Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Page 8

  For the first time since I’ve been in Houston, I’m wishing the same thing. If Mom was here, she would send those fake ATM machines packin’ back to Oakland, and they wouldn’t come back, either!

  Miggy and Mo burst into the dressing room again. “What happened?” Miggy asks, looking at Chuchie with her big blue eyes.

  “CMG—th-the Cash Money Girls—think we stole their flavor,” I stammer.

  “And we did!” Aqua blurts out.

  “It was your idea to throw money at the end, just like they did!” I hiss back at her.

  “Yes, it was my idea—but I didn’t know it was wrong, or I would never have done it!” Aqua says, sounding like a Bible school teacher.

  “I hope they win, so they’ll leave us alone,” Angie says wincing.

  “Did we really bite their lyrics, too?” Do’ Re Mi asks quietly.

  “They’re gonna go on now,” Miggy says, trying to be nice. “I’m gonna go out and see them.”

  We all crouch by the door so we can hear CMC rapping:

  “Yeah, we roll with Lincoln,

  What are you thinkin’?

  But it’s all about the Benjamins,

  Baby, not maybe, just mighty, awrighty!”

  “I don’t know …” I say tentatively. “It doesn’t sound like our song. …”

  I can feel that my face is flushed like a strawberry patch, because I’m so embarrassed. Deep down, I know they are right—we did bite their flavor! I mean, when Chuchie came to me with the first line of the song, the rest of it just came to me so easy! I guess I was just remembering what I’d heard CMG do in L.A. But I swear, it never occurred to me that that’s where I got the inspiration—this has all come as a total shock to me!

  “Groups bite each other’s flavor all the time—that’s what we savor,” Do’ Re Mi flexes, trying to make us feel better. “I think our song has different enough words that it’s original. I mean, it’s kinda the same, but not really. I just don’t think they shoulda come at us like that. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Well, I don’t wanna be here when they come back,” I say, getting a serious case of the spookies.

  “We can’t leave till the contest is over!” Aqua protests.

  “We don’t have to worry, ’cuz we ain’t gonna win anyway,” I say, my voice cracking because I’m so upset. “I sounded like Donald Duck singing into that wack microphone.”

  “Excuse us,” says Diamond, as she and Sparkle try to move past us so they can go out and sing.

  For the next little while, we are so spaced out from our Okie-Dokie drama that we don’t even care what the other groups are singing. Finally, Miggy comes back into the dressing room, bringing us back down to reality. “The last act—the Cowgirls—are going on now,” she tells us.

  “Good looking out, Miggy,” I say softly. If it wasn’t for her and Mo, we would have definitely blown this one-horse Popsicle stand by now.

  I go to the open dressing room door and listen to the Cowgirls strut their stuff:

  “Yippee-yay yo

  That’s how we flow

  Yippee-yay yo

  Where’s the place to go?”

  Aqua and Angie have gone into the house to hear the Cowgirls sing, but Chuchie and I stand huddled together by the dressing room door, like we’re frozen, or dozin’ on our feet.

  It seems like the end of time before Mrs. Owens gets back on stage and asks all the groups to come out. I trudge onstage with the rest of my crew, like lambs being led to slaughter. The bright lights catch us right in the face as Mrs. Owens asks the audience to clap. “Go, Cheetahs! Go, Cheetahs!” the audience chants.

  For one magical second, I feel my heart racing just like it usually does when we perform—like I’m on top of the world, and I’ve just found out it’s one big, edible cupcake filled with cream.

  I force myself not to look around. I know CMG is in the audience. I can feel them glaring at us like a pack of predators eyeing their next kill.

  We step off the stage, so that Miggy and Mo can go up. We even clap along with the audience in their favor. When Mrs. Owens calls the Cash Money Girls up to the stage, my heart sinks into my shoes.

  They start cheering for themselves, and I can feel Abrahamma staring down at us, just egging us on to look at them. I think about her foot-long acrylic tips, and almost wet my Cheetah bloomers!

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Owens says excitedly “I know most of you want to head on over to our All-Girl Rodeo and watch them rope in those ferocious bulls! So I won’t keep you waiting any longer. The lucky winner of our Miss Sassy contest is—the Cheetah Girls!”

  I feel my legs turn to linguini, and suddenly, I’m fighting back tears. For months, we’ve wanted so badly to win something—and when we finally do, it turns into a Nightmare at the Okie-Dokie! It’s so unfair!

  We climb onto the stage to accept the trophy, and Mrs. Owens shakes my hand like it’s a slot machine or something. “Congratulations. And girls, besides your beautiful trophy, the Sassy-sparilla Saloon is also giving you six tickets to visit AstroWorld, for their Holiday in the Park Celebration!”

  I try my best to smile at Mrs. Owens, but I can’t manage it. The audience is clapping so loud, but all I wanna do is burst into tears!

  “Boo! Boo!” yells Abrahamma. “They’re a bunch of wannabes!”

  On automatic, I make my way off the stage, and the rest of my crew follows along behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Walker. “Meet us outside!” I call to her. Then I keep pushing forward through the crowd, desperately trying to outrun CMG!

  Miggy and Mo come running up behind us. “Hey, Cheetah Girls, don’t you want to come to the All-Girl Rodeo?”

  “No, Miggy, we’ll catch up to you later,” I tell her. My heart is pounding with fear that any second the Cash Money Girls are gonna come barging into the parking lot, looking for payback.

  “Here comes Ma!” Aqua says, relieved.

  “Thank God,” I moan. “If High Priestess Abala Shaballa came right now on a broomstick to whisk us away, I’d get on—just get us outta here!!”

  Chapter

  10

  Mrs. Walker is trying to help us, but—I can’t even believe I’m saying this—the only person who can pull this rabbit out of the tragedy hat is my mom.

  “I don’t think those girls had a right to talk to you like that,” Mrs. Walker says, trying to be helpful. But she just doesn’t get it. See, the music biz is small, and beef jerky travels fast across the land.

  “That’s all the Cheetah Girls need, is to get a rep as song biters—even before we get a record deal,” I try to explain. But Mrs. Walker just looks at me like I’m overreacting.

  “I’m so glad Uncle Skeeter didn’t show up and see that mess,” Aqua says tearfully. She rests her arms on the table, then covers her face in her hands.

  “I’ve gotta call my mom,” I say very quietly to Mrs. Walker.

  “Go ahead,” she says, placing the telephone right in front of me on the dining room table.

  As soon as I hear my mom’s voice, I burst into tears like a real crocodile. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so kaflooeyed, or if hearing the sound of Toto’s barking in the background makes me miss them both. Mom listens patiently, but she can hardly understand me. After a few minutes, I stop blubbering, and she gets the whiff of our terrible situation.

  “You know, I hate to tell you this, but they’re right—you’re lucky the song wasn’t recorded, or they would be able to sue you for copyright infringement,” Mom sighs.

  I hate when she’s right. “But it’s not recorded—yet,” I say, trying to plead my case.

  “Exactly—so the only thing they can do is tar and feather you, and go around telling people that the Cheetah Girls are the biggest thieves in the jiggy jungle, darling,” Mom says sternly. “And let me tell you something—when customers get a whiff that your product is a mirage, you might as well go searching for water in the desert, because the charade is over. You
understand?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say, finally giving in. “What should I do?” I ask, hoping shell magically make everything better, just like when I was little.

  “Do the right thing,” Mom pronounces. “That’s all I’m gonna say, Galleria. Now I’ve gotta go finish the spring collection—or we’ll be homeless next season. I leave this situation in your capable hands. You’ll know what to do.”

  After a few more tears, a Cheetah Girls Council meeting, and a healthy dose of Mrs. Walker’s chicken and waffles, we decide on the right thing to do. Well, actually, we get a little unlikely help from our fellow wannabe stars—Diamonds in the Ruff, that is.

  “Are you sure that’s Diamonds in the Ruff on the phone?” I ask Mrs. Walker in disbelief.

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s what she said.”

  “Hello?” I say nervously into the receiver, thinking it must be a trick. I imagine one of the Cash Money Girls reaching her hand through the receiver and yanking my hair out.

  “Hi, this is Diamond—’member I performed with y’all yesterday?” Diamond’s voice carries just a tinge of the attitude that we have come to know and hate. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but Miggy and Mo gave us your phone number,” she continues, probably sensing my coolness.

  “Yes?” I say, still hesitant about the situation, but at least trying to be chill.

  “We just wanted to know if we could help you squash the drama with CMG,” Diamond says, kinda nervously. “After you left, we were talking with them, and I think I know a way you can deal with the situation.”

  “What? Why would you wanna help us?” I blurt out, because the suspense is killing me softly.

  “’Cuz we feel bad for dissing y’all, that’s all—I mean, we’re all in this music biz thing together,” Diamond says, kinda being humble. “You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Okay,” I say, finally softening. Chuchie, Aqua, Do’ Re Mi, and Angie are hanging onto my every word. “So, what’s the master plan?”

  “We’ll all meet up at AstroWorld—inside, by the Texas Cyclone ride,” Diamond says.

  “Okay,” I agree, though I’m still not sold on this chess move. “What time should we be there?”

  “It’s live at five,” Diamond says, chuckling for the first time since I’ve met her.

  When I hang up, Aqua and Angie are just as skeptical as I am. “Why are Diamonds in the Ruff volunteering to help us now?” Aqua asks. “They didn’t do anything when we almost got lasso-ed by those wannabe fake-money heffas!”

  “Why is your backpack so heavy?” Chuchie moans, handing it to me in the car.

  “Don’t worry, I just packed for the occasion,” I explain.

  “What happened? What occasion?” Chuchie asks, puzzled.

  “You’ll see,” I tell her. “Trust me.”

  “Y’all should at least go on a few rides while you’re there,” Mrs. Walker says, like our excursion to AstroWorld is a family picnic instead of a showdown, continued from the Okie-Dokie Corral.

  “I shoulda packed a water pistol!” I mutter, squirming uncomfortably in the backseat.

  Even Chuchie is kinda quiet and serious for a change and some coins. That is, until we get to AstroWorld, and she sees the humongous fake mountain of snow inside! “Ooh, where did they get all this snow?” she exclaims, as we try to find our way to the Texas Cyclone Ride.

  “They import it every year for the Holiday in the Park Celebration,” Aqua says proudly.

  Dorinda stops to look at all the kids snowballing and sledding down the mountain. All of a sudden, I feel a pang of sadness for her. She has probably never seen anything like this before. It’s all my fault that I got my crew mixed up in this madness, I realize. Why did I ever agree to write that song with Chuchie?

  “Do they ever have any real snow here?” Dorinda asks Mrs. Walker.

  “Not since I was born. And that was a long time ago!”

  “Not since 1929,” Angie pipes up.

  “Nineteen twenty-nine what?” I ask.

  “That was the last time they had a White Christmas in Houston, that’s what,” Angie repeats. “They told us that in school, I think.”

  “Okay, this is where I leave you girls,” Mrs. Walker says softly. “See—the Texas Cyclone is right over there. I’ll be waiting right by the Viper ride. Good luck!”

  “Thanks, Ma,” Aqua says, then takes a deep breath.

  I’m so glad Mrs. Walker didn’t insist on meeting the Cash Money Girls and Diamonds in the Ruff with us. We got ourselves into this drama and kaflamma, so we should get ourselves out of it.

  “I really would feel better if I had that water pistol,” I moan to Chuchie, then put my arm in hers.

  “I’ve got a bad case of the spookies,” Chuchie moans.

  “We all do,” Aqua pipes up.

  “It’s showdown—um, show time,” Do’ Re Mi says under her breath.

  I catch sight of Diamond’s sparkly cowboy hat. “I wonder why they wear costumes offstage too,” I mumble to Chuchie. “That’s kind of tick-tacky.”

  All of sudden, I stop myself. I can’t be nasty to these girls—I just wanna squash this beef, and I think I know exactly how.

  “Wazzup?” I say to Diamond, who gives us a big smile when we walk over. Wow, she looks prettier when she smiles, I think. I look around, but see no sight of our “cash-flow problem.”

  “They’re here. They just went to get some popcorn,” Diamond says, reading my glance.

  Popcorn, at a time like this? Maybe this is a trick! I shriek inside.

  Do’ Re Mi turns first, and catches the grand entrance of the Cash Money Girls, who are wearing white vinyl jackets and boots. Surrounded by all this fake snow, they seem, well, right in their element. Shhh! I tell myself again, then repeat the mantra I’ve been saying all morning, “Squash the beef! Squash the beef!”

  Georgia, who is clearly the leader of this “counterfeit ring,” puts her hands on her hips and gets right to the point. “So what are y’all gonna do to squash this situation?”

  “Um …” I say, speaking up. “We’re just a bunch of kids, like you said, and we don’t know things about the music business like you do.” Ouch, that hurt! I’m screaming inside.

  “Well, you’d better learn, straight up!” Abrahamma says, starting in.

  “Let’s just chill. We’re here for a reason,” Diamond says, intervening. I can’t believe how nice she’s being!

  “Um, we are real sorry about what happened,” Aqua pipes up, but I touch her arm as a way of saying, “let me continue what I started.”

  “I think the only fair thing is to promise you that we’ll kill the song.”

  “You’d better,” Georgia says, like we still haven’t eaten enough humble pie.

  “And we want you to have this,” I say, pulling out the Miss Sassy trophy from my backpack. “You deserve it—after all, it was your idea for the song, and that’s probably what the audience liked.”

  “Well, it’s obvious that the competition was rigged—just like the one y’all did at the Apollo, girl!” Georgia says, unexpectedly flipping the script. Now she’s thrown me off guard. I can’t believe she remembered what we told her about the Apollo Amateur Hour. About those rappers Stak Chedda winning.

  “Come on, give it up!” she continues. “You know that group, Stak Chedda, didn’t deserve one piece of burnt toast for that madness they were bringing!”

  We all start laughing together—except for Abrahamma, who still isn’t giving it up. “You know, y’all can keep that cheesy trophy,” she says.

  I feel my cheeks burning, and I start to stutter, “No, um—”

  “Abrahamma—would you stop?” Georgia says, flicking her wrist at her peeps. “Like they said, they’re just a bunch of kids.”

  Ouch. That hurts, too. I wish peeps would stop calling us “a bunch of kids.” It’s bad enough I had to say it!

  I swallow my pride and bite my lip, repeating my mantra of the day over and over again. The five of us wa
it quietly, while Georgia looks down at her white boots like she’s thinking about something.

  “You keep the trophy, okay?” she finally says. “But we don’t ever wanna hear that you been bitin’ our flavor.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Aqua says nervously—which causes all three members of CMG to chuckle.

  Even Diamonds in the Ruff get into the mix. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!” says Sparkle, who has been quiet the whole time.

  “So, we’re straight?” I ask nervously, still not believing we’ve gotten off so easily. “Have we squashed this beef?”

  I look right at Abrahamma, even though I don’t want to. Like Mom says, “Always look people in the eye, or they’ll treat you like a cockroach and try to crush you.”

  “I’m beef-less,” Abrahamma relents. “What about you, Georgia? Benjamina?”

  “Hmm. Hmm,” they mumble. And just like that, it’s over. We’re off the hook—and it’s like a ten-ton weight is off our backs. Good old Diamonds in the Ruff! Who’d have ever thought they’d be the ones to ride to our rescue?!

  When we get back into the car, Mrs. Walker seems to sense how calm and relaxed we are. “Did y’all work it out?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, imitating the twins. Then I just rest my head on the car door, and let the wind blow through my hair.

  “Good,” says Mrs. Walker. “I’m gonna take y’all to the Spindletop Restaurant—my treat!”

  “Yum, yum,” I coo.

  “I can’t believe you were gonna give them our trophy!” Chuchie says, giggling.

  “Whatever makes them clever—that’s all I was trying to do, Chuchie,” I say softly. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

  “You know, I wish we had gone to see the All-Girls Rodeo,” Do’ Re Mi says wistfully.

  “Next time we come, we’ll make sure we do that,” I say, without turning around to look at Do’ Re Mi. I know we’ll back in boostin’ Houston. I can just feel it.

  “We should go see Sista Fudge in concert at the Okie-Dokie tonight, Angie says.

  “We got Sista Fudge money?” I ask, then chuckle, ’cuz it sounds like something my mom would say. I can’t wait to go back to New York and give her and Toto the biggest hug in the world! “You think they’ll let us in for free?”