Bring It On!

by Deborah Gregory

  Our “Cheetah chatter” is interrupted by a group of incoming guests whom I don’t recognize. After paying Winnie, they make their way in, and we give them our very best Cheetah Girls welcome. “Thank you for coming to our ‘Bring It On!’ benefit!” Chuchie says enthusiastically.

  “Have we met before?” asks Galleria. That’s the code word for “peeps we don’t know approaching.”

  “Princess Pamela, yes?” the lady responds in a really thick accent.

  “Oh, you know Princess Pamela!” squeals Chuchie with delight. “Is she coming?”

  “She is, I’m sure. She is back,” the lady responds, nodding dramatically. Now I remember what Chuchie told us a few weeks ago. That Princess Pamela had gone back to Romania to fight for her family’s property that was confiscated when the Communists took over. I guess my family is not the only one fighting with government agencies, if you know what I’m saying.

  “Well, we’re the Cheetah Girls,” Galleria says politely. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! Lo siento!” Chuchie says, embarrassed. “I’m Chanel—Princess Pamela’s, um—”

  “We understand,” the lady says. “We know who you are. I’m Pavlova Pratz, and this is my husband, Emil, and Rucsandra is our daughter.”

  “Nice to meet you!”’ exclaims Chanel.

  “You are her stepdaughter, yes? Ah, beeneh. She has told us so much about you, Mrs. Pratz says, beaming at Chanel. “She cares for you very much.”

  Chanel reaches out her arms to give Mrs. Pratz a hug, and whispers, “I can’t wait to see her!”

  “I like your outfits,” Rucsandra says shyly. She is about ten years old and has on a pair of powder-blue UGG boots. Now I really want a pair.

  “Those boots are popping up everywhere, like sheep,” comments Galleria, like a fashion reporter, after the Pratz family heads to the coat-check area.

  By now, peeps are piling in and we are greeting everybody. The room fills up with guests, and it looks like we’ve got quite a shindig going on. My whole face lights up when my sister Tiffany appears, with her parents in tow.

  “Omigod, you look cheetah-licious, mamacita!” Tiffany barks loudly. Chanel giggles loudly at hen Tiffany is always trying to talk like, well, the Cheetah Girls, but it sounds supa funny coming out of her mouth. She gives me a big hug.

  “Word. I like your perfume,” I tell Tiffany, giving her shoulder an extra sniff. She smells like a fresh apple orchard.

  “It’s called ‘Cheetah-licious,’ by Canine Klein. Do you really like it?” Tiffany asks.

  “Cheetah-licious?” I say, surprised, because we sure never heard of it.

  “I’m just pulling your weave, mamacita!” Tiffany heckles like a hyena. “It’s called ‘Fresh.”’

  “Oh, I got you,” I say, my dimples stuck in smiling mode.

  Now peeps are really piling in and Tiffany realizes that we are playing hostesses, so she says, “Oh, I’ll see you later, Dorinda! Bye, Galleria, see you later, mamacitas!”

  We are all still giggling after Tiffany leaves. She actually looks cute in her cheetah outfit.

  “Wow, who are all these peeps?” I whisper to Chanel.

  “I don’t know. Yo no sé, pero, keep smiling!” orders Chuchie.

  Looking around the room, I recognize some peeps from Fashion Industries, and the rest I don’t who they are. Aqua seems to know a few of them, because they go to Performing Arts East. Of course, a lot of the guests are Ms. Dorothea’s and Drinka Champagne’s clients and friends.

  All of a sudden, Deejay Frankie Feelgood starts kicking tracks—house music, which I’m not really into, but Galleria loves. “Omigod, I can’t believe he’s digging up Chicago house music,” Bubbles bursts out.

  “What is it?” Aqua asks.

  “This is like Paradise Garage jammies from back in the day—I think it’s Adonis. No, no—it’s that group Kraze. I love them!” Galleria boasts. She does know a lot about house music because of Ms. Dorothea.

  I have no idea what artists Galleria is talking about, but I know I’ll be glad when Frankie changes up his rotation and hits us with some hip-hop tracks. Galleria and Chanel start getting their groove on a little, but we’re still nervous because the Def Duck Record peeps haven’t shown up yet. Neither has Princess Pamela, which I think is a good thing. I don’t want Mrs. Simmons and her to get into a beef jerky situation.

  Drinka Champagne is running around like the disco diva of the hour. She really knows how to make sure peeps are having fun. I also can’t help but notice how much she is flirting with the twins’ father, Mr. Walker.

  “She definitely has a crush on your father,” comments Galleria.

  “Yeah, well, I sure hope she asks our daddy out for a date.” Aqua chuckles. “Even though we know he won’t go!”

  We all snicker at Aqua’s prediction, as our Mistress of Ceremonies, Constellation Jones, makes her grand entrance. The whole room buzzes with her presence, but she is immediately whisked to the dressing room so she can get her diva makeup done by makeup artist Fave Rave (also a customer of Ms. Dorothea’s) and have her hair done by Pepto B.—our favorite hairstylist.

  Ms. Dorothea also runs to the dressing room area to make sure the “Say, What?” diva is happy with the gowns she has selected from Toto in New York… Fun in Diva Sizes. Mr. Garibaldi delivered a whole rack of gowns for Constellation Jones to choose from.

  Finally, Galleria blurts out what we’re all thinking: “Where are the Def Duck peeps? Could someone please put them in a boat with a faster paddle so they’ll get here before we turn into cheetah pumpkins!”

  As usual, Galleria is right. If the Def Duck Records executives come too late, we are definitely going to turn into—something.

  “Well, maybe we should just strap ourselves in, because it looks like it’s going to be a roller coaster ride tonight!” Galleria sighs, then announces: “I gotta grab some chips and a dip before I crunch my nails instead!”

  Now the photographer that Drinka invited from the Amsterdam News shows up and takes a picture of us!

  “You know how to spell our names, right?” Galleria asks him.

  Chuchie pokes her in the side. Twinkie runs right up and shows the photographer her camera. “How come your camera is bigger than mine?” Twinkie asks him, giggling.

  “Well, young lady, maybe you should take that up with Santa.” The photographer chuckles, then excuses himself.

  We all run over to the banquet table, because the food is finally being served and we are starving. Everyone is drinking, eating, and having fun, so there is no reason for us to be on meet-and-greet duty at the door anymore.

  Finally, Constellation Jones is ushered to the stage. We notice that the Def Duck Record peeps still haven’t arrived. We wave at Pepto B. and Fave Rave, who are standing near the stage. Pepto B. throws us hugs and kisses. Ms. Dorothea is huddled at the side of the stage with the technical coordinator, Marty. Deejay Frankie Feelgood puts his tracks on pause, and peeps start clapping, so we all know the benefit is about to jump off.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Constellation Jones says, taking the microphone off the stand. She is wearing a sparkly, sequined leopard dress that trails on the floor like a diva mermaid gown.

  “Ariel would be panting if she saw this tasty tuna number.” Galleria chuckles. She is referring to Ariel, the little mermaid—one of Twinkie’s favorite Disney characters. “That’s a five thousand creation, fit for a dip in the Atlantica.”

  “Word?” I say, impressed. I notice that Fave Rave even glued sparkly sequins in the corners of Constellation’s eyes. I nudge Galleria and put my finger to my eyes so that Galleria gets my drift.

  She whispers in my ear, “I’m going batty over those!” She flutters her eyelashes like she’s doing Morse code—imitating Drinka Champagne.

  “I want each and every one of you to thank yourselves for coming out this evening. I mean it. Take your hand, kiss it, and say, ‘Thank you!”’ says Constellation Jones, flashing her million-
dollar smile. “Now, I kiss my hand every morning that God sees fit for me to wake up. But that’s just me, okay.”

  The crowd chuckles at her joke. The photographer from the Amsterdam News runs to the front of the stage, crouches, and starts snapping a million photos of Constellation Jones.

  “But I’m asking you to say thank-you to yourselves for a different reason. I know you could be at home watching the Sex and the City rerun marathon,” Constellation Jones banters, looking around at the audience. “Except for our younger divettes, of course—whom I’m sure would much rather be studying algebra on a Saturday night!” Constellation chuckles at her own joke. Galleria pokes Chanel in the back.

  “But you’re here because you care about the fate of one very special child—and because one woman has said, ‘Uh-uh, you can’t just pass our kids around like Popsicles. We care a little more about our kids than that. And we also care who is granted the authority to care for them’,” continues Constellation Jones. “If you don’t know the woman I’m talking about—Mrs. Eunice Bosco, could you stand up, please?”

  My heart stops. I can’t believe that Constellation Jones is calling out Mrs. Bosco like that. Mrs. Bosco is so shy. I look around the room, searching for Mrs. Bosco, but I can’t see her. All of a sudden, Mrs. Bosco stands up and everyone in the room claps. Mrs. Bosco smiles, then waves, and sits back down. Galleria grabs my hand and Chanel grabs my other one.

  “Yes, Mrs. Eunice Bosco is going to fight the foster-care system. A foster-care system that arbitrarily decides the fate of children who can’t make decisions for themselves,” Constellation Jones says, getting serious. Everyone in the audience gets quiet. “Because of your contributions to the ‘Bring It On!’ benefit, we are going to give a mother and a child the chance to fight for their fate. Not let someone else decide.”

  Twinkie runs over to me and grabs my leg. “Is she talking about Corky?” Twinkie asks, whispering. I put my finger over my mouth for her to be quiet.

  “I love kids so much, when my dear friend Dorothea Garibaldi—do y’all know this fabulous woman here?” Constellation Jones asks the crowd, pointing to Ms. Dorothea, who is still standing near the stage. “Well, if you don’t know Ms. Dorothea, then you’d better ask someone, okay!”

  The crowd starts cheering again. “This is the reason why I’m on television every morning looking as fabulous as all you size-two heffas out there! Look at this gown—but stand back, ’cause you can’t have it—it’s an original, like the diva who designed it!” Constellation Jones cracks herself up again. Now I can see why she is on television, because she sure knows how to “break it down.”

  The crowd cheers some more, and Ms. Dorothea throws air kisses with her hands to everyone in the audience.

  “You’d better work, supermodel Mom!” Galleria screams.

  “Okay, where was I—Lord, I get to testifying like I’m in church, and get carried away,” reveals Constellation Jones, patting her forehead with a tissue. “Like I was saying, when Ms. Dorothea told me the purpose for this benefit, I was truly honored, because I stand for our children’s welfare. So let’s give a hand to those adorable Cheetah Girls and Ms. Dorothea for putting together this benefit that brought all of us together this evening.”

  As the crowd claps, Constellation Jones continues to talk, letting the audience know she could go till the break of dawn with her flow. “In case you don’t know—one of the Cheetah Girls is Ms. Dorothea’s daughter. Show us your growl power, Miss Galleria.”

  Galleria throws up her left arm and cups her hand to make the growl power sign for the crowd. “Growl power forever!” Galleria shouts.

  “I understand that another one of the Cheetah Girls also lives with Mrs. Bosco. I’m sorry—” Constellation cups her hand to hear someone in the audience. “Yes, that’s right—Dorinda—show us your growl power.”

  I cup my hand, too, and wave smiling around the room. Now I breath a sigh of relief because I’m so glad that Constellation Jones did not call me a foster child.

  “Do’ Re Mi is in the house!” screams Galleria. “And it’s her birthday!”

  “Happy birthday, darling,” Constellation Jones says, congratulating me. “So, let’s get busy with the fabulous lineup of talent here to entertain you. ’Cause you know we about to give you your money’s worth. And there’s also a fabulous deejay, if I can just remember his fabulous name.”

  “Frankie Feelgood!” Drinka Champagne screams from the crowd.

  “Yes, now I know why I’ve been feeling so good all evening,” Constellation Jones moans in a deep voice. “Mr. Frankie is bringing me back to my youth, when I’d stay out all night getting my groove on instead of waking up at five o’clock in the morning to go to work. Oh—and y’all remember Drinka Champagne—Miss Sippin’ and Tippin’? I know I’m aging myself, but that was one of the songs that kept me out all night. Oooh, I loved that song.”

  While Constellation Jones keeps her chatter up for a few more minutes, I keep eyeing the room, hoping to catch one of the Def Duck executives making an entrance. I don’t see anybody who looks like a Big Willie record executive, but I do see Princess Pamela in her bright red flowered shawl coming through the door. I elbow Chanel and motion with my eyes toward the door. Chanel claps her hands together like a kid and squeals, “Yeah—now we can Bring It On!”

  Chapter

  10

  Finally, it looks like Constellation Jones is going to surrender the mike: “All right, let me get to the entertainment portion of this evening,” she says, whipping out her stack of index cards. We glance over at Derek and Mackerel. It was Galleria’s idea that they should be first in the lineup. “Throw some ice cubes into a hot frying pan and they’re not going to last,” she quipped when we made out the lineup list.

  “Derek Ulysses Hambone originally hails from the motor city, Detroit, Michigan, while Mackerel Johnson grew up off the coast of Pensacola, Florida. That’s near my hometown, too!” exclaims Constellation, flashing her teeth on overtime. I wonder if she had braces like Bubbles did, because her teeth are really perfect. “When they realized that they shared the same universal groove, the two Fashion Industries East freshman design majors joined forces, becoming the dynamic duo Mackerel and the Red Snapper. Here tonight to give you a logical—oh, I’m sorry—lyrical dose of this message—‘Fashion is a Passion but Peace is Betta than Hair Grease.’ Okay, darlings and darlings, please welcome to the stage, Mackerel and the Red Snapper!”

  “Go, Mackerel!” Chanel hoots, rallying up support for her secret “boo.” Chuchie catches Galleria’s blank expression and quickly adds, “The first spot is always the hardest, mija!”

  “That’s right—hook it up, Red Snapper!” whistles Danitra from across the room.

  Galleria throws us a look like, “Somebody hand her some ice cubes, too, please.”

  Mackerel and the Red Snapper grin from ear to ear as they step to the microphone. We all wait with bated breath to hear this lyrical flow.

  “Your thigh-high boots are a mystery to me, but the color of your skin I never see,” riffs Mackerel.

  “It’s you inside that makes me glide on a universal cloud, so don’t make me shroud inside your goosed-down Starter Jacket,” riffs Derek, doing a slick James Brown slide away from the mike.

  The crowd goes wild. Danitra whistles from the back again. Now we’re gagulating over Mackerel and the Red Snapper’s lyrical skills. Galleria’s mouth is open so wide, a tooth fairy could pay her a surprise visit.

  “Who knew?” Chanel says, her eyes opening wide.

  Aqua and Angie throw us a look like, “They’re real good.”

  The Red Snapper and Mackerel continue dropping tasty lyrics: “You may wonder why I wear my lace-ups unlaced when I’m face-to-face with the reality of a world tied down by the color of my skin,” riffs Red Snapper in a slow, melodic style. “Well, wonder this. Why does someone need a Wonderbra to bring da noise, when we’re always poised—without the crutches. Lies. Alibis. Tries. For four hundred
years?” riffs Mackerel, breaking out into an explosive cadence that makes the audience erupt again in rapid applause.

  “That was tight,” I say, clapping loudly. The five of us look at each other and shake our heads. It’s definitely on tonight. When Mackerel and the Red Snapper leave the stage, Aqua sighs. “Whew. We got a good show tonight.”

  Constellation Jones applauds the rappers loudly. “Why doesn’t my boyfriend talk to me like that?” After cracking herself up again, she announces Destinee and Savannah to the stage. We are so hyped by the vibe in the room that we shimmy and shake to the Karma track, “We’re Two Independent.” After Destinee and Savannah finish their number—which is a little heavier on the giggles than it was during rehearsal—we are all pumped up to see Drinka Champagne.

  Meanwhile, Danitra has sidled over to Derek like a silly groupie, and Galleria is not having it. “You should have been nicer to him, mija!” Chanel teases Bubbles.

  “Okay, darlings and darlings, please welcome my girl, Miss Drinka Champagne,” squeals Constellation Jones.

  “Hold up, let’s check this,” I whisper to Chanel. This is the first time we’ve ever seen the fabulous Drinka Champagne perform live, even though we know the words to her hit single by heart.

  “So you think you broke my heart and are coming back for a brand-new start. Well, mister—I’m just sippin’ when I’m not tippin’ out the door to look for Mister Right Now, so don’t put up a fight!”

  We all break out in uncontrollable giggles watching Drinka doing her disco number. She gyrates like the old-school disco dancers used to, and even breaks out into a split. “Go, Drinka. Go, Drinka!” we shout, clapping along. Watching Drinka perform in front of older people, we can see that she really does have a lot of fans. I mean, you can tell some of the peeps are definitely going down memory lane for this old-school jammy. Even people who were acting all straight and narrow when they first got here are now shaking their groove thing to Drinka’s beat! Even the Pratz family and Princess Pamela are grooving! I look around for Ms. Simmons, but she is probably in the back changing into her belly dancing costume. I notice that even Galleria’s dad, Mr. Garibaldi, is waving his hands wildly in the air like he just don’t care. Now the whole room is chanting, “Go, Drinka! Go, Drinka! Go, Drinka! Go, Drinka!”