Oops, Doggy Dog! Page 4

  “Either that or cotton candy,” Aqua retorts, still unsold. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Oh, Mommy, look!” exclaims this little freckled girl, running toward us and pointing at our wigs. “They look so cool! Can I get one?”

  “Okay, you can try one on,” the mother says, beaming.

  See? I want to say to Aqua, Get with the program.

  “Come on, let’s look around,” I say, grabbing Chuchie’s arm. If Aqua wants to rain on our parade, she can do it all by herself. I walk around the store, looking at other stuff, and all the customers comment on our wigs.

  “Are you girls in a show or something?” asks this older lady who is wearing a pink sweater set, pink pumps, pink lipstick. Guess we can tell what her favorite color is!

  “Well, not exactly,” I explain. “We’re in a singing group—the Cheetah Girls.”

  “Is that right? Well, you’re gonna knock ’em dead.” She puts on her bifocals to read the label on the bottle of Pepto-Bismol she has in her hand.

  Aqua walks up in back of us, staring over my shoulder at the bottle of Pepto-Bismol, then blurts out, “That’s what we look like in those wigs—a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, ready to get shaken, stirred, and thrown out of the studio!”

  I refuse to give in to Aqua’s protestations. It’s funny how much more dramatic the twins are than when we first met them. In their case, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!

  “Look, I got the blue one,” the little girl says, running over to us.

  “Blue is you!” I say, smiling warmly even though I’m so mad at Aqua I could scream.

  “It’s my favorite color,” the girl says, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m gonna wear this to school!”

  “No you’re not, dear,” her mother warns her. “It’s just for fun.”

  “Yeah, blue is our favorite color, too,” Aqua says wistfully.

  Oh, now I get it. She thinks we should be wearing blue wigs instead of pink ones. No way, Jose. I’m definitely not feeling blue.

  “Ooh, look, mija, pink false eyelashes!” Chuchie says, grabbing them off a rack.

  “Now, that’s going too far,” I moan.

  “Well, if you ask me, this is going too far!” Aqua says grumpily.

  “Okay, fine!” I snatch the wig off my head. “We’ll go bald, how’s that?”

  “You don’t have to get so dramatic, Galleria,” Aqua says, sucking her teeth and rolling her eyes again.

  “Maybe that’s why Eddie Lizard likes me instead of you!” I blurt out suddenly. Chanel looks at me, shocked. Tooooo bad. I’m tired of pretending like I don’t know what bee Aqua has in her bonnet. The reason why she thinks Eddie Lizard “isn’t worth the bother” is because he likes me, not her!

  “I don’t like Eddie Lizard, so why should I care if he likes you?” Aqua counters. “The way you were sticking to him like a frozen Popsicle, he didn’t stand a chance anyway. No wonder he hasn’t called you!”

  Now I’ve had enough of Aqua’s fluff. I hand the wig back to the salesgirl and thank her. Behind me, I hear Dorinda trying to reason with Angie. “You sure we can’t do this, Aqua? I think they look dope on us.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” Aqua says, determined not to give in. “I’d rather show up at the studio wearing hair rollers. That’s the only thinking pink I’m doing with my big head!”

  I’m almost out the door when I hear Chuchie yell, “Galleria, wait for us!”

  I stand outside, fuming, while they return their pink wigs to the counter.

  “We can still wear pink cheetah tops,” Chuchie offers, giving me a hug.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Aqua says sheepishly.

  “Thank gooseness you like something,” I snap. Then I get down to business, so I can just bounce, and get away from Aqua and her attitude problems. “I guess we’ll see you at the studio at four o’clock tomorrow.” I kiss Chuchie and Dorinda good-bye, then march around the corner to my house.

  Now, I wonder how Aqua knew Eddie Lizard hasn’t called me?

  Chapter

  5

  Before I reach my building, my Miss Wiggy cell phone rings. Oh, please, let this be Eddie Lizard! I answer it with bated breath, but try to sound on the chill tip.

  “Wazzup?”

  I’m soooo disappointed when I hear Mom’s drowsy-sounding voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, darling.” She sounds like she’s on her deathbed.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” I ask, trying to forget about my drama for a second.

  “I feel like the Grim Reaper is raking me over some cobblestone coffins,” she says in a low voice.

  “Mom, that doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Well, read between the lines. I’m coming home, and please don’t play any loud music, hum, or even scribble in that notebook of yours. And have some gingersnap tea ready, with a dollop of fairy snap.”

  “Right, Mom,” I say, finally catching her drift. She’s just acting punchy because she has too much work to do. “Okay, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Why won’t Eddie call me? I wonder, running quickly past Mrs. Brubaker’s apartment door like a scaredy-cat. Now that we’re taking this puppy matter to court, I’ve lost my gumption for giving her a piece of my mind. I hurry inside my apartment, flop down on my cheetah bedspread, let out a deep sigh, and stare at my Miss Wiggy telephone, willing it to ring. I reach over and pick up the receiver, then slam it down. No way, José am I calling Eddie Lizard! Bending over to take off my suede cheetah boots, I notice a big wad of white gum stuck to the left heel.

  “How disgusting!” I yelp to Toto, who is resting on his front paws and looking up at me. Suddenly, I feel guilty for all the times I stuck my used-up wads of Biggies on the bottoms of desks in school, underneath chairs in Micky Dee’s, or railings in subway stations.

  “What kind of ticky-tacky gum is this?” I examine the evidence like an autopsy expert. “This gunk looks like it’s gonna need a blowtorch to get off my heel.” Rifling through my nightstand, I find my favorite Swiss Army knife, sit down at the dining room table, and start scraping the gum off. Then I hear Mom’s keys in the door, and I have to laugh. She’s gonna love this.

  “Hello, darling, is my tea ready? Galleria, what are you doing? Ah, I see your bubble gum charades have finally backfired on you.”

  “It’s not mine!” I protest lamely.

  “That’s even better—maybe now you’ll see how disgusting a habit it really is.” Mom plops down at the table and starts to look through the mail. “And I hope you’re telling the truth, or the cheetah fairy is gonna strike you with her wand.”

  “Yes, I am! A deal is a deal.”

  Mom looks closely at me, because she finally realizes that something is wrong. “And I’m proud of you keeping your side of a bargain. At the end of the day, the only thing you have left is your word. If that’s no good, nothin’ else is.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m not gonna need the money you gave me—thanks to Aqua, Miss Country Hick on a Stick.”

  “Oh. So you’ve had a little drama this afternoon?” Mom walks to the kitchen and picks up the teapot.

  “Oh, I’ll make it for you,” I say, dropping the boot on the floor. “I told you I would.”

  “Good,” Mom says, rubbing her temples. “I need to sit and rest. What a day at the shop!”

  “Busy?”

  “You know what it’s like this time of year.” She massages her brow some more, then says, “So tell all, darling. What happened?”

  “Aqua hated the wig idea,” I moan, getting out the tea bags.

  “If I had a penny for every woman who hated wigs, but secretly envied how fabulous mine looks, I’d be richer than the Supremes,” Mom says, smirking. (The Supremes were the biggest girl group in the sixties, and we’ve watched a lot of their videos.)

  “I thought the Supremes ended up broke,” I say, puzzled.

  “Whatever, darling, I can’t think str
aight right now. Anyway, my whole point is that wigs—not diamonds—are a girl’s best friend, and don’t ever forget it.”

  Best friends. Suddenly I feel sad, because of this beef jerky with Aqua.

  “I hope you still plan on going to the studio,” Mom says suspiciously.

  “Of course. I just feel like Aqua’s trying to stop our flow.” I don’t mention that Aqua is all crushed and mushed over Eddie Lizard. I don’t even want to mention his name right now. “She’s always giving me a hard time about improving our ‘cheetah-ness,’” I explain, leaving out the specifics.

  “Well, have you ever heard the word ‘compromise’?” Mom asks. “If she wouldn’t go for the wigs, why didn’t you girls put your stubborn heads together and try something else?”

  “Why should I—I mean we?” I stammer, but I don’t want to back down. “The wigs are the jointski.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t been so busy trying to get your way, you might have noticed something else in Ricky’s that would make your group ‘growl,’” Mom says, sipping her tea slowly.

  “Whatever,” I mumble under my breath. “Mom, could you go talk to Mrs. Brubaker before you lie down?” I ask, trying to ignore the fact that Mom just dissed me hard.

  “Hmm. All right,” Mom says, getting up slowly. “Come on, then. We might as well do this together.”

  Mom rings Mrs. Brubaker’s doorbell several times, but no one answers it. There’s still time to run.

  “I guess two can play at the same game,” I whisper to my mom, and explain to her what Mrs. Brubaker said earlier.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see who wins this round,” Mom huffs, ringing the bell fifty more times.

  Finally, Mrs. Brubaker yells out from behind the door: “Who’s there?”

  Mom responds very sweetly. “Esther, darling, can we talk to you a second?”

  I almost gag when Mrs. Brubaker flings the door open and invites us in. We haven’t been inside her apartment since before Buffy was born and I was still wearing a little cheetah fur coat and matching hand muffler.

  “Let me move these,” Mrs. Brubaker says, pushing aside three iron sculptures of frogs holding musical instruments. “I just got them, and I’m taking them to my country house this weekend.”

  “Oh.” I stare at the frogs’ bulging glass eyes, and the curly iron antennae on top of their heads. Jeez, Louise, those are some ugly statues! I also wonder what caused Mrs. Brubaker’s change of heart—usually she only talks to us through the crack in the door, like she was guarding Fort Buffy or something.

  Walking into the living room on the powder blue pile rug, I suddenly feel bad for thinking such bad things about Mrs. Brubaker. She probably felt sorry for being so mean to me and Chanel and the rest of our crew, and realized that we should squash this situation like neighbors. Yeah, that’s probably it.

  “Sit down, please,” Mrs. Brubaker says.

  I maneuver my way around a huge brown leather hippopotamus footstool, but I almost trip. “Oh, I didn’t realize there are two,” I say, noticing the little hippo footstool hidden behind the bigger one. I haven’t been in Mrs. Brubaker’s apartment in so long that I forgot how treacherous it is!

  “You all right, Galleria?” Mrs. Brubaker asks, like she’s more concerned about her hippos than me.

  “I’m coo—yes, I’m fine,” I say, catching myself. Sometimes I forget to talk on the regular tip when I’m around adults.

  Sitting on the blue alligator couch, I look around for Buffy. I wonder if all the animal furnishings frighten her, ’cuz they sure frighten me, if you know what I’m saying. Staring down at the wooden coffee table etched in flying salamanders, I notice a keepsake box covered with photos of bichons.

  “That is so cute!” I exclaim, then pick it up to show Mom.

  “I had that made for Buffy’s fifth birthday,” Mrs. Brubaker says nervously, then sits down across from us on an armchair covered with dancing blue elephants.

  “Oh, how did they do that?” Mom asks.

  “It’s called découpage. First they put Buffy’s picture on the wood, then they seal it with special glaze,” she says proudly.

  “Oh, you mean those pictures are Buffy?” I ask in disbelief. Now I’m jealous. How come we don’t have stuff like that with Toto’s picture?

  “Yes, that’s her. A couple in California make them. I’ll give you their number. They also do picture frames—costs a pretty penny, too.” Mrs. Brubaker jumps up and goes into the kitchen, then returns with something wrapped in brown paper.

  “Where’s Buffy?” Mom asks, curious.

  “She’s in the bedroom … resting,” Mrs. Brubaker says, while scribbling down the number on a piece of paper. “Now, I have to show you something. I just got it framed.” Ripping off the brown paper wrapping, Mrs. Brubaker holds up an oil painting of a dog that looks like Buffy.

  “This is Polka Des Brill Mignons, Buffy’s ancestor, in France, around 1944,” Mrs. Brubaker says proudly. “At that time, Buffy’s breed was referred to as Bichon à Poil Frise—a Belgian lap dog related to the Bolognese, the Tenerife dog, and the toy poodle. Look how black his eyes are—round, and not almond like those of his cousin the poodle—and his delicate dark nose, the tail turned back into such an elegant curve.”

  Mrs. Brubaker takes a deep breath for a second, and I figure she’s finished her bichon history lesson. I should have known better.

  “Now perhaps you can see why I was so adamant about Toto not being around Buffy,” Mrs. Brubaker says, smiling first at Mom, then at me. “I was trying to protect her pedigreed lineage. I would have arranged for her to breed with the finest pedigree bichon—when the time was right.”

  “Oh, well, we’re terribly sorry about that, Esther,” Mom says. “God knows Toto’s breed is a mystery to us, since we adopted him from the ASPCA. But he was lost on Park Avenue, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Yes, I know it was not intentional,” Mrs. Brubaker says, pausing, “but it’s all water under the bridge now.”

  “Good, I’m glad. We will certainly give our puppy the finest care, you can rest assured,” Mom says, then puts her hand on top of mine. I’m so relieved that I sink back into the couch.

  “I didn’t say anything about giving you a puppy, Dorothea,” Mrs. Brubaker says, looking surprised.

  I shoot straight up in the couch in disbelief. Okay, I get it. It’s Nightmare on 67th Street, and Mrs. Brubaker is Freddy Krueger with a bad hairdo!

  “Esther, you cannot be serious!” Mom says, the starch rising in her voice like bubbling grits.

  “I cannot let you have any puppies from Buffy’s litter,” Mrs. Brubaker says. “I just explained to you my predicament about her lineage.”

  “No, what you did was show us a ghastly painting,” Mom huffs. “If I’m not mistaken, dogs peed and pooped on the sidewalk even back in France in 1944. Or are you gonna tell me that poor Buffy’s great-grands were also paper-trained and held hostage in an apartment that looked like a safari expedition about to stampede Kmart!”

  “I think this conversation is over,” Mrs. Brubaker says, standing up. “And I hope you’ll be so kind as to leave me and Buffy alone. I told your daughter that this afternoon. I thought I made myself perfectly clear.”

  “Esther, what’s clear is that we’re taking you to family court and letting a judge decide if we’re fit parents for one of Buffy’s puppies.” Mom adjusts the cheetah bangles on her arm carefully. “Maybe I’ll even run to Kmart and get a bichon painting to bring to court!”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Dorothea—you’ll simply be wasting your time,” Mrs. Brubaker says, obviously shocked by Mom’s decision.

  “Oh, but you’re wrong. I like shopping at Kmart,” Mom says indignantly.

  “I mean about taking me to court!” Mrs. Brubaker says impatiently.

  Mom clutches my hand and we both stand up from the couch as she says, “Well, Esther, I guess it’s my time to waste, isn’t it, darling?”

  Chapter


  6

  Mrs. Brubaker’s apartment isn’t the only place crying out for a makeover. The whole vibe at Family Court (which is way downtown near Wall Street) is so gray and dingy—the walls, the floor, the security guards in uniforms—that I start feeling self-conscious about my outfit, a bright pink leopard top and brown leopard miniskirt.

  “Honey, don’t you think that skirt is a little too short to wear to school?” Mom asks me as we’re standing in line to go through the metal detector.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I retort. I’ve decided to wear my cheetah outfit because I have to go straight to school after we file our petition. Then, after school, it’s straight on to Mouse Almighty’s studio on 52nd Street and Ninth Avenue to record our big demo tape!

  “Well, I guess sixteen-inch hemlines is de rigueur with you girls,” Mom sighs. She walks through the metal detector, and of course, it goes off.

  “Take off your jewelry and empty your pockets, ma’am,” the armed security guard says gruffly. “Place everything in the basket.” First Mom takes off her bangles, then her Agatha Paris Terrier charm earrings. Then she fiddles with the clutch on her gold Agatha Paris watch with terrier face. Terriers are Mom’s favorite dog, but she fell in love with Toto because he clung to her shirt when she took him out of his cage at the ASPCA.

  “It’s thief-proof, what can I say?” Mom chortles at the guard, who is staring impatiently, waiting for her to finish.

  Once we get upstairs, there is an equally long line to see the clerk at the front window. Mom explains our situation to the indifferent clerk, who I can tell would rather be on his lunch break.

  “You wanna do what?” the clerk asks Mom in disbelief.

  “File a petition to gain custody of a dog’s litter. Well, one puppy,” Mom says, trying to be patient.

  The clerk ponders the situation, then says slowly, “Well, it’s not exactly parental rights…. Wait, let me get this straight—you want someone to give you their dog?”