Bring It On! Read online

  “Dad, this one sounds like he can get the job done,” Galleria says, showing her father an ad in the back of the Village Voice newspaper. Galleria’s dad is searching for attorneys so we can be ready to roll after the benefit.

  Galleria reads the attorney’s ad: “Mr. Buttafony, Esquire. I SUE 4 U.”

  “Sounds like a rapper,” I retort, scrutinizing the shady newspaper advertisement.

  Mr. Garibaldi doesn’t answer Galleria, but he nods his head, because he is on the phone. “Okay, that sounds very reasonable. Okay, bene, thank you. We will be calling you very soon!” he says excitedly, putting down the receiver.

  Mr. Garibaldi has to find attorneys that specialize in custody cases and are familiar with the snaky ins and outs of the child welfare system.

  “I think I found a very good lawyer for Mrs. Bosco!” Mr. Garibaldi says proudly. He furiously takes notes on his legal pad. “And she only wants a twelve-hundred-dollar retainer—the rest is payable after the court’s decision.”

  “What’s a retainer—you mean like my braces?” Galleria asks.

  “No, cara—a retainer means you have to pay the lawyer half the legal fees up front so they can begin working on your case,” Mr. Garibaldi explains.

  “Is Mrs. Bosco going to have to go to court?” I ask, trembling.

  “But of course, Dorinda—you have to be fighting like a crazy person in the boxing ring,” Mr. Garibaldi says, waving his hands. “And that is what court is in this country—everybody tries to punch the opponent in the nose.”

  “And in the pocketbook,” Ms. Dorothea says, kissing her husband on the cheek.

  While Mr. Garibaldi tries to find a prizefighting attorney, Ms. Dorothea is busy working the phone, offering invitations to Big Willy peeps. I guess you could say Ms. Dorothea is making sure we have all our bases covered—mail, phone, and e-mail invitations so we have a full house on Saturday evening.

  “I still think we should do ‘Bow-wow Wow,”’ Galleria says, still fighting with Chanel about the song we’re going to perform. (We have rehearsed all of them.)

  “No way, José,” Chanel blurts out.

  “Why not?” Galleria asks, smirking. She wants to perform our favorite song, “It’s Raining Benjamins,” but she and Chanel are still fighting over songwriting credits. (Chanel did cowrite about five percent of the song.) “How are we going to look performing the same song that we did at the Def Duck New Talent Showcase in Hollywood?”

  “Like we know all the words?” responds Chanel, smirking back at Galleria.

  “Okay, Chuchie—I’ll make a compromise. We perform “Wannabe Stars” again, because that’s the only number Toto knows—but we’re back in rehearsals next week, getting tight with Bow-wow, Wow, or I’m really gonna start barking.”

  “How come we don’t perform the song you’re writing now—since it’s for Dorinda,” counters Chanel.

  “I didn’t want to stress everybody out about rehearsal,” Galleria says, looking at us for assurance.

  “We can handle it,” Angie says confidently.

  “Okay, then, we’ll be ready to do Dorinda’s Family Groove for our encore,” orders Galleria.

  “What makes you think there will be an encore?” asks Chanel.

  Galleria levels her don’t-try-it look, and Chanel shuts up. I can just hear the peeps at the benefit shouting the very words we all want to hear: “Encore, encore!”

  Chapter

  7

  I look at my watch and see that it’s already six o’clock, but I’m not trying to stress it even though I have to get home by seven o’clock so I can take Chantelle out for a special surprise.

  “You don’t think twenty-five dollars is too much to charge for the benefit, do you?” Aqua asks nervously. “I mean, it’s not like they’re gonna get to see Mariah Carey sing, or something.

  “What do you mean—it’s even better. They are going to see the Cheetah Girls in their natural habitat!” Mr. Garibaldi says, waving his hands.

  “That’s right,” Galleria agrees. “Remember those peeps paid fifty duckets in the bucket at the ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ benefit, and they didn’t even get a gift bag!

  “She’s right,” Angie says, nodding her head and licking an envelope. “Okay, these are ready to be mailed.” Angie shoves all the sealed envelopes with stamps into a shopping bag.

  “I’ll go with you!” Chanel says, grabbing Toto’s cheetah leash. “Toto needs another walk.”

  “Chuchie, you just walked him an hour ago!”

  “I know, but he’s big—so he needs a lot of walks!” Chuchie pouts. “I think Toto should be the host at the door. With that tongue panting, who wouldn’t fork over twenty-five dollars?”

  Meanwhile, Angie and Aqua are fighting over petting Coco. “I can’t believe Daddy won’t let you pee in our kitchen!” Angie coos to their precious puppy.

  “That reminds me—change the Wee Wee Pad in the kitchen before I start sniffing,” Ms. Dorothea huffs to the twins.

  “Maybe we should invite those girls we met at the Girlie Show Boutique to perform in the benefit?” Angie queries, like she’s amused by the idea.

  “We’ve got enough peeps, don’t we?” I ask.

  “Nothing like a little Southern hospitality, that’s what our momma always says,” adds Aqua, getting up to go to the kitchen and take care of Coco’s business.

  “Well, start being hospitable—you call them!” Galleria says, passing her phone to Angie.

  All of a sudden, Ms. Dorothea snaps her fingers loudly. We look over at her while she is talking on the phone. Something is definitely going down.

  “Can’t wait to see you, Mr. Isaaks. Oh, yes, that is a cheetah-certified fact. Bye- bye!” Ms. Dorothea says, putting down the phone. Dramatically, Ms. Dorothea puts her hand to her chest like she is thanking God.

  Mr. Isaaks, I repeat to myself. That name does sounds familiar.

  “Miracle worker—latest job description added to my very lengthy resume,” Mrs. Dorothea says, sitting back calmly. We wait with bated breath for her to tell us about her latest coup.

  “What’s the scoop?” Galleria asks.

  “Darling—this is not a scoop, this is a double scoop with whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on top,” Ms. Dorothea says, satisfied.

  We stare at Ms. Dorothea some more. Ms. Dorothea smiles at us some more. “Well, after fifty phone calls, I finally got the man who quacks—” she starts in, obviously smitten with her supa skills to pay the bills.

  “Omigod, Def Duck Records!” Galleria screams, interrupting her mom with a round of squeals.

  “Yes, Mr. Tom Isaaks—whom some of you may recall—the A & R quackster from Def Duck Records on the West Coast who was at your showcase in Hollywood—well, he is in town and has purchased a few measly tickets.”

  “How many tickets?” Galleria asks, her eyes as wide as ice-cream saucers.

  “TEN TICKETS!” Ms. Dorothea screams, then reverts immediately back to her diva self. “He will be attending with Freddy Fudge, the A & R person we met at Def Duck who has put our project on pause, obviously. Well, anyway, his secretary is sending a messenger tomorrow with the check.”

  “Sending a messenger?” Chuchie asks, impressed.

  “Yes—so suffice it to say, Def Duck Records will definitely be providing a presence at the Cheetah Girls ‘Bring It On! benefit!” Ms. Dorothea says.

  We all jump up and down—hugging, kissing, and squealing, like satisfied cheetahs.

  “So how many tickets have we sold now?” Galleria asks.

  “Galleria, if I didn’t know better, I would swear you’re in need of remedial math,” Ms. Dorothea says. “Now, if I can just pull a Mouse out of a hat—or at least out of his studio—we may really be killing, sorry, animal conservationists, I mean, caressing two birds with one phone.”

  Ms. Dorothea ponders her strategy.

  “Yeah, Mouse Almighty,” Galleria says wistfully.

  Ms. Dorothea picks up the receiver and starts pressi
ng numbers again. We all do our tasks while Ms. Dorothea calls Mouse Almighty—keeping one ear peeled for a mighty screech, or at least a peep. But we can tell by the way Ms. Dorothea puts the phone down that the platinum-record producer didn’t take a nibble.

  “Mouse Almighty’s secretary informed me that he sends his regrets, because he will not be attending our benefit,” Ms. Dorothea says, defeated. “There is no way he can leave the studio until he finishes all the tracks for Kahlua Alexander’s album.”

  We all join Ms. Dorothea in putting on a solemn expression. If Mouse doesn’t come, that means we may not even get to go back into the studio with him to finish our demo. And that is what really matters, despite all our cheetah chatter.

  “Maybe he really has moved on—and this is just his nice way of telling us,” Galleria says, pouting.

  “Trust me—where there’s cheese, a Mouse always comes around to nibble—eventually. You just have to wait and be patient,” Ms. Dorothea says, waving away Galleria’s doubts.

  “Mom—you’re just saying that,” whines Galleria.

  “No, I’m not. True talent isn’t always rewarded, but my inability to take no for an answer will level the playing field,” Ms. Dorothea says wisely.

  The phone rings again, and we all freeze, waiting to hear what is jumping off now.

  “Now, that is fabulous!” Ms. Dorothea gushes into the phone.

  We all perk up again. It must be Mouse Almighty calling back to say he is feeling our chee-tahness again.

  “Who needs a Mouse when you’ve got a celebrity like Constellation Jones at your service!” Ms. Dorothea announces to us.

  “She’s coming?” Aqua asks, perking up.

  “Better than chedda, darling. She is going to be our Mistress of Ceremonies for the evening!” Ms. Dorothea says, doubly pleased with her latest coup. Constellation Jones is one of Ms. Dorothea’s best customers, and she happens to also be a cohost on the morning lifestyle television show, Say, What!

  “Wow,” Galleria says, impressed, but I know she is thinking the same thing I am. “How come Mouse Almighty isn’t coming?”

  “Okay, Galleria, would you please keep your chins up—”

  “Mom!” Galleria exclaims, cutting off Ms. Dorothea. “That’s not nice, so don’t say it twice.”

  “I’m just kidding. But come on, you’re acting like the goose that broke the golden egg, then slipped on the egg yolk,” protests Ms. Dorothea.

  Aqua and Angie look at each other. “Is that the same thing as looking a gift horse in the mouth?” Aqua asks with a quizzical expression.

  “Never mind. But speaking of two chins, don’t think for a second that finagling Constellation Jones into hosting our benefit isn’t going to be cost me a few hens out of the henhouse,” Ms. Dorothea says, waving her left arm, which is piled with cheetah bangles.

  We all look at her, trying to figure out what she is trying to say.

  “I’ve agreed to make her a complimentary ensemble,” explains Ms. Dorothea.

  “Complimentary?” Aqua asks.

  “Free,” Ms. Dorothea retorts.

  “Ensemble?” Angie asks.

  “That means an entire outfit. And in Constellation’s case—dressing Queen Sarabi in The Lion King would be cheaper!” huffs Ms. Dorothea.

  “Well, hakuna matata!” Galleria chuckles.

  “Word,” I chuckle back. “Hakuna matata.” No worries is right. At least not about who is going to be our Master whammy Mistress of Ceremonies, anyway.

  “Okay, I’m out,” I tell my crew, putting on my shabby winter coat, then tossing my cheetah backpack over my shoulder.

  “You got any changes for your ‘Groove’?” Galleria asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nah, it’s tight,” I say, smiling.

  “Well, learn it and love it,” Galleria says proudly, kissing me good night.

  I really do love “Dorinda’s Family Groove,” and it’s going to be a whole lot of fun singing it with Twinkie when we do the laundry on Sunday again.

  When I open the door to my apartment, Chantelle is sitting on the couch watching television. “Did you finish your homework?” I ask her. She nods her head.

  “I have a surprise for you,” I say quietly.

  “What?” she says, looking up.

  “Go put on your coat and shoes, and I’ll tell you,” I say, then go knock on Mrs. Bosco’s door to see what’s new with the Corky situation.

  “Mrs. Bosco, it’s me,” I say, speaking through the door.

  “Come on in, Dorinda,” Mrs. Bosco says quietly.

  I open the door and Mrs. Boscos is lying on her bed in her nightgown. She smiles at me and says, “Mrs. Tattle’s coming to take him next Thursday. I haven’t told him yet, though.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not going to happen,” I say firmly. “We’re selling tickets and ready to roll.”

  “I know that’s right,” Mrs. Bosco says, peering over her bifocals to gaze at me. “I’m going to take Chantelle to Barnes and Noble with me,” I inform her.

  Mrs. Bosco smiles and nods her head. “That’s real nice of you, Dorinda.”

  “Okay, bye,” I say, shaking it off.

  Meanwhile, I have never seen Chantelle get dressed so quickly before. She is bundled up like a paratrooper and standing by the door waiting for me. “Where we going?” she asks eagerly.

  “You’ll see,” I say, then lead her out the door.

  “Can I come?” screams Twinkie, barreling out of her bedroom.

  I feel bad, but I know this is something I have to do for Chantelle. Everybody knows Twinkie and me are real tight. But I have to share a bedroom with Chantelle, and the less “Magic Mountain” piles I see on my bedroom floor, the happier we’ll all be. “I’m sorry, Twinkie, but you have to stay here and watch out for Arba and Kenya,” I say weakly.

  “Kenya doesn’t like me,” Twinkie says defensively.

  I refrain from telling her that Kenya doesn’t really like anybody unless they give her presents.

  “Yeah, but Arba does, and I need for you to watch out for her so Mrs. Bosco can look over Gaye—and Corky,” I say, making a face so Twinkie gets the drift.

  “Awright,” she says, defeated. She wipes her chocolate-smudged hands on her pink T-shirt.

  I don’t ask where she got the chocolate from, just gently say, “Could you go wash your mouth and hands now?”

  Twinkie makes a mischievous face, which lets me know the chocolate didn’t come from Mrs. Bosco. “Awright, see you later, Cheetah boogie girl!” she riffs.

  There is no Barnes and Noble near my house, so we have to take the #1 train downtown to the one on Broadway and 86th Street.

  “Everybody is so sad now,” Chantelle tells me earnestly as we climb out of the train station.

  “I know,” I say, smiling back at her.

  “Is my father gonna come and get me, too?” Chantelle asks out of the blue.

  I wonder if she and Twinkie have been talking about this. I decide the best way to deal with this foster-care situation is to just keep it real. “I don’t know, Chantelle,” I tell her, holding her arm. “I don’t know anything about your father.”

  Chantelle gets real quiet until we approach the entrance of Barnes and Noble. Her whole face lights up when I motion for her to walk through the revolving door. The trip was worth it just to see that. It reminds me that Chantelle is really cool most of the time—except when she has her tantrums.

  As we approach the magazine rack, she becomes instantly absorbed—music magazines, the teen magazines and a few others—maybe she just really loves reading magazines, because they have pictures and words but they aren’t the same as children’s books. It must make her feel more grown-up.

  After Chantelle has selected a huge pile of magazines, we go to the reading section and I tell her to plop down while I go browse at some of the fashion books. I need to do some serious stocking up on books for school: First, I need to snag a book on appliqués and trimmings. It might be nice to find a
book on leather design, too. I’m taking the class next semester, so I might as well get a head start. Once I start looking at all the fashion books, I get so excited that I create a huge pile. Then I get nervous and divide the piles in two: the I’m-fiendish-for pile and the I’m-just-being-greedy pile. When I see how much the two books I want cost, I almost keel over—fifty dollars total for Inside Fashion Design and the Collectors Book of Fashion. Now I’m starting to get dizzy. I can’t leave behind Hats Off to Fashion! because I know I want to design hats one day, too. Then I put down the hat book because I realize I should take Trim, Trim, Trim It! and Leather, Pleather, and Lace.

  After one hour of going through all the books, I realize I still can’t decide which ones to take, so I take a break and run over to make sure Chantelle is okay. She doesn’t even look up when she sees me. Her nose is practically glued inside the fanzine magazine Karma—a magazine devoted to Karma’s Children, the group from Houston that makes Aqua and Angie go green with Gucci Envy. Chantelle is staring at a spread of the singers wearing gold lamé cutout jumpsuits. “You okay?” I ask.

  “I don’t have anything nice to wear on Saturday,” Chantelle sighs. She sounds like she is sixteen years old instead of ten. I feel bad because she is right—she doesn’t have anything really nice to wear to the benefit on Saturday.

  “You can wear my cheetah outfit,” I say, smiling.

  “Which one?” Chantelle asks, smirking.

  “You know which one—the one you like—that Chanel bought for me.”

  “Really?” Chantelle asks, breaking out into a big smile.

  “Really,” I retort. “But don’t get used to it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime offer that expires on Cinderella time—at the stroke of midnight on Saturday night.”

  Chantelle nods like she gets the drift. “Do you think you’re really going to raise the money for Mrs. Bosco to get a lawyer so they don’t take Corky away?” Chantelle asks matter-of-factly.

  Nobody told Chantelle what the benefit was for exactly, but I should have known that Miss No-bloomers would have figured it out. Now I bet all the kids know what the benefit is really for. I had told them that it was to help Mrs. Bosco, that’s all.