Dorinda Gets a Groove Page 6

  “Rita, there’s a whole lot of kids like you in the world, and I guess she’s trying to help, because she’s famous and people will listen to her.” Mrs. Bosco motions for Twinkie to come closer, so she can smooth down her hair. Twinkie’s hair is always flying all over the place like a pinwheel or something. “If there were enough homes for foster kids, then she wouldn’t have to ask people to take them in, but Lord knows those people running the agencies can barely tie their own shoelaces!”

  Mrs. Bosco doesn’t like dealing with the foster care agency, because she thinks they’re kinda disorganized.

  “If they paid those people enough money, then I’ll bet they’d find homes for every child,” Mrs. Bosco goes on, like she’s just getting started. “They don’t mind paying these people all kinds of money on television just to act stupid.”

  “Okay, Twinkie, it’s time for bed,” I say, kissing her good night. I decide not to tell her about Tiffany’s parents and The Butterfly Foundation—yet. I don’t want to get her hopes up, and then find out I can’t really bring her there.

  Now that Mrs. Bosco and I are alone, I ask her about doing the time-line project for my sociology class.

  “Well,” Mrs. Bosco chuckles, “I have a hard enough time remembering what happened yesterday, let alone forty years ago, but I guess I could try.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” I say, because I know she likes me to call her that. “I’ll probably start it next week.”

  “That’ll be something telling you about all my kin—there’s a whole lot of us still down in North Cadilakky,” Mrs. Bosco chuckles, making fun of her home state, North Carolina. “Believe me when I tell you, when you have a little kin, you should pay some mind to keeping them around.”

  “Yeah,” I say turning around and smiling because I know what Mrs. Bosco is getting at—that I should be happy my sister Tiffany found me. Right now, though, I’d better at least see if my crew is in the chat room, so I can ask them about hearing Tiffany sing.

  First I go into Rita’s bedroom, to take a look at Gaye. It’s hard for me to imagine her sleeping, after all that drama she caused last night. I tiptoe closer, and see her curled up in a ball, with her thumb stuck in her mouth. She seems kinda old to be doing that, but I guess that’s all she has that she can call her own. I wonder what she likes—maybe she likes teddy bears, like Arba does. Or butterflies, like Twinkie. Or DIVA dolls, like Kenya. All of a sudden, I feel excited about getting to know Gaye. Maybe it won’t be so bad having her here.

  “Good night, Doreety,” Twinkie says, imitating the way Arba says my name. Arba is from Albania, and she has her own way of talking. I look over at Arba, and see her long, dark hair spread but on the pillow, and her favorite teddy bear sleeping next to her.

  As I walk into the bedroom that I share with Monie and Chantelle, I see Monie sitting at my computer. Why did she have to come home tonight? I want to tell her to go talk on the phone or something, like she always does. I need to check my e-mail, and see if any of the Cheetah Girls are in the Phat Planet chat room.

  Why is she always hogging my computer? When our super, Mr. Hammer, gave me the computer, Mrs. Bosco said that I should share it with Monie and Chantelle. Well, I don’t want to!

  “Are you gonna be a long time?” I ask, hoping Monie doesn’t give me a hard time.

  “Nah, I just gotta finish this letter for my nurse’s aide application,” she says, taking her bubble gum out of her mouth and twirling it around her finger, then putting it back in.

  “Everybody in the building’s heard about Gaye, so I thought I’d better come home and help Mrs. Bosco if she needed it,” Monie says without turning her head. “I saw the thing on the news about her, too.”

  “Yeah, I heard about it—she was really on the news?” I ask, curious.

  “No, Dorinda, she wasn’t on the news—they were just talking about her. They showed her picture, and left a number if anybody had information, that type of thing,” Monie says, getting an attitude.

  “Oh. That’s what Ms. Keisha said.”

  “What would Ms. Keisha know? She can’t even get a job.”

  I guess now that Monie is applying for a nurse’s aide position, she thinks someone is gonna hire her with that nasty attitude? If you ask me, she might as well head down to the unemployment line, and fill out an application early, you know what I’m saying?

  “You gonna get a job?” I ask, curious to see what she’s gonna say. I can’t imagine her being anybody’s nurse’s aide. She didn’t even know what to do when Mrs. Bosco got a bronchitis attack last winter. I was the one to call for an ambulance to take her to the hospital. Monie just stood around, acting all scared. I’d be scared to see Monie with a thermometer, trying to take someone’s temperature—she’d probably stick the patient in the eye with it or something!

  “I don’t know, Dorinda, but I’m sure gonna do something to get outta here, that’s all I know,” she snorts at me. “There. I’m finished. Go on and use the computer.”

  I feel angry that she doesn’t say your computer, but I don’t say anything, because I don’t want to get into a fight with her. I decide to go into the Phat Planet chat room first, because somebody from my crew is probably there. Knowing Chanel, she probably needs someone to talk to, sitting up there in bed with her ankle elevated on a pillow, or getting treated to an ice pack on her butt!

  The first person I see, typing madly in the chat room, is supa-tasty “LimpCutie.” I should have known Tiffany wouldn’t have wasted any time hogging up the chat room! Why did I even tell her about it? Of course, Tiffany recognizes my log-on name, “Uptown Hoodie”—and I can almost hear her squealing with delight, just by her greeting.

  UPTOWN HOODIE—IT’S ME, HANGING WITH THE POSSE!

  HI, LIMPCUTIE, I type back, so I don’t bust her cover, but I really would like to tell her to “scram and take the Spam”—or something that Galleria would riff when she gets mad.

  I GOTTA TELL YOU SOMETHING, she types on the screen. GUESS WHO WAS ON TELEVISION TONIGHT, TALKING ABOUT FOSTER CHILDREN?

  I KNOW—MARIAH CAREY, I type back.

  YES, MAMACITA—MAYBE WE CAN GET TO MEET HER?

  I can’t believe it, but Tiffany is always angling for something. She’s worse than Galleria! What does she think—just because Mariah Carey does a public service announcement for foster children, we’re gonna get to meet her? I wanna scream at my clueless sister, “Get a grip, Tiff!”

  All of a sudden, I notice that Galleria is online. WAZZUP, UPTOWN HOODIE? she types. I SEE YOU HANGING WITH SOME NEW CREW, RIGHT?

  IT’S MY SISTER, I type back.

  YOU’RE JOKING OR SMOKING? Galleria types on the screen.

  NO, I’M NOT.

  SEEMS LIKE THE TWO OF YOU ARE HANGING TIGHT LATELY, DON’T YOU THINK? Galleria types—and knowing her, there is more to that nibble than a piece of cheese.

  NOT EXACTLY, I explain, then realize that Tiffany is “seeing” everything I say, so I’d better mention that she wants to audition for the Cheetah Girls. LISTEN, WHAT TIFFANY WANTS TO KNOW IS, CAN SHE SING FOR US?

  SOMEONE MUST’VE CHANGED THE CHANNEL TO A TELEMONDO STATION! types Chanel, who is also in the chat room. Galleria must’ve beeped her. I know they have a secret code when they want to talk online. I’m gonna get a beeper soon, too.

  SHE WANTS TO TRY OUT FOR THE GROUP, THAT’S ALL I’M TALKING ABOUT.

  WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US BEFORE? Galleria challenges me.

  I KNOW, BUT WITH EVERYTHING GOING ON, I THOUGHT I SHOULD ASK NOW.

  HI, GALLERIA! LimpCutie types, breaking into the conversation.

  YOU WANNA RIFF WITH US SOMETIME? Galleria asks Tiffany.

  YES!

  CHANEL NO. 5, YOU WANNA HAVE SOME COMPANY TOMORROW NIGHT? Galleria asks, using Chuchie’s onscreen name.

  ESTÁ BIEN WITH ME!

  When I sign off to Tiffany, I can’t help but crack a joke. SEE YOU TOMORROW NITE AT CHANEL’S CRIB, LIMPCUTIE—BUT DON’T EXPECT MARIAH CAREY TO BE IN THE HOUSE CH
ECKING OUT YOUR AUDITION!

  HEY, UPTOWN HOODIE, YOU NEVER KNOW! IF MAMACITA MARIAH KNEW HOW DOPE I WUZ, SHE WOULD FLUTTER HER WINGS LIKE A BUTTERFLY JUST TO SEE ME! SO WHY DON’T YOU CALL HER AND INVITE HER?

  What was I thinking, inviting Tiffany to sing for the Cheetah Girls? Well, I didn’t exactly invite her—Galleria did. I think Bubbles’s invitation was more like a challenge to her, though.

  My biology teacher, Mr. Roundworm, says genes have a mind of their own, and they do exactly as they please. Maybe he’s right, ’cuz my sister Tiffany is definitely popping kernels in her own microwave, if you know what I’m saying!

  Chapter

  8

  I haven’t said anything about the Kats and Kittys drama to my crew, and I hope none of them bring it up. Mrs. Bosco is right—I shouldn’t look any gift horse in the mouth, just check to make sure it has hooves. I know that my crew is down with me, so I shouldn’t sweat it.

  Oh, now I get it—maybe that’s what Mrs. Bosco meant about the hooves part. Just make sure your friends—or the “gift horse”—are for real. Yeah, well my crew still blabbed their big mouths—and told everybody in the Kats and Kittys Klub that I’m a foster child—like my face should be on a poster, begging for donations or something!

  Well, now I’m about to be face-to-face with my crew. They arrived at Chanel’s house before I did, since I had to work my three-hour shift at the YMCA, then come back downtown to SoHo, where Chanel lives. Believe me, I was real glad to get some duckets in my pocket, though.

  Aqua beams when she sees me—which makes me feel good to see my crew. That is, until Galleria asks, “What did Mrs. Bosco say about the donation?”

  “You know, she thought it was cool,” I say, but I can hear how choked my voice sounds.

  “Dorinda … I, um, we thought it was okay to tell everybody about your situation,” Aqua says earnestly. “It was Indigo’s idea to put ACS on the charity voting ballot, because she saw Gaye on the news, too.”

  No wonder Indigo was so nice to me! The whole world saw Gaye on the news but me! Now my crew is standing around the living room, looking at me like I’m a lost puppy who needs a bone—and a home.

  “I just wish you didn’t tell everybody!” I blurt out, tears springing to my eyes.

  “We’re real sorry,” Angie pipes up.

  “Okay, squash it,” I say, when I hear Pucci’s footsteps running down the hallway.

  “Mamí made stuff for your friends,” Pucci says to Chanel. His eyes twinkling, he motions for us to come into the dining room.

  Chanel hobbles in first. The table is covered with a pretty pink flowered tablecloth, and matching paper cups, napkins, and plates. From the looks of the food on the table, I can tell Chanel is definitely milking her sprained ankle for points. She even got Mrs. Simmons to make plántanos (fried plantains) and Dominican-style polio caliente (spicy chicken wings and drumsticks) for us to snack on.

  Now, looking at the food, I realize how hungry I am. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to eat these things with your fingers or a knife and fork, so I wait until I see Galleria take one of the legs, put it daintily on her paper napkin, then eat it with her fingers. I do exactly as she does, including lifting my pinkie finger higher for effect.

  Galleria, Chanel, Aqua, and Angie decide to sit down at the dining room table, while we wait for Tiffany to get here. After we get our grub on, the plan is that we are gonna hang out in Mrs. Simmons’s big exercise studio, and sing a little with Tiffany. Pucci has already put a folding chair in the studio so Chanel can sit down. Even though her tailbone is healed, Chanel still has to stay off her badly sprained ankle as much as possible.

  I think Chanel feels kinda lonely that we didn’t come over and rehearse at her house last week. Pucci is being nice to Chanel too, which I can’t believe! “Chanel, you want something to drink?” he asks.

  “A Dominican cocktail, por favor!” Chanel says, milking Pucci for more points. Even though the pitcher of Mrs. Simmons’s Dominican cocktail (I think it’s mango and cranberry juice with tropical punch) is right in the middle of the table, Pucci pours it for Chanel.

  Mrs. Simmons turns on the radio, then places some pretty crystal glasses back in the break-front. Wow, all the crystal sparkling in the breakfront makes the room look really fancy!

  “You girls have fun, but I’ve got to get back to work, because I’m on deadline,” Mrs. Simmons says. But she keeps lingering in the dining room, doing things.

  The radio deejay announces the Mariah Carey concert on Friday night.

  “I wish they were giving away some free tickets, shoot,” Angie blurts out.

  “I wish we could just pay and go!” Chanel pipes up, loud enough for her mother to hear.

  “Chanel, how are you going to go to a concert on crutches? Dígame!” Mrs. Simmons snaps. “Tell me that—even if you had the money?”

  “What happened?” Chanel counters, getting that innocent look on her face, like she doesn’t know what she said. “Disabled people get to go places too, Mamí!”

  “I know, Chanel,” Mrs. Simmons shoots back, like she’s embarrassed. I wonder why Mrs. Simmons keeps lingering in the dining room area, even though she says she has work to do on that book she’s writing. I think she wants to see what my sister Tiffany looks like or something, because she turns and asks me, “Where does your sister go to school?”

  I freeze for a second, because I can’t remember. Then it pops back into my head. “Um, St. Agnes of the Peril.”

  “Oh, private Catholic school,” Mrs. Simmons says, like she’s impressed.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Pushing up the sleeves on her pretty pink furry cardigan sweater, Mrs. Simmons keeps at it. “So how much younger is she than you?”

  I almost choke on my chicken wing! Why is Mrs. Simmons being so nosy? Even Galleria pauses her chomp and looks up at me!

  “Um, a year,” I say, my stomach starting to get a bad case of the squigglies. Inside, I’m shrieking, Please don’t ask me any more questions about Tiffany!

  “So … she’s thirteen?” Mrs. Simmons continues absentmindedly, now arranging some silver knives in the breakfront drawer.

  For a split second, I wonder if I should tell a fib-eroni. Then I realize that eventually my crew is gonna find out that I’m only twelve years old, and not fourteen like they are—even though I’m in the ninth grade, too. “No, um, she’s eleven,” I say. Then I wait for the sky to fall on my head like Chicken Little.

  Everybody stops and looks at me. I guess Chanel is better at math than she thinks, because she’s the first one to say, “What happened? Do’ Re Mi, how old are you?”

  “T-twelve,” I say, fighting back the tears.

  “How could you be twelve years old!?” Aqua asks, so shocked that her eyes are bugging out. The twins are still thirteen, see. Their grandmother sent them to school early, because she thought they were so smart. Well, now my crew knows how smart I am—or how stupid, for trying to tell a fib-eroni on the sneak tip!

  “I got skipped twice already,” I say apologetically.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Dorinda,” Mrs. Simmons says, surprised.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” I say, looking straight at Galleria, then Chanel, then Aqua and Angie. “I was embarrassed.”

  “You should be sorry for telling us a fiberoni,” Galleria snorts. “We tell you everything.”

  “Well, you didn’t tell me you were going to blab to everybody in the whole world that I live in a foster home!” I blurt out. Just then, the doorbell rings. Galleria and I lock stares for a sec, before we’re distracted by loud giggling coming from the hallway.

  “Mamí, she has a Flammerstein Schwimmer scooter like I do!” Pucci says excitedly, riding his fancy-schmancy scooter into the dining area. It looks just like the one I saw in Tiffany’s bedroom, except the knobs on Pucci’s are acid green, and Tiffany’s are neon pink.

  “Pucci—don’t make me take that thing away from you!” Mrs. Simmon
s yells. Then she notices Tiffany, and smiles a big, phony smile.

  I feel so embarrassed when I see how corny Tiffany’s outfit is. Now she’s wearing a cheetah knit cap with a pom-pom on top, a matching cheetah sweat jacket, and a white skort—you know, the kind with shorts underneath. I notice how red her thighs are—probably because they’re freezing to death. I look down at her feet to see why she looks so tall. I can’t believe it—she went and got black Madd Monster shoes, just like mine!

  “Aren’t your legs cold?” Mrs. Simmons asks Tiffany, causing everybody to notice how short her skirt is, and making me more embarrassed than I already am!

  “No,” Tiffany says, giggling nervously.

  “You have a funny giggle!” Pucci blurts out.

  “I do,” Tiffany says, giggling even more!

  Chanel says something in Spanish to Pucci, which I don’t understand, and he runs out of the dining room area.

  “I like your shoes,” Chanel coos to Tiffany.

  “Thanks,” she says, and now she’s blushing. “I got the same ones Dorinda has.”

  “Come get your grub on,” Galleria says, chuckling to Tiffany.

  “Oh, thanks,” she says, licking her lips.

  “Of course. It ain’t no thing but a chicken wing!” Galleria riffs, handing her a paper plate.

  “You’re the one who rhymes all the time, right?” Tiffany asks Galleria, like she’s a famous singer or something.

  Galleria giggles, but at least she doesn’t snarkle the way Tiffany does. I’m trying to check out Galleria, Chanel, and the twins on the sneak tip, to see how they’re feeling Tiffany. I can’t believe Galleria hasn’t said anything about Tiffany’s outfit! Galleria’s motto is, “You definitely don’t wear white after Labor Day, or before Memorial Day.” But Galleria is definitely on her best behavior tonight.

  After we finish our munch, my crew starts “chatting” with Tiffany. Please don’t let them ask her anything about this adoption situation, or our mother!