It's Raining Benjamins Read online

  But since this is the second time they are going to the Toto in New York factory, they are willing to take a chance. We’re hoping they won’t get on the wrong train and end up back in Houston (their hometown, which has the best Cajun crawfish that side of Texas, if you let them tell it)!

  The first thing we do when we get to the factory is “eat humble pie.” After all, our mission, if we choose to accept it, is to find out what went ka-flooey with our chokers!

  As usual, my madrino is so understanding about the whole catástrofe that he makes us laugh.

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day, my sweet cara.” He chuckles as he greets us.

  “Hi, Mr. Garibaldi,” Dorinda says, smiling. You can tell she likes Madrino a lot, too—but then, who doesn’t?

  Shortly after we get situated, the fabulous Walker twins arrive—in one piece—and ready for a helping of Rosita’s famous baked ziti. Rosita is the head pattern maker at the factory, and every Monday she brings a tray of baked ziti to work.

  “This is goo-ood,” Angie tells Rosita between mouthfuls.

  “We iz so glad nothing happened to our chokers,” Aqua pipes up.

  “Well, that’s because the two of you are just so special,” Bubbles hisses at them jokingly. I give the twins a wink, just to make sure they know Galleria’s joking.

  Rosita is especially happy to see Bubbles. She runs over to her and pinches her cheeks, then runs to the microwave to heat up some more ziti.

  Madrino and his employees always cook big, fat feasts for lunch or dinner if they have to work late, and today is no exception. I feel so at home here, and I’m so used to all the different smells in the factory. First, there’s always a pot of baked ziti or something bubbling in the microwave oven. Then, there’s the sharp smell of cleaning fluid floating around, or the fresh heat from the clothing steamer machines. On top of that is the faint smell of sewing machine oil—because the machines are always purring softly in the background.

  After we eat, Bubbles tries to be patient while her dad shows us how to use the snap contraption the right way.

  “Oh, word,” Dorinda exclaims, opening and closing the snaps on a strip of suede. She is completely fascinated with this contraption. Lucky for the rest of us, too—even after Madrino’s little lesson, Dorinda is the only one of us who can manage to put the snaps on the suede fabric so they don’t look lumpy.

  What’s really bothering me is, why did the letters fall off so easily? “Madrino,” I ask him, “how come the letters don’t stay on? I thought the Wacky Glue was strong enough to hold anything!”

  “Chanel, cara, you cannot always believe the advertisements!” Mr. Garibaldi tries to explain.

  “I think Mr. Garibaldi means ‘don’t believe the hype’,” Dorinda says knowingly.

  “Si, cara, that’s right,” Madrino says. Clasping his fingers together in order to demonstrate, he says, “In order for the fabric to hold the letters, you should sew two strips of the choker together—stitching it around here.” He shows us with a strip of fabric. “Then use a glue like Duco to put the letters on. That Wacky Glue stuff is for amateurs.”

  Wow. This whole choker thing is gonna take a lot more work than we thought!

  “Don’t worry, Bubbles. Maybe by next year, we’ll be able to make the chokers by ourselves!” Angie jokingly tells Bubbles. But I don’t think Bubbles finds it funny, because she has her mouth stuck out. The rest of us just keep quiet while Madrino continues with his demonstration.

  Maybe next semester I should sign up for Accessories Workshop…. I think that’s what Derek was really trying to say—that we should really learn how to do something before we jump into the “players’ pond,” as Bubbles calls it. Derek sure made his point when he threw the metal letters on the floor! I’ll never forget Bubbles’s face when he did that!

  “Okay, now we’ve got six chokers to sell,” Bubbles says as we head back to Manhattan on the subway together. “But we’d better come back another time and make some more chokers—just to be on the safe side.”

  “Tutti frutti wit’ me,” jokes Aqua, as she gives us all a big hug. The twins are off to have dinner with their father and his girlfriend, High Priestess Abala Shaballa Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, or whatever her name is.

  Abala claims she is a high priestess from some faraway place in Hexagonia, where cuckoos come from. I guess she must be telling the truth, because she is as cuckoo as they come—and I am used to brujería, santería, oju, and any other kind of witchcraft you can think of, because I’m Dominican, está bien? And we’ve got it all down there!

  Anyway, the twins, their dad, and the High Priestess are all going to Mr. Walker’s new boss’s house, so they have to get home on time. Mr. Walker just started this big new job in marketing. He is working on some new roach spray campaign—or maybe it’s fleas … I can’t remember.

  “What you up to this afternoon, Miss Chanel?” Angie asks me. “You working at Toto?”

  I work at Madrina’s store three afternoons a week, until I can pay Mom back for the money I “borrowed” on her card. But Monday afternoons I’m free. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m hanging around the house all day and night. I’ve got other things going—with me, it’s always something.

  “I’m running in the Junior Gobbler Race next week, and I’ve gotta train for it,” I explain. Of course, I know everybody is gonna start laughing at me as soon as they get wind of this, but that’s okay—está bien. Let them laugh.

  “What on earth is the Junior Gobbler Race?” Angie wants to know. She’s holding on to a pole with one hand as the subway car rocks back and forth. With her free hand, she’s cleaning her teeth with a toothpick.

  “It’s a race for kids in Central Park,” I explain. “You’re gonna stab yourself with that toothpick. Cut it out—you’re making me crazy!”

  “How old you gotta be to run in the race?” Angie asks, putting away the toothpick, gracias gooseness.

  “They have two divisions for kids,” I explain. “The race for the little kids is five blocks. For kids ten to fourteen years old, it’s about one mile.” I’m hoping the twins will run the race with me. But no—the only thing they like about turkey is eating it.

  “We would love to come running with you—but tonight is very important for our daddy,” Aqua explains. “You know he got that new marketing job, and he is working real hard coming up with a new bug spray campaign.”

  “I hope his boss ain’t got no roaches in his house!” Angie adds.

  “Not everybody has got roaches here, Aqua and Angie!” Dorinda exclaims, offended. I guess Dorinda is embarrassed because the Boscos’ apartment does have roaches. We never told Dorinda, but when we were at her house, Aqua got real upset when she saw all the roaches in her kitchen. “Who invited them to the party,” I remember her saying.

  “Dorinda, do you want to come running with me today?” I ask, putting my arm around her shoulders. She is kinda athletic, like me, and she is the best dancer in the group—even though she never studied ballet, like I did.

  “What do you get if you win?” Dorinda asks.

  “A ten-pound turkey!” I say, giggling. Dorinda loves to eat, and Dios knows her family could use a big, fat turkey, to feed all those hungry foster kids.

  I wonder if Mrs. Bosco cooks a big meal for Thanksgiving, like we do? Maybe we should invite Dorinda to spend Thanksgiving with us … Me and Mom usually go over to Bubbles’s house to eat. Madrina cooks enough food to feed Cuba. I guess there’d be enough for Mrs. Bosco and her whole houseful!

  “Okay,” Dorinda says shrugging her shoulders. “We have to run anyway, for our exercise program, right? I might as well try to win the turkey.”

  “Yep,” I say, looking at Bubbles to see how she reacts. See, Madrina has us all on a program. For one thing, we have to run—three times a week, to build endurance. This will also help keep our vocal cords in shape, she tells us. It’s like a stamina thing, so when we perform we don’t get tired, entiendes? And so we have enough breath po
wer to hit all the high notes. Mom usually runs with us since she loves to exercise.

  Bubbles doesn’t care, though. She hates running. I remember when Mom went away to Paris with Mr. Tycoon, Bubbles convinced all of us Cheetah Girls to slack off from our running training. When Mom got back, she was pretty annoyed at all of us!

  When Dorinda and I get off the subway at my stop, Bubbles throws me a kiss good-bye, winks, and says, “Gobble, gobble, Miss Cuchifrita!”

  * * *

  As usual, Pucci is home watching television. Since his birthday is on Saturday, I’m trying to be nice to him, but that sure takes a lot of patience. When he comes out of his room, I ask him, “Pucci, you wanna train with me for the Junior Gobbler race?”

  “No, stupid, I’m a Cuckoo Cougar!” He snipes at me, shooting an imaginary machine gun, then plops down at the kitchen table with a chocolate chip cookie and a glass of milk. In two seconds, there’s a huge stain on his fighter-pilot T-shirt.

  “Wipe your shirt, you bugaboo,” I hiss at him. Pucci is right about one thing—he’s cuckoo, all right.

  “He’s always watching that stupid cartoon on television,” I explain to Dorinda as we change into our running shoes. “Now he’s even talking about starting a Cougar Club in school!”

  At least he looks cuter now that he’s starting to let his hair grow back. “Bubbles used to call Pucci ‘Eight ball,’” I tell Dorinda, “because he looked so funny with a bald head.”

  “Where’s your mom?” Dorinda asks, kinda motioning me to get up the nerve and pop the Pucci question to her.

  “Probably in the den,” I say, making a comical grimace in response. “I’ll go see. I’d better talk to her while I still have the nerve to ask her about Pucci’s pet.” I mouth the last two words silently, motioning to the other room where my poot-butt brother is. He has ears like an elephant, he’s so nosy.

  To help support my case with Mom, I unzip my cheetah backpack and take out the book on African pygmy hedgehogs.

  “Oink, oink,” I say, giggling, to Dorinda. “Wait here.”

  Bending around the corner of our loft apartment, I pad quietly to the den, and see Mom seated in front of the computer. I haven’t seen her working at the computer for quite some time. Not since her book about the history of black models—They Shoot Models, Don’t They?—was published this fall … and flopped. Well, it didn’t exactly “flop,” but Mom wasn’t happy with the reviews she got, if you catch my meaning. As she puts it, “What do critics know about models, anyway?”

  “Qué tú haces, Mamí?” I ask her curiously. “What’cha doin’?”

  “Oh, I’m trying to get my thoughts together for this new book idea I have, about the rise and fall of oil tycoons and their girlfriends. It’s called, It’s Raining Tycoons,” Mom says, running her fingers through her ponytail.

  “‘It’s Raining Tycoons,’” I repeat, amused, wondering where she would get the inspiration for something like that! (That’s a joke—una broma, está bien?) “I like that, Mamí. Are you gonna write it?”

  Mom looks at me, really annoyed. I feel like a babosa. I’m supposed to be nice to her so she’ll let me pick out a pet for Pucci—not get on her nerves! See, I’m not supposed to know Mamí used a ghost writer—not that kind of ghost but someone who helps with writing a book. I have such a boca grande! What a big mouth!

  “I’m looking at several writers, actually,” she says, sniffing. “But who knows? I may actually do more work on this one. You know what they say—if you want something done right, do it yourself.”

  “Está bien!” I say, smiling. “Um, Mamí … ’member what you said about getting Pucci a Chihuahua for his birthday?”

  “Yes, I remember that—and you can forget it!” Mom says curtly.

  Now I can feel my cheeks turning five shades of red. I start stammering, “Pero—”

  “But, nada,” Mom says, finishing my sentence for me. “End of discussion!”

  As a last resort, I shove the book into Mom’s hand. I know she can’t resist something as cute as these little creatures, any more than anybody else can. I just know it. “Aren’t they cute?” I say, kinda casual.

  “Qué es esto?” Mom asks, but she doesn’t seem amused. “What are these things?”

  “They’re hedgehogs?” I answer, like I’m asking a question.

  “And what is that?” Mom asks in a softer tone. I take the bait, because I figure maybe she’ll listen to me now.

  “They’re animals you can have, like, um, a little pet,” I explain. “Much easier than a dog!”

  “They look like porcupines,” Mom retorts.

  “No, Mamí, they’re not porcupines. Their closest relatives are moonrats. Um, they’re members of a group of animals known as insectivora,” I respond, trying to sound smart, like Dorinda.

  “Hmmm. They’re very cute,” Mom says, then hands me back the book.

  “They are, right?” I ask, my eyes brightening, because now I know I’ve got a fighting chance! “Maybe we could get one for Pucci for his, um, birthday?”

  “No!” she says, annoyed. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? After you get tired of playing with this whatever-it-is, the only person who is gonna end up taking care of it is me.”

  I am so mad at her, I could shake her! NO!—that’s all she ever says to anything I want!

  “Está bien,” I moan, feeling completely defeated. “I’m going running with Dorinda.”

  Storming out of the den, I realize that I didn’t even ask her what she is getting Pucci for his birthday. I don’t even care anymore! Whatever it is, she’s not telling, and I’m not going to ask her. And I guess I’m supposed to be getting him nada—since all I have is nada money.

  Dorinda takes one look at my face, and she knows what time it is. Time to run and run and run….

  “Don’t be mad at your mom, Chanel,” Dorinda says, trying to console me, as we cross the intersection of Forty-second Street and First Avenue.

  I look over at the United Nations building, with all the hundreds of countries’ flags blowing in the wind. They look so pretty…. I look for the flags of the Dominican Republic and Cuba—Abuela’s and Daddy’s countries.

  Then I turn away, and think about what I’m going to get Pucci for his birthday “I can’t think of anything else to get him,” I moan to Dorinda. “No more of those stupid Whacky Babies, that’s for sure. If he gets one more of those things, I’m throwing them all out of the window!”

  “You’re buggin’,” Dorinda says, smiling because she understands. I don’t know how she puts up with all those foster brothers and sisters of hers. I would go cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I guess having just one brother isn’t so bad—even if that brother is as big a pain as Pucci!

  Chapter

  6

  After Dorinda goes home, all the way “uptown, baby,” I shower and change into some clean clothes, but I’m still fuming about Mom and her selfishness. She was just trying to show off in front of Madrina and my crew that day in the store. Why else would she have said she was gonna let us get a Chihuahua if she didn’t really mean it?

  I put on my favorite red wool skirt with the big gold safety pin, a red turtleneck, and tights. I pick up the receiver of the red princess phone in my bedroom and call my dad’s girlfriend, Princess Pamela, to let her know I’m on my way to her Psychic Palace.

  She’s taking the braids out of my hair tonight, even though my mother doesn’t know it. By the time I hang up the receiver, I’m giggling my head off, because Princess Pamela always makes me laugh. She’s so sweet to me.

  That’s when I decide to wear the Tiffany diamond earring studs Princess Pamela gave me as a present. Mom almost cracked her facial mask the first time she saw them sparkling in my earlobes. She made me swear that I would never take any more presents from Princess Pamela.

  Well, maybe I will, and maybe I won’t. I mean, Mom doesn’t keep her word, so why should I, está bien? She promised to get me—I mean Pucci—a Chihuahua, and now she won’t e
ven get him a pygmy hedgehog!

  I go to my musical jewelry box, and take out the little blue box I keep hidden in the bottom. Inside the little box are the tiny diamond studs. I hold them up to the light, admiring them—the most beautiful things I own—then I stick them in my ears.

  Just because Mom doesn’t want a pet, why shouldn’t Pucci have one? Mom uses the excuse that she’s “allergic to animals,” and that she’ll have to take care of it all by herself—but I don’t believe her about either one. She’s just being selfish. I’ll bet if Mr. Tycoon bought her a poodle or something as a present, she would be cooing like a coconut, all the way from here to Paree—aka Paris, France!

  I go into the kitchen to get some orange juice. I don’t even care if Mom sees that I’m wearing the diamond studs.

  Pucci bounces into the kitchen. “You’d better not drink my Burpy Soda,” he says, flinging open the refrigerator and grabbing a can.

  “I don’t even want your stupid soda, burphead,” I grumble. Mom lets Pucci order Burpy Soda off the Internet, but what he really needs is a muzzle. I hope she gets him one for his birthday!

  “Daddy’s coming on Saturday for my birthday,” Pucci brags, then starts dancing around.

  “Aren’t you lucky?” I say, grimacing. What I wish is that Princess Pamela could come over here with Daddy and Abuela—but that’s never gonna happen, because Mom would get so upset her face would crack, and she’d have to get a face-lift!

  “I wonder what Papí got me for my birthday,” Pucci says, raising his eyebrows like el diablo and making faces.

  “I’m sure it’s something muy preciosa, Pucci,” I say, putting away the orange juice before I pour it over his head. “Bye, Mamí, wherever you are,” I yell, as I head out the door, and over to Princess Pamela’s Psychic Palace, which happens to be just around the corner. (That’s how Dad met her—he went over there for a haircut and a palm reading one day when he was sick and tired of fighting with Mom.)

  Now I feel like a babosa. Why was I feeling guilty about going to Princess Pamela’s to get my braids taken out?