Hey, Ho, Hollywood! Read online

  All of a sudden, the noise from the audience is even louder than their singing.

  “Omigod—are they booing them?” Angie asks, bobbing her head around to see if maybe she can sneak a peek through the curtain. But we can’t see a thing. The attendant is standing right near the heavy curtain, and it’s not budging.

  Suddenly I start sweating. There is no air back here. It’s hot, and I’m nervous. Those girls are getting booed out there! Are we gonna get booed too? I can’t believe how blasé the attendant is acting! She must be used to all this.

  “I think they’re awright. They didn’t have to boo them like that,” Dorinda says, folding her arms. Her lower lip is kinda trembling, and I can tell she feels sorry for Bacon, Once Over Lightly. Ms. Dorothea puts her arms around Dorinda’s little shoulders and gives her a squeeze.

  All of a sudden, we hear this funny music, and the audience laughing real loud. We just look at each other, like, “Where’s Freddy?”

  “That means the Sandman went onstage,” Ms. Dorothea tells us.

  That really did sound like clown music or something. I have to catch my breath and say a prayer to God. Please give us the strength to perform after all this. And please don’t let the Sandman take us!

  Then I get the strangest thought: What if High Priestess Abala Shaballa did put a spell on us? What if we go out there and start croaking like bullfrogs?

  No! That’s so silly! We had rehearsal today, and we sound just as good as we always do. And at least we’re singing original material, I remind myself. Galleria writes songs—she’s real talented like that, even if we did fight in the beginning ’cuz she likes to have everything her way.

  She wrote the song we’re singing tonight, “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle.” When we performed it for the first time at the Cheetah-Rama, everybody loved it!

  They’ll probably love us tonight, too. That’s right, I tell myself. Angie and I look at each other, and I know she’s thinking the same thing.

  Two more acts go on—the Coconuts and a boy named Wesley Washington, who tries to sing falsetto like Jiggie Jim from the Moonpies, one of my favorite singers. (He just gives me goose bumps, his voice is so high and beautiful.) This boy sounds like he has been inhaling helium or something. He is definitely singing too high for his range.

  “I think we’re the only ones singing an original song,” I whisper in Galleria’s ear.

  She pokes me in the stomach and says, “No diggity, no doubt!”

  Now it’s our turn. The walkie-talkie attendant motions for us to hurry up and stand by her.

  I whisper to Chanel, “Ain’t you scared? We don’t know what’s waiting for us beyond that curtain!”

  “Fame!” giggles Chanel, grabbing my hand.

  “Ladies and gentleman, our next contestants are five young ladies from right here in the Big Apple, and they got a whole lot of attitude!”

  How come he didn’t say two of us are from Houston? I feel kinda mad, but I just smile when he says, “Give it up for the Cheetah Girls!” What counts is, he got the name of our group right.

  We run out onto the stage, and everybody starts clapping. I guess they like our costumes, ’cuz who wouldn’t? We stand side by side, and hold our cordless microphones in place, waiting for the track to begin. We smile at each other, and our eyes are screaming, “Omigod, look at all these people!”

  Then the music comes on, and we start to sing:

  “Some people walk with a panther

  or strike a buffalo stance

  that makes you wanna dance.

  Other people flip the script

  on the day of the jackal

  that’ll make you cackle…”

  People start clapping to the beat. They like us! We even get our turns down, ’cuz Angie and I have been working real hard to improve our dance steps. I just wanna scream when Dorinda does her split—and gets right back up without splitting her pants. Go, Dorinda!

  By the time we take our bows, to a huge round of applause, I feel almost like crying. This is why we love to sing—Angie and I have dreamed about moments like this all our lives!

  “You were fabulous!” Ms. Dorothea screams when we get backstage. “I didn’t hear one jackal cackle!”

  “That’s ’cuz he’s in prison, eating his own tough hide right about now,” Galleria humphs.

  We all laugh at her joke. We know she’s talking about Mr. Jackal Johnson—our brush with a real-live jackal. Mr. Johnson wanted to be our manager, but he didn’t have good intentions. Lucky for us, Ms. Dorothea got wind of it before he had some Cheetah Girls for lunch. Like I told you, she doesn’t play.

  “I just know we’re gonna win!” Chanel says, dancing around in the back while we wait for the rest of the performers to go on.

  Pushing up the sleeves on their satin baseball jackets, those two annoying boys, Stak Chedda, posture like they’re ready for Freddy, then walk out onstage like they think they’re all that and a bag of fries.

  “I know you ain’t gonna win!” I say under my breath, sucking my teeth behind their backs. We all start giggling, then huddle against the end of the curtain so we can hear them when the rap track drops.

  “I know they got weak rhymes,” Angie says, egging us on as they start to do their thing.

  “Well, I’m the S to the T to the A to the K

  Stak’s my name and you know I got game.

  When I’m on the mike, I make it sound so right

  I rip the night till it gets way light

  I think I’m gonna do it right now

  So let’s get to it—and if you wanna

  Bust a rhyme, go ahead and do it!”

  Even though the audience is doing a call and response with these cheesy rappers, we aren’t worried about the competition, because their rap is, well, kinda like the alphabet—it starts with A, ends with Z, and gets real corny by the time they get to M.

  Stak Chedda does get a lot of applause, but we’re still not sweating it. “Get ready for Freddy, girlitas!” Galleria says. We do the Cheetah Girls handshake again, and wait for our cue to come out.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. It’s that time again—time to pick the winner of this month’s world-famous Apollo Amateur Hour contest. Come on out! Come on out!”

  There’s a drumroll, and we are all waved back onstage by the attendant. The lights are so bright, and there are so many people, it’s kinda scary.

  The announcer calls the name of each group in turn, and they step up to the center of the stage, so the audience can decide who should win the contest. Whoever gets the most applause wins.

  “Lord, we need that prize money!” I say, grabbing Galleria’s hand. “Just for once, I’d like to pay for my own tips.”

  Of course, I’m exaggerating, because we did spend some of the prize money we earned from the Cheetah-Rama show. But Daddy usually pays for us to get our hair and nails done twice a month. Maybe if we earned our own money, he wouldn’t complain so much about having to pay the garage bill every month for two cars.

  I’m getting so jittery I grab Angie’s hand real tight. We both look at the front row, to see if we can spot Daddy. We were too nervous to look while we were performing.

  Omigod, there he is! Angie and I give him a real big grin. Mr. Garibaldi is waving at us so hard, you’d think he was at the Santa Maria Parade in Houston.

  I can’t believe how many people are in this theater! I try not to look too far into the crowd, because the lights are so bright they almost blind me.

  When the announcer calls our name to come up to the center of the stage, I really do think I’m gonna faint. We step forward, and I can see the little beads of sweat on the announcer’s shiny forehead. He’s wearing a red bow tie and a white shirt. His hair is slicked down, and his teeth are whiter than the neon sign outside.

  I look around, trying to catch a glimpse of the Sandman. Where does he hide at, anyway?

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. You decide. What did you think of the Cheetah Girls!” h
e bellows into the microphone.

  The audience is clapping—louder than they did for Wesley Washington; Bacon, Once Over Lightly; or any of the other performers!

  I’m so excited, I can’t believe this is happening! We stand together at the back of the stage, and I can feel how excited all of us are by the sparkle in our eyes.

  Now there is only one group left—and we know we got them beat by a bag of bacon bits!

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen—what did you think of the rapping duo, Stak Chedda!”

  Of course, Popeye and his brother step forward like they own the place, but we know they ain’t the cat’s meow, as Big Momma would say.

  All of a sudden I can’t believe my ears. We look at one another in sudden shock when the audience claps louder for these bozos than they did for us!

  The announcer’s voice echoes like something right out of a horror movie—“And the winner of tonight’s Amateur Hour contest at the world-famous Apollo Theatre is—STAK CHEDDA!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Popeye yells into the mike, holding up his hands like he’s Lavender Holy, the boxer, and he’s just won a title bout.

  I can feel the hot tears streaming down my face. Why did tonight have to turn into Nightmare on 125th Street? Why?

  Chapter

  5

  Dorinda is crying, and she’s not even trying to hide it. Bless her heart. She’s probably kicking herself and thinking, Why didn’t I take that job as a backup dancer for the Mo’ Money Monique tour?

  I can’t blame her. For me and Angie, singing is our life. We have to sing—but Dorinda can dance. Maybe she doesn’t even want to sing, but she’s doing it for us, because we want her to.

  Galleria looks so mad her mouth is poking out. I can’t even look at Daddy right now. I feel so ashamed.

  “Stak Chedda. They wuz more like Burnt Toast. This competition is rigged, yo!” Dorinda blurts out through her tears when we get backstage.

  Ms. Dorothea doesn’t say anything. She just holds Galleria, and then we all start crying.

  “I can’t believe we didn’t win, Mommy,” Galleria moans, tears streaming down her cheeks. She doesn’t seem like herself at all—more like a little girl.

  The attendant is now directing traffic, and sending everyone back up to the dressing rooms to get their belongings. “If you don’t have anything in the dressing rooms, just move toward the rear exit. Do not try to exit in front!”

  “Can we just stay here a minute?” Ms. Dorothea asks the attendant very nicely.

  “Yes, go ahead, but you’re gonna have to move shortly,” she says briskly. She must have seen a million people like us, crying like babies just because they lost.

  I don’t know what we’re gonna do now. We just can’t seem to get a break! Angie and I wanted to sing gospel in the first place, but we got into pop and R&B music, because everybody kept telling us that was the only way to break into this business. Dag on, it seems like rappers are the only ones who are getting breaks now!

  Mr. Garibaldi is waiting outside for us. “Your father went to get the car,” he tells me and Angie, then turns to Galleria with his arms outstretched.

  “Daddy! Ci sono scemi. I hate those people! Take me home!” Galleria is crying so hard, I can’t believe it.

  Angie is holding me now, because she is crying too. Chanel is holding Dorinda. People are standing around, looking at us. “Y’all were so cute!” this girl says to us as she walks out of the theater.

  “Don’t say nothing, Aisha. Can’t you see they’re crying? Leave them alone,” her mother says, grabbing the girl’s arm.

  I look away from them. I don’t care if we never come back here again!

  Daddy pulls up outside the theater in the Bronco. Why couldn’t he pull up down the block where no one could see us? Doesn’t he understand how embarrassed we are? I don’t want people looking at us, then laughing behind our backs.

  I wish we hadn’t worn our costumes here. Then we could have changed back into our street clothes, and no one would have noticed us—the losers. “The Cheetah Girls.”

  I can’t even look Daddy in the face when we get into the car. I try to sit in the back, but Chanel pushes me up front. She and Dorinda are real quiet now, slumped down in the back seat. They don’t say a word.

  “Those boys weren’t that good. I don’t see what all the fuss was about. You girls shoulda won,” Daddy says, to no one in particular.

  “Well, we didn’t,” I say, then sigh.

  This is the worst day of my life. Worse than when Daddy first moved out of the house, and Ma stayed in bed crying for a week. Worse than when Grandma Winnie died from cancer. Worse than when I fell from the swing, and got seven stitches in my knee.

  If you ask me, it doesn’t really look like the Cheetah Girls are meant to be. I mean, we knew it would be hard, but not this hard. Every time we turn around, something is going wrong! “We can’t get a break to save our lives,” as Big Momma would say.

  “Anybody want to go to Kickin’ Chicken?” Daddy asks.

  “No, thank you,” we all say, one by one. I don’t feel hungry at all. I just want to go home and get in bed, and pray to God to help us find some answers.

  “You’re cryin’ all over your costume,” Ms. Dorothea says to Galleria, reaching for a tissue out of her purse.

  “I don’t care about this stupid costume anymore!” Galleria blurts out between sobs.

  We all get real quiet until Daddy stops in front of Dorinda’s house at 116th Street. I feel bad that Dorinda has to live here, with all these people living on top of one another like cockroaches and always getting into each other’s business.

  Dorinda turns to ask Ms. Dorothea one more thing before she closes the car door. “How come they didn’t like us?”

  “They did,” Ms. Dorothea tells her. “But one day, they’re gonna love you. You’ll see. The world is cruel like that sometimes.”

  Ms. Dorothea gets out of the car, and gives Dorinda a big hug, and she doesn’t let go for a long time. Ms. Dorothea looks like a big cheetah, and Dorinda looks like a little cub who is happy to be loved.

  I hope Galleria doesn’t feel jealous. She can be that way. Now she’s acting like she doesn’t even see them hug, and she doesn’t even look up to say good-bye to Dorinda.

  “Come here, cara,” Mr. Garibaldi says to Galleria, then holds a tissue to Galleria’s nose. She blows into it so hard it sounds like a fire engine siren.

  Galleria is such a Daddy’s girl—just like me and Angie—but her dad is a lot nicer than ours. I can’t imagine Mr. Garibaldi getting as mean as Daddy gets sometimes. Now I feel more tears welling up—and these tears have nothing to do with the Cheetah Girls.

  “Can I have one, Mr. Garibaldi?” I ask him, reaching for a tissue.

  “Call me Franco,” Mr. Garibaldi says, smiling at me with tears in his eyes as he hands me a tissue.

  That is so sweet. He feels bad, just ’cuz his baby feels bad. He’s always calling Galleria cara. I think that means baby in Italian. She’s so lucky she gets to speak another language and all. That’s one reason why she and Chanel seem so mysterious to us.

  It gets real quiet again when it’s just us and Daddy in the car. He doesn’t know how to say a lot of things to us. That’s just how he is, ’cuz he has a lot of things on his mind—even though he does seem happier now that he has that girlfriend of his. He sure is crazy about her. Too bad we don’t like her at all! Angie and I hold hands all the way home.

  When we get home, Daddy lets us go right upstairs to bed, without saying anything. Good. I’m too tired now to even try to talk.

  “I’m real proud of you girls,” Daddy calls after us as we climb the stairs to our bedroom.

  “Good night, Daddy,” I say.

  Daddy goes over to the stereo and puts on an LP. He loves this time of night. He likes to sit by himself, and smoke his pipe, and drink brandy while he watches television or listens to some music. He likes to listen to the legends like Miles D
avis, Lionel Hampton, and Coltrane late at night, ’cuz, he says, that’s when you can really hear “the jazz men trying to touch you with their music.”

  “Good night, Daddy,” Angie says, and we continue on upstairs.

  Angie is real quiet as we change into our pajamas. She doesn’t even make any jokes about the shoe boxes in the closet. I wish Mr. Teddy Poodly could come out of his shoe box and dance with us right now. Anything would be better than this misery.

  I go to my shoe box and look at it, then decide to take the Scotch tape off it. If Mr. Teddy Poodly wants to come out and dance, let him—he just better not bother Porgy and Bess, our pet guinea pigs.

  After I throw the Scotch tape in the wastebasket, Angie and I kneel down by our beds. Tonight, it’s Angie’s turn to lead our prayer.

  “God, please help us see why you didn’t let us win the contest tonight,” she says. “If you don’t want us to be singers anymore, please let us know. Just show us the signs. We’ll do real good in school so that we can go to college, like we said. If you don’t want us to quit singing, then please give us strength to do better, so we can stay in New York and not let Ma down.

  “Please look over her in Houston, and Big Momma, and Granddaddy Walker, too, because his blood pressure is acting up, and he didn’t sound too good on the phone. Oh, and please tell us if High Priestess Abala Shaballa is a witch—and if she is, if she is a good witch. Just give us the signs. We’ll understand. Amen.”

  After we say our prayers, Angie and I curl up in our beds. We reach out to each other, and hold hands across the space between—just like we did when we were little, and would get afraid of a lightning storm.

  “I wish Ma was here,” I whisper to Angie.

  “Me, too.”

  “I wish Grandma Winnie was here,” I add, crying.

  “Me, too.”

  And that’s the last thing either of us says before going to sleep.

  The next morning, when I wake up, I feel bad already. That’s when I realize that what happened last night wasn’t just a bad dream—it was a waking nightmare! If somebody came to me right now with an Aladdin’s lamp or something like that, I would wish that last night never happened, even if it meant that Freddy would have to visit me in my dreams.