how we flow,” Popeye says, then slaps his brother a high five.

  “It’s show time at the Apollo!” booms the announcer’s voice from the front of the stage. Then we hear loud applause.

  “It’s crowded out there, right?” says one of the girls in back of us, really loudly.

  “Quiet, please, and keep your places, so you can be called on,” says an attendant with a walkie-talkie.

  When the girls in back of us keep yapping, Ms. Dorothea gives them a look, then says, “Shhh!” Then she huddles the five of us together in a circle. “It’s time to do your Cheetah Girls prayer.”

  Even though the area backstage is small and crowded with all the contestants, we try to ignore everybody and do
our Cheetah Girls prayer. We have plenty of time, because we’re the fourth contestants—even though I wish we were the last, because I’m starting to feel real nervous. The hamburger I ate for dinner is churning around in my stomach.

  Ms. Dorothea instructs us to join hands, bow our heads, and close our eyes. Galleria starts the prayer; then we join in, keeping our voices low, so the other people around us don’t start looking at us.

  “Dear Head Cheetah in Charge, please give us the growl power to perform our cheetah-licious best, and make you proud of all the gifts you’ve bestowed on us …” We end the prayer by doing the Cheetah Girl handshake together and chanting, “Whatever makes us clever—forever!”

  The other people backstage cheer us on quietly. But they don’t have to worry—there is so much noise coming from the stage and the audience, you can’t even hear us back here.

  “Bacon, Once Over Lightly—please stand here by the curtain. You go on first,” the attendant barks sharply. She is talking to four girls who look a lot older than us—maybe about nineteen—and are wearing brown leather jumpers and kneesocks.

  “I hope they’re crispy,” whispers Galleria, who is standing between me and Chanel.

  “Their earrings sure look like plates—big enough to hold a few strips,” I whisper back.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” booms the announcer, “we’ve got four sisters from Buttercup, Tennessee. Let’s give a hand to Bacon, Once Over Lightly!”

  Sisters. They must not be sisters for real, ’cuz they don’t look very much alike. Maybe that’s just a stage act or something. We hold our breath, waiting for the girls to start singing.

  First we hear the track for the Sista Fudge song, “I’ll Slice You Like a Poundcake,” booming on the sound system. They’d better be real good singers to mess with that song, I think, shaking my head.

  Pulling down my jumpsuit, Galleria slaps my hand and mouths, “Stop it!” but I don’t even care, ’cuz I can’t believe my ears. These poor girls are more like Spam than bacon—they sound like the noise from an electric can opener!