Bring It On! Read online

  If she had asked me that question yesterday, I don’t know what I would have said, but now I know the answer for sure. “We’re on like popcorn!”

  “Is it really going to help Corky stay?” Chantelle goes on.

  Suddenly I feel defeated. We have been all hyped up about getting a lawyer so Mrs. Bosco can fight the Administration of Children’s Services in court, but that doesn’t mean we are going to win. It doesn’t even mean we won’t be wasting all these peeps’ money. I pause before I answer Chantelle, then reply honestly, “No, it doesn’t mean we are going to be able to keep Corky. It just means we’re not giving up without a fight.”

  Chantelle looks at me like she already knew the answer.

  “Okay,” I say, changing the subject, “which magazines do you want to buy?”

  Chantelle plops down a pile of ten magazines, and I give her a look like, “Don’t try it—or you buy it.”

  “Okay.” She winces. “Can I have these five?”

  I add the prices of the five magazines together—twenty-two dollars. “Do you want to get a book, too?”

  Chantelle nods.

  “All right, how about if we get four magazines and you pick out one book.”

  “Awright,” Chantelle says, walking over to the grown-up-book sections.

  “That way,” I say, nudging her to the children’s-book section. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, okay?”

  Chantelle drags her feet, then smiles and says, “I won’t look any horse in the mouth, because I’m afraid of them.” Then she surprises me by asking, “Can I get a book for Corky instead of for myself?”

  “Of course,” I say, hugging her. Now I know that she is more than just smart. One day I hope Chantelle figures out how special she is.

  Chapter

  8

  Sometimes a week flies by fast, like a cheetah going eighty miles per hour. Other times a week crawls by, like a toad stuffed with Micky Dee’s. I guess I don’t have to tell you which one describes this week, huh? Saturday is finally here, and it’s just one hour before we open the doors to our paying guests for our throwdown at the showdown. The Cheetah Girls, with the help of everybody around us, have been supa busy doing everything we can to make sure our “Bring It On!” benefit is a night we’ll all remember. Even better, the foster-care agency has no idea that they are in for a fight. Mrs. Bosco has an appointment first thing Monday morning with Ms. Dropkin, a really nice attorney that Mr. Garibaldi found. From what Mrs. Bosco told me, she seems like she really cares about us winning custody of Corky.

  As if reading my mind, Angie asks me, “What did the lawyer say to your foster mother?” Right now we’re lining the two hundred gift bags for the guests in the reception area at Drinka Champagne Conservatory.

  “She said that Mrs. Bosco has a really good chance—especially since Mr. Dorgle, Corky’s father, didn’t have visitation rights and never kept in touch,” I explain. “Her fees are reasonable, too. And Mrs. Bosco liked her on the phone.”

  “That’s real good,” Aqua says, peeking in one of the bags. “You sure we can’t take a few of these for ourselves?”

  “I don’t think so.” I chuckle and pat the sweat beads on my temples.

  “You’re as nervous as I am!” Aqua says, surprised.

  Aqua is right. I have the worse case of bugaboo chillies that I’ve ever had in my life! I mean, if you think performing onstage in front of a live audience for the first time is hard, then you should try hosting your own fund-raising benefit. Even with the five of us acting like the “hostesses with the cheetah mostest,” this is still the scariest thing you can think of—never mind the fact that it’s my birthday, too. (On the real tip, I will never forget turning thirteen as long as I live, okay?) The scary part is not raising the money we need: we have sold seventy advance tickets so far. And in less than an hour, we open the doors to Big Willies (and Little Willies), and will probably sell more. What makes the whole thing so scary is: 1) Before the event, you spend every other minute worrying if peeps are going to show up. 2) During the event, you know you’re going to spend every other minute worrying if peeps are having a good time, or if they will secretly wish they could get their money back, and every time they see your face in the future, they are going to think about that twenty-five dollars they spent! 3) Your jaw is so tired from smiling and being nice to everybody way before the event so that you make sure that peeps will actually come. 4) During the event, you’re going to spend every other minute hoping that none of the “talent” gets onstage and slips on their own banana peel, if you know what I’m saying. 5) In between all of the above, you’re supposed to be having fun, but you’re so tired because you haven’t gotten enough sleep, that you start acting like one of those mechanical women in The Stepford Wives. 6) If you don’t have fun at your own benefit, then you feel stupid, because that’s one of the reasons you’re doing it in the first place!

  Now Drinka Champagne snaps me out of my list-making: “Girls, you are looking very cheetah-licious,” she coos, and admires our matching pink cheetah outfits with the poodle appliqués. Drinka is wearing a cheetah jumpsuit in our honor, with cheetah mules stacked on stiletto heels so high I’m worried she is gonna topple over when she gets onstage to perform her 1972 number-one single, “Just Sippin’ When I’m Not Tippin.”’ (Somebody pinch me because I still can’t believe that the miniqueen of disco is going to perform at the Cheetah Girls benefit!)

  “Toodles to the poodles!” riffs Chanel, waving at Drinka from the deejay booth where she, Angie, Galleria, and Ms. Dorothea are working—covering the whole deejay area with cheetah fabric. And from the looks of all the giggling and sniggling, I think Chanel is also flirting with Deejay Frankie Feelgood, who is setting up all his crates of albums. I want to go over to check out his albums, but I’m on gift-bag duty (Galleria didn’t trust Chanel). Deejay Frankie Feelgood has brought about ten crates of records—that’s right, vinyl records from back in the day—to do some serious spinning before and after the live performances. I’m itching to get my fingers on some of his old school tracks, but I have to make sure we get everything set up before the guests arrive.

  “Angie, come help us with the food!” I yell across the room. But she doesn’t hear me because she is talking to Ms. Dorothea. I bend over to open the box with the paper items. I don’t see Twinkie out of the corner of my eye until it is too late.

  “Say Cheetah!” screams Twinkie, snapping a picture of me with my mouth pursed tensely. I have given most of my foster brothers and sisters their own tasks. My sister Monie and her boyfriend, Hector, are on coat-check duty.

  Twinkie is on photo detail. That means she’s in charge of taking all the photos that I will later put in the Cheetah Girls’ scrapbook. I can tell that Twinkie is getting a little snap happy, and I don’t want her wasting the film. “Twinkster, you need to put that on pause,” I start in.

  “What do you mean?” she asks, squinching her little nose.

  “Twinkie, it’s a disposable camera and there are only twenty-six shots—so I need you to take pictures, um—”

  “I know—when you’re not bending over and showing your cheetah bloomers!” Twinkie says, giggling hysterically.

  “Right,” I reply, tweaking her left cheek.

  I glance over at the man of the hour—Corky—to make sure he’s okay. He looks really nice in his blue sweater and pants. He is holding Toto’s leash real tight, even though Kenya is trying to pull Toto away from him. (Corky is on Toto detail tonight.) Kenya’s only task tonight is to behave, and she is already dropping the ball, if you know what I’m saying.

  At last, Malcolm Extra, Danitra, and Frederika Fabulina make their entrance. Right behind them is Gina Garfunkle and a few other peeps that take classes at Drinka Champagne Conservatory. All the peeps who are performing had rehearsals here earlier today, so they should be on point. And I’m not flossing, but it definitely looks like it’s going to be a crowd-pleasing lineup. Now I’m starting to get excited because I
realize the place is going to be jumping. I mean, not everybody is paying to get in the benefit, but at least it will be filled with peeps that know how to get a party started, if you know what I’m saying.

  Screeeeeeeeeeech!! The annoying noise from the microphone is so piercing that Twinkie drops the camera and covers her ears. “I’m sorry, Dorinda!” she squeals nervously.

  “That’s okay,” I say, putting out the stacks of plates and cups on the banquet table.

  “Hey, hey, hey—read all about it!” says Malcolm Extra, coming over and giving me a kiss. “The critics will be raving!”

  Malcolm is being dramatic, I guess, so I just laugh.

  “You need any help?” he asks.

  “Nah, this situation is under control,” I say nervously.

  Chardonnay, who works for Chanel’s father, Mr. Simmons, is putting the hot trays on the buffet tables now. She also puts little burners underneath the trays, to keep the food warmed.

  “Yum, yum—gimme some,” Malcolm Extra says, turning on his falsetto voice.

  “Don’t worry, we’re getting our grub on real soon,” I assure Malcolm.

  Danitra comes over to and gives me a kiss. “If we didn’t tell you before, then let me tell you now. We are so proud of you!” she coos.

  I feel embarrassed because the benefit wasn’t my idea, and I sure didn’t do all this by myself, but I don’t say anything except, “Thank you for helping us out.”

  “Are you kidding?” Danitra says, rolling her neck. “I’d sing at a Bar Mitzvah if they were giving out free bagels, okay?”

  Malcolm, Frederika, and Danitra all do high fives on that one snap. “That’s performing arts peeps for yooooou—we are always down for the twiiiiiirl, don’t you know that, Cheetha Giiiirrl!” chimes Malcolm Extra, turning his riff into a song.

  Now Destinee and Savannah are back, too. They were actually pretty good at rehearsal (they’re going to sing the Karma’s Children song, “We’re Two Independent”). “Hi, Dorinda,” Destinee says, giving me a hug. “Gosh, we are all wearing pink!” The two of them are wearing pink velvet jumpers and pink shearling UGG boots. I wish I could snag a pair of those, but that is wishful thinking. I introduce them to all the Drinka Champagne peeps, including Danitra—but she is being very rude—she doesn’t even say hi to Destinee and Savannah—because she is goospitating over someone in the distance.

  “Ooooooh, who are those tasty morsels!” Danitra coos, turning her head like a snapdragon.

  I turn to see whom she is talking about. It’s Derek and Mackerel. They couldn’t come to the rehearsal earlier because they were competing in the YMCA Youth Program Basketball Tournament. It was okay, anyway, since they aren’t using track music. “Oh, are you feeling the Mackerel and the Red Snapper?” I say, chuckling. I’m glad that they aren’t wearing their usual Johnny Be Down or Sean John ghetto getups. They actually look nice. Derek is wearing a purple iridescent shirt over a pair of black baggy dress pants. Even his sharkskin shoes are nice. Mackerel is wearing a red-and-black sweater over a pair of black pants and some combat boots. “The Red Snapper is hooked on Galleria, and Mackerel on Chanel,” I explain to Danitra, but she isn’t listening.

  “The Mackerel and the who and the what?” Malcolm Extra giggles.

  “Don’t you remember they were at the “Can We Get a Groove” competition uptown?” explains Danitra, waving to Derek like, “Yoo-hoo, hottie! Over here!”

  Derek walks over but he has a puzzled look on his face like, “Do I know you?” Mackerel parts company for a second to head over to the deejay booth, no doubt to talk to his crush Chanel. Chanel is still tacking up the glittery letters on top of the cheetah fabric that covers the deejay booth. The letters spell “Bring It On!”

  “Wazzup, Dorinda,” Derek says, acknowledging me for once. Then he smiles at Danitra, who is obviously goospitating over him.

  “I saw you at the competition,” Danitra says, without introducing herself.

  Derek gives her a confused look, then catches on. “Oh, right—at the Cheetah Girls chompdown,” he says, chuckling. Then he realizes that Danitra was one of the performers. “Oh, yeah, you were dope, too.”

  “Yeah, I’m performing tonight, too,” Danitra brags.

  “Oh, yeah, so are we,” Derek says, motioning to Mackerel.

  “Well, bring it on,” chirps Danitra. “By the way, how come you weren’t at the rehearsal earlier then, huh?”

  “We had a hoop situation to tend to,” Derek says, bragging. “But anyway, pure spoken-word artistry is best displayed with just the artists and the microphone—on the stage, alone.” Derek gestures dramatically to get his point across.

  “The artist has spoken—hello!” butts in Malcolm Extra, in his singsongy voice.

  They carry on with their repartee, while I get back to finishing the banquet table. Now I’m starting to sweat, because the room is getting crowded with all the talent. I know it’s not the same as the guests, but I’m starting to feel the pressure building, you know what I’m saying?

  “Okay, listen up, talent!” yells Drinka. “We need for all of you to take a good look at the lineup sheet and know your place. If you have any questions about the production setup, take that up with Marty now. And if you’re changing into costumes to perform, everything should be in the dressing room now. Don’t wait till the last minute, or I will grade you—even if you’re fifty.”

  There is a loud chuckle around the room. Marty is the technical coordinator who is responsible for all the music and sound cues for the talent show. Meanwhile, Nestor, Chantelle, and Kenya come over to the banquet table to eye the tasty dishes. Kenya’s skirt is caught up in her waistband. I motion to Chantelle to fix it. (Chantelle is on look-nice duty, and she is supposed to make sure that all the kids behave so that Mrs. Bosco can get a break.) I look over at Mrs. Bosco sitting on one of the folding chairs, with Gaye on her lap. Sure enough, Ms. Simmons is talking with her—and I can hear her trying to tell her that everything is going to be okay. I notice that Ms. Simmons is carrying a big duffel bag on her shoulder. “Chantelle, go tell Ms. Simmons to put her costume in the dressing room,” I say, like a true talent coordinator.

  “I guess this food should be good enough for the cattle!” says Chardonnay, taking a break now that she has put up all the covered pans of food on the banquet table.

  “Is Mr. Simmons coming?” I ask her, wondering what Chanel’s father is up to tonight, I know he works even harder than Ms. Dorothea and Mr. Garibaldi. Chanel is always complaining that she doesn’t get to see him enough—especially since her mother, Ms. Juanita, hates his girlfriend, Princess Pamela.

  “He’ll probably be here before we finish, to help bring all the stuff back to the restaurant,” Chardonnay says blandly “The night manager done called in sick again.”

  I don’t say anything else, because I don’t think Chardonnay understands what I’m really asking. I shoot my eyes over at Chanel, who is having fun putting up the sign, and giggling with Mackerel, who is now helping her with the letters. I know it would mean a lot to Chanel if her father showed up and supported us. We’re real happy, though, that he provided so much food for our benefit. Now I wonder if Princess Pamela is going to be here, too. Chanel loves her.

  I glance over at Galleria, who is fixing the stage area with Ms. Dorothea. I motion for her to come over. She comes running. “Does Mrs. Simmons know if Princess Pamela is coming?” I whisper to her. “We don’t want another showdown at the Okie Dokie Corral tonight.” I’m referring, of course, to the drama we had in Houston. When we performed at the Urban Rodeo, we had a terrible run-in with a singing group from Oakland called the CMG (the Cash Money Girls), because they accused us of cribbing their lyrics. Obviously they were spoiled brats who needed their pacifiers, because they lost to us.

  Galleria giggles, then shrugs her shoulders, “They’re grown-ups. Let’s hope they remember that when Auntie Juanita gets the urge to strangle Princess Pamela with one of her belly dancing scarves and Princess P
amela gets the urge to draw blood like Dracula!”

  “Um, right,” I say, giving her a Cheetah Girls handshake.

  “Can you believe we did it?” Galleria says, gloating.

  “No, I can’t—yeah, I can,” I say, correcting myself.

  “The eats look thumpingly delicious,” Galleria says, nodding her head in approval at the buffet spread.

  “How do you know? The pans are covered,” I ask her, chuckling.

  Galleria looks at me like I should know better. “A cheetah never loses her sense of smell—don’t ever forget that!”

  Chapter

  9

  At last, every detail is taken care of, and we’re ready to “Bring It On!” The five of us stand right behind the sign-in table, so we can greet peeps with a cheetahfied welcome. Winnie, the receptionist at Drinka Champagne’s, has volunteered to take all the tickets and handle the money drawers. “Get paid, girls!” Winnie says, winking at us. She is even wearing a big cheetah flower in the lapel of her brown blazer in our honor. We all dig Miss Winnie because she has been feeling our flavor since jump street.

  “Dag on, I feel like I’m in the Miss America Pageant!” Aqua says, panting heavy and waving at the guests who are finally coming in.

  “I told you, thinking pink was the move—even for the Houston contingency of our group!” Galleria riffs at Aqua.

  “Contingency?” Aqua says, smirking. “You sure are paying more attention in English class than we are, Miss Galleria.”

  “Well, you know my lyrical flow is contingent on increasing my vocab, Miz Aquanette!” Galleria chuckles, imitating Aqua by waving at the guests like she just won the Miss America Pageant, too.

  “When we left he house tonight, Daddy asked us if we thought we had on enough poodles,” snickers Angie, smoothing down her cheetah skirt.

  “Well, I think we are changing our Daddy one spot at a time—and I can’t wait till he lets Coco come home!” adds Aqua.