Bring It On! Page 5

  “Have you ordered?” asks the woman behind us in the line, startling me out of my numbness.

  “I got this,” Galleria says, ordering for us. “Chuchie, take Do’ to a table.”

  Chanel takes my arm as we walk to an empty table. I plop down into a chair and stare into space. All of a sudden, my mouth starts quivering uncontrollably as I lose it.

  Chanel puts her arms around me. “Oh, mija, what happened?”

  “They’re gonna take Corky,” I moan into her fluffy pink sweater.

  Chanel holds me tight. I hear people mumbling around me. One of the voices I recognize—it’s Daisy Duarte from school. She is whispering to Chanel, “What’s wrong with her?”

  Chanel answers Daisy in Spanish. Now I feel embarrassed. Galleria plunks down the trays for us. Eyeing the burgers covered in chili sauce, I realize that I’m definitely not hungry.

  “They’re taking Corky away,” Chanel tells Galleria.

  “They’re giving him back to a man who hangs around playgrounds?” Galleria asks dramatically. Galleria pauses, then blurts out, “Mrs. Bosco should fight them.”

  I just stare at Galleria.

  “Look, Do’, if there is anything I learned from that custody battle with Mrs. Brubaker over Buffy’s litter, it’s this—anything is possible if you fight for what you believe in,” Galleria says, trying to help me. But she just doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know anything about dealing with the foster-care system.

  “It’s not like that. All Ms.—I mean, all your mom had to do is file a claim in family court. It’s not like foster care,” I try to explain to Galleria.

  “Then we had to go down there before the judge,” Galleria adds quickly.

  “I know—but you didn’t need a lawyer or anything,” I say.

  “Oh—so tell Mrs. Bosco to get a lawyer,” Galleria insists.

  “She can’t afford a lawyer—and she can’t use those lawyers from ACS because they’re working for the system,” I explain.

  “Well, there has to be something she can do,” Galleria says, like she isn’t trying to hear me. “Why does she have to do everything they tell her to do? We’re calling my mom about this. This may not be official Cheetah Girls’ business, but she knows everything.”

  Before I can stop Galleria, she has whipped out her cell phone and is calling Ms. Dorothea, which makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t want Ms. Dorothea to think that I told Galleria to call or anything. I can handle my own business.

  “Mom—well tell her to hang on to her knickers. We’ve got a situation here,” Galleria says firmly to whomever answered the phone.

  “Mom, you gotta help us,” Galleria insists, then recounts the whole story blow by blow to her. Ms. Dorothea says something that upsets Galleria. “I’m not interfering, Mom, I just want to know what you think!” Galleria yells at her mother excitedly. “Okay, okay I’ll tell her.”

  Galleria snaps her Miss Wiggy cell phone shut tight like a Venus flytrap.

  “Mom says Mrs. Bosco should take legal action and get a lawyer,” Galleria says.

  “Well, that’s not going to happen, because she can’t afford a lawyer,” I say, staring down at my plate of food. “She barely gets enough money from foster care to take care of us.” Suddenly, I realize this is probably going to be the worst birthday I’ve ever had. I burst into tears thinking about it. “Corky is not going to be here for my birthday!”

  “Whatever happens, we are spending your birthday together, está bien?” Chanel says, looking directly at me.

  I know that the lunch period is almost over, and I feel bad for taking up all the time with this drama. “You’d better eat, Chanel.”

  “I am!” she says.

  I didn’t mean to make it sound like Chanel was trying to diet on the sneak tip again, like she did with that carrot diet disaster. But I guess she is still sensitive about it. Chanel fainted in gym class and turned orange from that escapade.

  I pick up my chili burger and start eating, but it might as well be newspaper, for all I care. I’ve known Corky since he was a baby in diapers. I can’t stand the thought of losing him.

  “This really sucks, Do’,” Chanel says, putting her arms through mine as we walk back to school. I nod my head and let my feet walk me to next period.

  “Tell me the name of your ten brothers and sisters again,” Galleria asks, like she’s got an agenda.

  “Um, lemme see,” I say, pausing like I can’t remember.

  Chuchie chuckles. “I know their names! There’s Chantelle, Twinkie, um, Monie—she’s the mean one—and Topwe—his name is a vegetable in African something or other.”

  “Arba—I remember her name because it sounds like Abba.” Galleria chuckles.

  Abba is a big singing group from back in the day. I think they were from Sweden or someplace like that.

  “Oh, Kenya, like can ya get a groove. Then Nestor—sounds like Nestle’s Crunch—and Shawn, which rhymes with fawn.” All of a sudden, Galleria whips out her Kitty Kat notebook—the one she uses for writing down lyrics for songs.

  “What happened?” Chanel asks, amused.

  “I’m just riffing,” Galleria says. Her brain is obviously percolating on some project.

  “Who else is there?”

  “Gaye, she’s staying with us until they find another home for her—or maybe somebody in her family claims her,” I add. “And, of course, my boo, Corky.”

  “I’m meditating on the situation,” Galleria says, satisfied. “But let’s go to class before we get expelled.”

  “Word,” I moan. I wonder what Galleria is up to, but right now I feel too sad to think about it. Remember what I said earlier about God? Well, I take it back: God may love puppies and Big Bird—and probably Miss Wiggy—but God doesn’t care at all about kids who end up in foster care.

  Chapter

  5

  After school, I feel so guilty about not going straight home, my left eye starts twitching. But Mrs. Bosco is right. There is nothing I can do that will change the Corky drama, so why should I miss out on shopping with my crew?

  “The whole situation is just so foul,” I tell Chanel as we stand outside the Girlie Show Boutique waiting for Aqua and Angie to join us.

  “When is he leaving?” Chanel asks, flapping her pink mitts together to keep warm.

  “We don’t know yet because they have to do the paperwork and everything,” I explain sadly. To cheer myself up, I stare inside the store window, checking out the Girlie mannequin that is wearing pink metallic hip-huggers and a tight crop top with the words “The Girlie Show” scribbled across the front.

  “Hey, y’all!” yells Aqua as she turns the corner.

  “Watch out!” Angie screams, because Aqua almost trips over a dog leash belonging to a not-so-friendly-looking Doberman pinscher. The lady was walking so fast, the poor dog didn’t have enough time to catch up to its owner.

  “Where is the fire, that’s all I’m asking,” Aqua says, shaking her head at the lady as she walks up to the boutique and hugs Chanel.

  “Coco says hi!” Galleria giggles to Aqua, referring to the adorable pooch the twins were awarded from the Buffy custody battle. For now, Coco is staying with Galleria until she is properly housebroken, because the twins father, Mr. Walker, wouldn’t allow any eau dé pee scent in his kitchen.

  “Prada said buy!” quips Chanel, whipping out the Girlie Show Boutique Shoportunity Card and waving it around, squealing.

  “Calm down, Chuchie—you’re screaming like a nutty contestant on The Price Is Right!” yelps Galleria.

  “Well, I’m sorry, mamacita, but I feel like one, está bien?” counters Chanel.

  “Will you please get Chanel inside before she goes into shopping withdrawal,” Aqua says, laying on her Southern accent.

  Galleria opens the hot-pink wrought-iron door of the Girlie Show Boutique for us like we’re royalty. Walking in last, I take in the interior design like I’m on a mission. “Wow, this is tight,” I say in awe, ogling the
hot-pink-and-black interior of the store. “This is definitely a dope setup. No doubt.” Of course, my boutique would have more orange, brown, and green shades in the interior—like a happy forest.

  “This reminds me of Princess Pamela’s place,” Aqua says, pointing at the gigantic flashy disco ball hanging from the ceiling.

  “Yeah,” Chanel says, smiling. Princess Pamela is her stepmother. She lives with Chanel’s Dad, and she owns three Princess Pamela joints in Manhattan. For a special treat, Chanel snagged us some free pampering sessions at Princess Pamela’s Psychedelic Palace uptown. I really dug it—except for the little trick the Cheetah Girls pulled on me. They made the spa technician trap me in this cellulite contraption so they could sneak out and plan my adoption party at my house. No, I’m not adopted, because Mrs. Bosco didn’t understand the procedure, okay? But the surprise adoption party made me feel special.

  “Disco will never die!” Chanel says wistfully.

  “Disco did die, Chuchie—right on the Billboard charts, in 1980, so let it go, please,” Galleria says, giggling, sounding more and more like our manager, Ms. Dorothea, every day.

  A salesgirl wearing a pink flowered micro miniskirt, with a black fishnet crop top, walks up to us with a friendly smile. “Hi there, ladies, let me know if I can help you.”

  “We will!” Chanel says, all hyped up. She loves it when someone calls her a “lady.”

  “Hey, listen up, chicklets—let’s remember that this is all about Dorinda, okay?” Galleria says, combing through the dress rack. “Oh! I got the beginning of a jammy. What do you think?” Galleria whips out her Kitty Kat notebook and turns to a page, then starts riffing: “Let me tell ya about a cheetah named Dorinda Do’ Re Mi/She’s bursting at the seams with her dreams and leads her own family posse/That’s right y’all there’s ten little Indians she tries to keep in line/Starting with Shawn the fawn who is on like popcorn even though he’s shy and just turned nine/Then there’s a little tottie tottie who blabbers like Abba but don’t forget the R and to call her little Arba…”

  “That’s what you were doing in history class today?” Chanel asks, dumbfounded.

  “Well, I got bored! Mr. Hunnicut needs to step up that patter on the Pilgrims,” Galleria protests, closing the notebook. “But at least that’s where I got the idea about the ten little Indians.”

  “What does the nursery rhyme have to do with the Mayflower settlers?” counters Aqua.

  “Nothing, but that’s how my mind works—it cross-pollinates, like a true artist,” Galleria boasts, then switches gears again: “Okay, Do’—let’s get something that really says, ‘It’s your birthday.’ It’s your birthday! We’re gonna party like it’s your birthday!”

  “Oooh, what about this?” Aqua asks, pulling out a brown jumper decorated with a “Hello Kitty” pink appliqué on the front.

  “Hello Kitty,” Galleria says, looking at the jumper carefully, then sticking it back on the rack: “Good-bye, Kitty!”

  “Look, I don’t need an outfit for that, um—” I start in because I’m feeling embarrassed about all the attention on my birthday. I still haven’t even told my crew that I’m only going to be thirteen!

  “Sorry, Do’, but your birthday is a done deal-io big deal,” Galleria says, still rifling through the dress rack.

  Chanel is the one, though, who finds the cuddly-prize: “Ay, Dios—it’s another puppy chulo!” she says, holding up a fuzzy pink cheetah sweater top with a white poodle appliqué in front.

  “How come there’s never anything with a bichon frise on it?” Galleria asks, squinching up her nose. “Don’t they know that bichon frises and Cheetah Girls go together like corn on the cob!”

  “Corn is born on the cob, Miss Galleria, it didn’t just get up one morning and decide to get in cahoots with the yellow kernels!” Angie says, grimacing and eyeing the pink sweater like it’s Pepto-Bismol.

  “Well, you get my drift, Miss Aquanette,” Galleria says, feeling the fuzz on the pink sweater. “Now this is something to bark about. Is this cheetah-licious or what?”

  Galleria sees the look on Aqua’s face and goes, “Uh, oh, don’t tell me I’m having déjà vu again.” She is imitating Fantasia, the receptionist at Churl, It’s You!, the hair salon where they all went to get their hair straightened for the “Can We Get A Groove” competition. (I couldn’t do it because I didn’t have the duckets.)

  “Oh, I got you,” I say, finally realizing where Galleria is going with this scenario. Aqua and Angie weren’t down with Galleria’s last big idea—wearing pink wigs from Ricky’s Urban Groove.

  “I’m sorry, Galleria, but we were not brought up to think pink, okay?” Aqua says, defending herself and Angie.

  “That’s right, we’re Texas girls, which means we’re always ready to ride with our spurs on,” adds Angie, accentuating her words with her juicy lips, which are extra shiny from the Very Berry lip gloss she usually wears.

  “Well, now that you’re in the Big Apple—why don’t you consider forgetting about spurs, and hail taxis instead?” Galleria challenges, then puts on a majordomo pout.

  Angie and Aqua give each other that “twin” look we are used to seeing (it involves a double set of eyeballing and neck rolling). “All right, we’ll try it on—that is, if they have it in our size,” Aqua says, scrutinizing the sweater like it’s small enough to fit Pebbles from The Flintstones.

  “This one here looks like it’ll fit Dorinda, but not us,” Angie says, holding up the fluffy pink sweater.

  Galleria whips through the rack like a prizefighter ready to go another round.

  The flower-power salesgirl is on our tail again: “Can I help you ladies?” she asks.

  “Yes,” Galleria says. “Do you have this cheetah-licious sweater in a bigger size?”

  “Do you mean large?” the girl asks, smiling.

  “No—I mean extra large,” quips Galleria.

  Aqua rolls her eyes again.

  “Um, yes, I’ll go look for it,” says the salesgirl. “I like that word—cheetah-licious!”

  “That’s us,” retorts Galleria, and waits patiently for the salesgirl to return.

  By now we notice that two girls stationed at the skirt rack have been eyeing us for a few minutes. “Omigod—are you the Cheetah Girls?”

  “In the flesh—ready to pounce on a purchase,” Gallleria says playfully.

  “Omigod, we saw you in the talent show. You were awesome!” The blond girl in the hot-pink fur jacket giggles. She has a really cute Southern accent, like Aqua’s and Angie’s.

  “Really?” Galleria asks, trying to place her.

  “Yeah, you were so-o-o-o much better than those other girls in the cheetah outfits,” says the blond girl in the blue fur jacket. “We were rooting for you.”

  She is referring to the Fabulation Girls, who were biting our cheetah flavor and performed at the “Can We Get A Groove” competition, too.

  “Now we put a cheetah outfit on our dog, too!” exclaims the blond in the blue jacket.

  “What kind of dog do you have?” Chanel asks excitedly.

  “A pit bull,” blondie-in-blue retorts.

  “Oooh, how ferocious, mija,” Chanel chuckles.

  “We’re up here staying with our dad until after New Year’s. Muffin, our dog, lives with him now,” explains blondie-in-pink.

  “We live with our dad—permanently,” Aqua says, nodding her head as though they have something in common.

  The girls nod back because they are talking about the same thing—having parents who are divorced.

  “Where y’all from?” asks Angie.

  “Um, Cartersville, Georgia—our dad’s next door waiting for us to finish shopping. He hates shopping with us,” blondie-in-pink laughs. “Oh, I’m Destinee and this is my sister, Savannah.”

  “Word, you two look like twins,” I say, surprised. I wonder if they’re singers, too. Maybe that’s why they came to the talent show.

  As if reading my mind, Destinee blurts out, “Ma
ybe one day we’ll be like you—I mean, we sing and all, but we aren’t professional yet.”

  “Well, we aren’t all that professional either,” Aqua says, sucking her teeth.

  Galleria pokes Aqua in the side like she’s using a cattle prod.

  “Don’t mind her, she’s having a bad day.” Galleria giggles. “We are definitely down for the twirl. And we’ve been in the studio with Mouse Almighty, working on a demo.”

  “Omigod, he worked with Karma’s Children, we love them!” Savannah says excitedly.

  Aqua grimaces. Karma’s Children is the hottest group from Houston, their hometown. “Yeah, we got to perform in the ‘Houston Helps its Own’ benefit,” Angie explains.

  “Omigod you got to perform with them?” Destinee asks in disbelief.

  “Uh, no. But we were one of the opening acts,” Galleria says, and now she’s grimacing. After the Houston benefit, we tried everything except “abracadabra” in order to get backstage and snag an autograph and photo op with Karma’s Children.

  “That sweater is so-o-o adorable,” Savannah says chirpily.

  “Um—it’s Dorinda’s birthday, so we’re getting an outfit for her party,” Galleria says boldly.

  My party? I feel my face getting warm.

  “How old are you going to be?” Savannah asks.

  Now I think I’m going to faint.

  Well, I guess it’s as good a time as any to stop with the fib-eronis. “Um, thirteen,” I say without blinking.

  Galleria, Chanel, Aqua, and Angie all turn their heads to look at me like they just got a bad case of whiplash.

  “We can’t wait till we’re thirteen!” Destinee says. “My birthday is in March. Savannah’s in July.”

  We all stand there quiet for a long minute.

  “Um, yeah, that sweater should look great on all of you,” Savannah says, eyeing us more carefully. I can tell she is trying to figure out what’s going on.

  “The red cheetah outfits you wore were totally awesome—but you should wear pink onstage. That would be even more awesome. Well, that’s what we think, anyway,” Destinee says, shrugging her shoulders and glancing at Savannah, who nods her head in agreement.