“I’ll go turn down the television,” I announce, then head into the living room to do the dirty deed. Of course, pulling teeth would be easier than pulling all the kids away from the television so we can eat dinner.
“Growl!!” Topwe says, howling like a lion at the table.
“That’s enough, Topwe,” Mrs. Bosco says. “You just got over a cold—no need for you to carry on like you in the circus, young man.”
“I want to be in the circus!” Nestor yells out.
“I’m gonna be a lion tamer when I grow up,” Corky says, nodding his head, then clapping his hands together. “And feed my lions frogs.”
“I thought you liked frogs,” I say.
“They gonna like frogs, too,” Corky says, smiling.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m going to start crying again, so I put my head down—but I should have known Kenya wouldn’t miss a trick.
“Why you crying, Dorinda?” she asks, poking fun at me. “You scared of the lions?”
“I’m scared of the lions,” Nestor says, unfolding his napkin and putting it on his lap.
I don’t answer because I don’t want them to hear my voice cracking.
Everybody gets real quiet. I see them looking at each other like they all know what is going on. I look right at Twinkie and she gives me a look like, “I didn’t say nothing.” And I’m sure she didn’t, because with this many brothers and sisters, if somebody knew something they would have blabbed their mouths already.
Now Mr. Bosco comes to sit at the kitchen table. Whenever he is home, he sits at the head of the table like he’s the king of the jungle, which I guess he is in his house.
“Come sit next to me,” Mr. Bosco says to Corky. Corky’s whole face lights up, like he is really special. Nestor seems annoyed because he usually gets to sit next to Mr. Bosco at the dining room table.
“What you up to today?” Mr. Bosco asks Corky, running his hands through Corky’s curls.
“I almost got ate by a tiger on the television!” he shouts out, making Twinkie and Arba giggle.
“Well, you’d better change the channel the next time, before he get to your leg,” Mr. Bosco chuckles. “Legs don’t come easy.”
“They had a cheetah, too, like Dorinda!” Twinkie pipes up. “And they were swimming like Dorinda too—eating the fish!”
“That wasn’t a cheetah—that was the jaguar they said swam across the Panama Canal,” Chantelle says matter-of-factly.
Suddenly, I realize maybe it’s a good thing Chantelle reads all those Sistarella magazines because she remembers things and repeats it verbatim. And she was actually nice to me today, once she got a pair of clean underwear to put on.
“Oh, how did your show go?” Mr. Bosco asks, looking at me like he’s sorry he didn’t ask before.
“The Cheetah Girls won first place.”
“Should have known that,” Mr. Bosco says, chuckling, then shovels food in his mouth like he has to hurry up and go put out a forest fire somewhere.
I think about the fifty candles Twinkie wants to put on my birthday cake. I wonder if Mr. Bosco remembers my birthday is coming up.
Mr. Bosco helps Corky cut his meat loaf into smaller pieces. Nestor keeps eyeing them like, “What’s up?” Meanwhile, Mrs. Bosco is trying to help Gaye eat her food. Gaye is definitely a fussy eater. She won’t touch her macaroni and cheese, and spits out the meat loaf right onto her plate. Shawn stares at Gaye like she has lost her mind. As usual, though, he doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Bosco is being real patient with Gaye, who is the most difficult child we have ever had to live with. Finally, Mrs. Bosco gives up trying to feed her. I feel sad that our Kodak moment from earlier is definitely over.
“Who’s ready for dessert?” Mrs. Bosco asks.
Everybody screams, and Mrs. Bosco goes and gets the ice cream from the freezer. Gaye’s eyes don’t even light up when Mrs. Bosco hands her a cup, but at least it is the only thing she eats with no problem. On top of everything else, Mrs. Bosco has to start taking Gaye to a state-appointed child psychologist next week.
After dinner, I try real hard to concentrate on my homework, but I’m not feeling it. All I want to do is talk to my crew. Monie finally comes home and plops herself onto her bed in our room. I can tell by the way she says hello to me that she is upset about having to come home. Even though Monie is seventeen, Mrs. Bosco laid down the law: she has to be home at nine o’clock on school nights and Sunday nights as long as she lives here. Monie wants to be able to spend the night at Hector’s house, but Mrs. Bosco isn’t having it. I guess you could say the two of them aren’t exactly getting along these days like mellow Jell-O.
I glance over at Monie propped on her bed and debate whether I should tell her about the Corky situation. I decide not to. She probably doesn’t want to be bothered right now, so I leave her alone. Instead, I log on and go into the Phat Planet chat room so I can talk to my crew.
Assembling like cheetahs on the prowl, the five of us are finally all logged on. Of course, Galleria starts right in about the Operation: Save the Wild Cat Special.
Galleria: I don’t care what they say, cheetahs are not an endangered species, because we’re in the house!
Chanel: That’s right, mija—and everybody should stop messing with us, because we’re territorial!
Aqua: I bet you now everybody is scared of us—after last Saturday. At least uptown, anyway.
Of course, she is talking about our first-prize slam dunk at the “Can We Get A Groove” competition at the Harlem School of the Arts.
Angie: Well, we’re still gonna have to deal with that heffa JuJu Quinnonez come tomorrow.
The twins have two computers in their bedroom.
Galleria: Well, tell her to bring it on! ’cuz cheetahs are ferocious if you mess with us. And it’s not like we’re going around attacking peeps!!
Dorinda: Listen, I have to talk to y’all.
I don’t mean to break up their cheetah chatter, but I’m desperate.
Chanel: Well talk, mija.
I look over my shoulder to see if Monie is watching me, but she isn’t. She is lying on her side and is probably sleeping, even though she hasn’t taken off her clothes. I carefully explain the whole Corky situation to my crew.
Galleria: That sucks! Can’t Mrs. Bosco get a lawyer or something to fight back?
Dorinda: Mrs. Bosco can’t afford any lawyer. She just deals with the agency, but they’re just always pulling messed-up stuff.
I try to explain to my crew how hard it is for Mrs. Bosco to deal with those people down at the Administration of Children’s Services.
Galleria: Too bad we can’t go to see the Wizard of Oz and get some really good advice.
That makes me chuckle. The Wizard of Oz is Bubbles’s favorite story. She even has ruby slipper stickers and magnets all over her room.
Dorinda: I guess tomorrow will tell what the deal-io is. I hope that man was just some loony tune who is out of order like a vending machine.
Bubbles: Hasta lasagna.
After Bubbles signs off, I log off, then I sit frozen on my bed. I feel too spooked to get undressed and take a shower. It doesn’t help that they shut the heat off in the building at night. Shuddering, I lay down on my bed, fully dressed, and hide under the covers. I have a dream that a big fat tiger with sparkly dark yellow eyes walks into my bedroom and stares at me while I’m sleeping. I can’t move because I am so scared that he is going to bite me. I try to scream but nothing comes out of my mouth. It’s as if my tongue is frozen. I try to think loud thoughts so maybe he’ll hear me by telepathy: “I know you weigh five hundred seventy-six pounds, because I just saw a television special on you, but check this: I don’t have any ground beef under my bed, so why don’t you bounce and go bother somebody else!” But the scary tiger just sits there staring at me and licking his chops.
When I wake up in the morning I have been perspiring so much, my face is covered with sweat. I jump straight up out of my bed because I’m afraid I’m gonna s
ee that tiger sitting there—waiting for me to serve him breakfast. “Shoot,” I want to tell him, “you’re a day late and a dollar short, buddy, ’cause I only cook breakfast on Sundays!”
Chapter
4
Computer science class can’t end fast enough today. I am squirming in my chair waiting for the bell to ring for lunch period.
“Don’t forget, the first computer ENIAC was created in 1942—but kids back then didn’t have the advantages you have. You can use the computer to do your homework!” Mr. Leone shouts as we bolt out of class like a herd of cattle. “So no excuses, no typos—get the assignment in on time—on Wednesday!”
Sprinting down the stairs to the cafeteria, I run into LaRonda, one of my favorite peeps from math class. “You got any more ticket hookups?” LaRonda jokes.
“Nah, I got nothing for you but love.” I chuckle.
See, Mariah Carey heard about Gaye on the news and had her record company supply Mrs. Bosco with free tickets to her concert. Of course, Mrs. Bosco put me in charge of the tickets, and I hooked up the rest of the Cheetah Girls, and LaRonda, because she’s cool. I feel bad that I can’t hook LaRonda up with another whammy jam, but right now I have to meet Galleria so I can use her cell phone to call Mrs. Bosco. No way am I waiting till after school to get an update on the Corky drama deal-io.
“I gotta bounce,” I tell LaRonda as I jet down the stairs.
Bubbles is the first one out of the cafeteria. As usual she breaks into one of her riffs before I can snag her Miss Wiggy cell phone.
“Shoportunity is knocking—just three hours away!” Galleria says, grinning from ear to ear. Then she looks at me strangely, like I’m a walrus wearing a chiffon tutu at a pumpkin ball. “Do’, you have a hole in your sweater, hello?”
“Oh, my bad,” I grumble, looking down at the hole smack in the middle of my turtleneck. I was in such a trance this morning, I didn’t even realize that I was putting on the same stupid ribbed khaki sweater that I avoided putting on yesterday. What a trip: why didn’t somebody in my house pull my sleeve about my holey situation. I hate it when peeps aren’t looking out for me. I mean, I’m always looking out for them.
Galleria is still staring at me like I’ve committed a fashion crime. I scan down to see what’s putting the craw in her paw, but I can’t figure it out.
“Do’ Re Mi—why are you hording all the Frosted Mini-Wheats?” Galleria asks sarcastically.
“What?” I ask, puzzled.
“In your scalp,” Galleria says, wiping dandruff flecks off my sweater.
“Oh, my bad bad,” I say. Now I’m doubly embarrassed. With all the Corky drama yesterday, I was too freaked out to take a shower and wash my hair, so now I’m on my eighth day of dandruff disaster. (I only wash my hair once a week.)
Before I can ask Galleria to let me use her cell phone, she has peeped Chanel walking toward us with Mackerel and the Red Snapper in tow.
“So what’s next, Cheetah Girls?” Derek asks, grinning and showing off his shiny gold tooth.
“What’s next?” Galleria responds blankly. “Um, let’s see. Lunch, and we’re going alone?”
“Oh, it’s like that? Well, I guess I can’t tell you about our latest venture.” Derek puts on his mystery man pose, which involves stroking the faint peach fuzz on his chin while raising his left eyebrow and squinting.
“Oh, dígalo—tell us!” Chanel protests, fluttering her eyelashes like a lovebird.
“Awright. Y’all are staring at the tightest spoken-word group to hit the mike,” reveals Mackerel.
“Where are they?” Galleria asks, puzzled.
“Get wise—we’re right in front of your eyes,” Derek informs us.
“Now all we gotta do is find a venue where we can kick our floetry,” Mackerel adds proudly.
“Oh, you’re looking for a ‘venue’?” asks Galleria. “May I suggest the Batcave? We hear it’s available for performers who are, well, ‘winging it.”’
“Okay, you get the last laugh now, Cheetah Girl—but wait till you hear our flow. Then you’ll see that we got the skills to pay the bills, just like you do,” Derek replies, amused by Bubbles.
Galleria smiles faintly at Derek, then scans him up and down—from his stonewashed jean jacket covered with racing car stickers, down to his chubby Adidas with the laces untied. “Well, let’s just hope your rap attacks are better than your whack designs.”
“So who’s writing your lyrics?” Chanel asks before Galleria and Derek start sparring with shearing scissors.
“Unlike the Cheetah Girls—ours is more of a collaborative effort,” Derek says proudly, like he has finally scored in the snaps department. Chanel winces because Derek’s snap means that everybody in school knows about Chanel and Galleria’s major beef jerky when it comes to writing songs together. They almost beat each other up with umbrellas over the one song they wrote together, “It’s Raining Benjamins.”
“What’s the name of your group?” Chanel giggles. “Oh, espérate, wait! I know—yo se—Dynamic Duo?” Dynamic Duo is the nickname we gave Derek and Mackerel behind their backs.
“Mackerel and the Red Snapper,” Derek announces.
“Now, that’s what you call turning lemons into lemonade, I guess,” Galleria says, shaking her head. “Oops, now I’m getting thirsty. Guess it’s time to hit the Burger Box.”
“Roger that, ready to move out,” Derek chuckles, following us.
“Chuchie, pass me my bat spray!” Galleria stomps off so fast, we have to run after her.
Galleria’s stomp still doesn’t stop Derek and Mackerel from following us. They break into a silly rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Chanel starts giggling because it is actually pretty funny. “You sound like penguins on laughing gas!” she quips.
Galleria spins around. “If I click my heels three times, will you two disappear?”
“See you in Kansas, shortie!” Derek mumbles, and they walk off, probably to Wok ‘N Roll, which is their favorite lunchtime spot.
Once they’re gone, I finally blurt out to Chanel, “Please, I gotta use the phone!”
“Oh, here, mamacita!” Chanel says, all hyped up. She passes me her Miss Wiggy cell phone like it’s a magic wand. There is nothing like a shopping trip to get Chuchie on the supa-giddy tip. Galleria, on the other hand, seems annoyed about something.
“Mackerel was all over you like a rash,” Galleria huffs to Chanel.
“What happened?” stutters Chanel.
While we’re waiting on line at the Burger Box to place our order, I dial my home number. I am so nervous, I can hear my heart pounding. Meanwhile, Chuchie and Galleria are going at it like they’re still in designer diapers.
“Don’t try it, Chuchie—they aren’t spoken-word artists!” Galleria insists. “I bet you they can’t even put three letters together like, D.U.H.” (DUH are Derek’s initials—Derek Ulysses Hambone.) When the semester first started, Derek even had his initials shaved into the back of his head. Thank goodness he let that whack attack grow out.
“Would you like the Red Snapper if he didn’t have a gold tooth?” Chanel asks coyly.
“Only if he had a gold finger instead!” Galleria says, then stares at Chanel like, Snap out of it!
“What’s up with you, Do’?” Chanel asks while ogling the menu board. “Oh, my bad—you’re trying to find out—I know. Sorry.”
I keep my ear glued to the phone so I don’t lose the connection. On the second try, Mr. Bosco answers the phone in a gruff voice. My heart sinks even further. “Hi, Mr. Bosco,” I say/and I try to probe him for info.
“Hang on,” he says gruffly.
Now my heart is pounding all the way down into my Mad Monster boots. Mrs. Bosco gets on the phone and it sounds like someone has hit her in the chest, because her voice is really winded. “Yeah, I heard from Mrs. Tattle.”
I wait for Mrs. Bosco to say something else, but she doesn’t.
“Mrs. Bosco?” I repeat into the phone.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Um, what did she say,” I ask nervously.
“Those fools done given Corky’s father custody,” she says, like she is about to collapse. “Just waiting to hear now when they gonna take him.”
I am so shocked by this news that my eyes start to sting. Galleria and Chanel’s drama radar has gone off, and they are standing right by me, waiting to hear what is going on. “Did you tell them he was hanging around outside?” I protest. I can’t believe the foster-care people would give Corky to a stalker.
“They don’t care, Dorinda. The man done got custody—and soon as they finish the paperwork—Corky’s gone,” Mrs. Bosco says, like she is defeated.
Tears start streaming down my face. I stay quiet because I don’t want to upset Mrs. Bosco. I have never heard her voice sound like this before. Not the whole time I’ve lived there. Now I feel guilty about going shopping at the Girlie Show Boutique after school with my crew. “Um, I can come home right after school, if you want,” I say, stuttering.
“No—you go on with your friends. Ain’t nothing we can do now but pray for that boy,” Mrs. Bosco says, like she’s testifying. “’Cause Lord knows the people supposed to be running his life ain’t got no good sense. Next thing I know they be calling talking about they giving Gaye back to her mother. No matter that the woman done abandoned her child in a playground till the police find her. They do anything long as they ain’t got to do no more paperwork on something!”
I shudder at what Mrs. Bosco is saying. But she is right. How could they give Corky back to his father. This just can’t be happening. I am so numb that I just blurt out to Mrs. Bosco, “Where is Corky’s mother?”
“She long gone,” Mrs. Bosco mumbles.
I don’t know what Mrs. Bosco means by “long gone,” but I decide not to ask her any more questions right now. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Yes, pumpkin. Get yourself something nice. Y’all won that prize. Nobody can take that away from you.”
Like a mummy in a trance, I hand the phone to Galleria because I’ve forgotten that it’s Chanel’s cell phone. Galleria gives Chanel back her phone.
Bring It On! Page 4
