“Still clicking!” I say, smiling back. Last year, right after Christmas, someone threw out this really good computer, and Mr. Hammer fixed it up and gave it to me. It makes doing my homework a lot easier, and now I can talk to my crew on the Internet, you know what I’m saying? That reminds me, I was supposed to go online last night and say good night to Chanel, but I forgot, with all the drama going on in my house.
The trains are running on time—which is good, because I want to get to school early, so I can help Chanel if she needs it. Today is her first day back at school since her accident, and she may have a hard time getting around.
When I finally get to school, I head for the lockers, where I meet my crew before homeroom. A whole bunch of people are there, crowded around Chanel. I should have known she would be milking her crutches for points. She smiles at me like she’s in a beauty contest, and stands there posing by the lockers, like she’s holding a pair of designer crutches or something.
“Hey, wazzup?” I say to Galleria, since Chanel is busy holding court.
Before Galleria even says hello, she shoves a newspaper right in my face. “My mom saved this for us from the newspaper, so we could see it when we got back from Houston,” she says, smirking.
My stomach flutters as I read the article with Galleria. Chanel stops holding court to join us, and balances herself by leaning on my shoulder. I read the article out loud, while Galleria looks over one of my shoulders and Chanel leans on the other one:
“‘A copyright infringement suit was filed in L.A. on November 15 against pop star Kahlua Alexander, 19, by songwriter Mon’ E Richardz. Richardz claims that Alexander’s song “Plucked by Def Duck” borrows too heavily from one of his own, “Goose on the Loose,” recorded by In the Dark on 1999’s Struck by a Monkey Cane. The lawsuit claims Alexander wrongfully gave songwriting credit to herself and producer Mouse Almighty, a.k.a. Sean Johnson. Richardz seeks undisclosed damages. Alexander’s publicist contends, “Several musicologists have stated there is no copyright infringement. Kahlua, Mon’ E, and Def Duck Records did not copy the song.””’
“Wow—a musicologist. That sounds deep, right?” Galleria riffs. “See, this goes to show it’s not so easy to call something copyright infringement right out of the box.”
“What does ’undisclosed damages’ mean?” I ask, still staring at the article.
“A lot of duckets in the bucket, that’s for sure,” Galleria says, like she’s an expert. “That’s what my mom says. I bet Mon’ E Richardz would probably settle for whatever royalty juice he could squeeze out of Kahlua’s songwriting oranges, huh?”
“I guess,” I say, not really sure.
“Mom says a lot of artists fight over this all the time. But it costs a lot of money to sue somebody, because then you’ve got to prove that they stole your flavor.” Galleria ponders for a moment. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if we tried to write original songs in the future, though.”
Wow—that’s the first time I heard Galleria say “we.” I wonder if she means that she and Chanel will be writing another song together. Not that I’m asking, okay? “Then again, being in the studio with Mouse Almighty singing anybody’s songs would be like music to my ears,” Galleria says, heaving a deep sigh.
“I hear that,” I moan. “I wish we could start rehearsing again.”
“I wish we could go to Mariah Carey’s concert tomorrow,” Chanel moans.
“Well, we don’t have Mariah Carey money for the tickets—I mean, fifty duckets in the bucket is kinda steep, mamacita,” Galleria counters.
“I hear that,” I moan again. “I’d love to go to see Mariah Carey, too, you know what I’m saying? But I’m not paying!”
We crack up, and help Chanel go upstairs to her homeroom. Galleria and Chanel are in the same homeroom class, since they both major in Fashion Merchandising. I major in Fashion Design, so I have to go to the fourth floor by myself.
“How come you didn’t log on to the chat room last night?” Chuchie asks me, still hanging on my shoulder.
“I couldn’t,” I answer softly. I guess it’s time to tell my crew about Gaye. I take a deep breath, and tell them everything that’s happened so far.
“You mean someone just left her by herself in the street?” Chanel asks in disbelief.
“Yeah—I guess so,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Mrs. Bosco says the police have put up flyers all around Coney Island, where she was found, but nobody has come forward with any information.”
Chanel gets tears in her eyes, so I pull out a tissue, just in case she needs it.
Galleria puts out her hand and does the Cheetah Girls handshake with me, but she seems dazed and confused, too. “Maybe someone will come and get her. If not, maybe we can figure something out.”
“Maybe.” I part ways with my crew. Taking the stairway up to the fourth floor, I think about what Galleria said. If anyone could track down a missing person, it would definitely be Bubbles. I mean, when the twins’ uncle Skeeter was missing while we were in Houston, she’s the one who figured out how to find him—or else he might have stayed missing for a whole lot longer. Maybe we could find Gaye’s mother. On the other hand, what’s the use of finding a mother who doesn’t want her?
By the time I get to my last class of the day—sociology—I’ve forgotten all about my problems at home. That is, until the teacher, Mrs. Garber, tells us our class project: “Although most of you were born in this country, you’ll discover that many of your great-grandparents, or even your grandparents, weren’t. I want you to create a time line for one of your parents, tracing their origins, and making them parallel whatever historical events were happening in this country at the time. You don’t have to account for every year of your parent’s life, but most of them.” Mrs. Garber draws a diagram of a time line on the board, and puts years next to the lines on the graph.
I can’t do this! I want to yell. I don’t even know where my parents are! I don’t even know who they are!
Mrs. Garber isn’t finished giving me a headache. “After the time line, I want you to write an essay about your parent’s migration pattern—describing in detail why they moved, what city in the United States they moved to, and what year. Don’t go overboard, giving every detail of your parent’s life. For example, we don’t want to know what your mother ate for breakfast on the day you were born, okay?”
Some of the students in the class laugh at Mrs. Garber’s joke. I just want to cry. I’ll bet they know what their mother had for breakfast on the day they were born. I don’t even know where I was born. Sinking into my chair, I just wish I could do a Houdini and disappear on the spot. How am I supposed to find out all this stuff, huh? By snapping my fingers?
“The migration essay should only be about three to four typewritten pages,” Mrs. Garber continues. “We’re not looking for Roots. Just have fun with it. If you do this assignment properly, you’ll get a greater sense of the history that’s living right under your noses. Everyone understand?”
I stare at Mrs. Garber’s bright red blazer until it becomes a blur. What am I going to do? I decide to wait until after everyone leaves the classroom, then talk to Mrs. Garber on the D.D.L. I would be embarrassed if anybody overheard my conversation, you know what I’m saying?
“Um, Mrs. Garber, can I speak to you?” I finally ask, my voice cracking.
“Yes, Dorinda, I’ll be right with you,” she says, scribbling something on some papers, then closing her folder. She looks me straight in the face, and asks, “Are you having trouble understanding the assignment for the class project?”
“Um, yeah. I, um, don’t know how I’m going to do it,” I say, shaking my head.
“Why not?” she asks.
“I don’t, um, know much about my parents, so I don’t know how I’m gonna complete—I mean—even do the project.” I hope Mrs. Garber will get the drift without me having to spell it out.
“Who do you live with?” Mrs. Garber asks, concerned.
Now I guess I
do have to tell her. “My foster parents,” I say, and I feel myself getting embarrassed again.
“Okay—well then, ask one of your foster parents if you can do a time line on one of them,” Mrs. Garber says cheerfully.
I just stand there like a statue, so I guess Mrs. Garber figures something is still wrong—and it is. I don’t want to ask Mrs. or Mr. Bosco so much stuff about their business. If they wanted me to know, they would have told me. I don’t really know that much about them, except that Mrs. Bosco was born in North Carolina, and her grandfather worked as a tobacco sharecropper.
“I understand what you’re going through, Dorinda,” Mrs. Garber says, putting her arm on my shoulder.
Yeah, that’s what a lot of people tell me so I don’t feel bad, but they don’t really understand what I’m going through.
“My grandparents were killed in the Holocaust, like many other Jews. After the war, many kids were placed in foster homes—including my mother,” Mrs. Garber says, putting her arm around me.
“Really?” I ask, surprised. I guess she does understand—a little.
“There are so many stories in my family tree that are missing, that I would never be able to complete this assignment either. Do the best you can, Dorinda,” Mrs. Garber tells me.
“Um—did they kill a lot of Jewish people in the Holo—”
“The Holocaust? Yes. Millions were killed, but the human spirit cannot be stopped. I think tragedy makes you appreciate the people in your life—the ones who really do care about you. I’m sure your foster mother will be happy to provide you with enough information for your time line.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Garber,” I say, then walk downstairs to meet my crew. Without even thinking, I go instead to the telephone booths by the cafeteria, and call my half sister Tiffany. “Um, you still want me to come over?”
“Yeah!” Tiffany responds, sounding really excited to hear my voice.
Walking toward the school exit, I take a deep breath, and find myself smiling. Mrs. Bosco was right I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth—but I am gonna check to see if Tiffany has hooves!
Chapter
4
To get to Tiffany’s house, on Eighty-second Street off Park Avenue, I have to take two trains, then walk. I can’t believe all the kids I see walking around in private-school uniforms—they look like they’re in an army or something, except for all the giggling. And the uniforms are all different, too—plaid and solid, gray, red, blue, navy—which means there are a lot of private schools in this neighborhood. I can tell some of the girls are rolling up their skirts at the waistband on the sneak tip, because their skirts look a little too short around their knobby knees, if you know what I’m saying. And some of the boys have mad funny haircuts, too.
Even with all the gangs of kids walking around, it’s a lot quieter in this neighborhood than mine. I can even hear some birds chirping. I open the door to Tiffany’s building, but a doorman wearing white gloves beats me to it. Wow, I’ve never been in a building with a doorman! His uniform is green, with black and gold trim. He’s wearing a hat with trim around it, too. I get a little nervous, and straighten my back so I seem taller—which is still a lot shorter than the doorman.
I feel strange asking for Tiffany Twitty, but I guess the doorman must be used to hearing her funny last name by now. He just asks for my name, without cracking a smile.
“Miss Rogers,” I say, being polite, and standing aside so people can walk by me. See, Tiffany’s real name, before she got adopted by the Twittys, was Karina Farber. That’s what she told me, anyway She said she found a baby picture of herself, that her parents kept in a locked safety box, and that her real name was written on the back. Tiffany seems like a supa sleuth, even if it took her eleven years to figure out she was adopted—which was something the Twittys didn’t want her to know.
The doorman rings Tiffany’s apartment, then directs me to a bank of gilded elevators. They even have furniture in the lobby—a big burgundy couch, chairs, and a statue spouting water! Wow, I knew her parents were rich, but I didn’t know Tiffany had it like that!
When the elevator door opens, there’s already a lady inside, with a little white poodle. I don’t mean to stare at the lady, but the beady eyes on the head of the fox stole around her neck are staring right at me! Then her dog sniffs at my legs, and suddenly I get embarrassed. The lady sees the look on my face, then asks me, “Do you have a dog?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, he’s sniffing at something.”
Oh, no. Maybe he’s sniffing at the garbage from the courtyard of our building that I stepped in this morning! Suddenly I feel really dirty. I wonder if it’s such a good idea that I came here. Maybe Tiffany’s parents don’t know I’m coming over, and they wouldn’t like it if they found out.
“Come on, Baubles, let’s go,” the lady says, pulling her dog’s shiny leash. I wonder if those are diamonds. Nah, they’re probably rhine-stones. The lady doesn’t say good-bye to me when she gets out of the elevator. So I shout after her, “Have a nice day.”
“Oh—yes, you too, dear,” the startled lady says, turning around abruptly.
When Tiffany opens her apartment door, I greet her the same way. “Hello, dear!”
“Wazzup with you?” Tiffany says, her big blue eyes brightening when she sees me. I wonder why she’s talking differently than when I first met her in Central Park. She’s even wearing a cheetah turtleneck over her gray sweatpants.
“Check out your spots,” I say, chuckling. I think Tiffany needs a little fashion coordination, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I met one of your neighbors in the elevator,” I say, leaving the fashion bone alone for a sec.
“Who?”
“This, um, foxy lady with a white poodle,” I say, then start to laugh. Whenever I get around Tiffany, I seem to get a case of the giggles.
“Oh, Mrs. Chirpy,” Tiffany says, covering her mouth.
“That’s not her real name!”
“Yes, it is! Her husband owns Chirpy Cheapies catalog, and her dog, Baubles, has bad breath.”
Now I double over laughing, wondering how Tiffany makes up all these tall tales she tells. “How do you know he has bad breath—did you kiss him?”
“No!” Tiffany says, falling into me. “One day, this lady with a German shepherd got into the elevator, and Baubles went to kiss him, and the German shepherd barked.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a her?” I challenge her.
“Who?”
“The German shepherd—maybe it was a girl?”
“Maybe—but she sure didn’t like Baubles sniffing her butt, ’cuz she whacked Baubles in the face with her big black tail!” Tiffany giggles, then plops down on the couch, sticking her shoeless feet under her.
We could never do that at my house—even though both the couches are so raggedy, Mrs. Bosco says she doesn’t want them to get more messed up than they already are. “You stay home by yourself?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Tiffany says, but when she hears a noise down the hallway, she quickly adds, “sometimes—when my brother isn’t here.”
“Oh,” I say, ’cuz I don’t want her to feel bad for exaggerating.
“He’s in tenth grade—his name is Eric the Ferret.”
I wonder if Tiffany’s brother is adopted, like she is, but I decide it would be rude to ask, so I don’t. Looking around the living room, I notice there are lots of Lucite boxes with dead butterflies hanging on the walls. “I wish Twinkie could see those,” I say.
“Oh, those are my father’s. Wanna see the pictures from Thanksgiving?” Tiffany asks excitedly.
“Yeah,” I say, then put my backpack down on the carpet. Looking around at all the beautiful furniture and flowers in vases, I exclaim, “Wow, your house is nice.” The living room almost looks like it’s out of a magazine or something. They probably have a maid who comes in to clean the house every day.
Tiffany proudly hands me a stack of photos. In the first one, she is sta
nding outside of a log cabin with her parents, and a tall boy with blond hair and big white teeth.
“That’s Eric the Ferret—see, his teeth are really big.”
“Oh. Where is this at?”
“It’s our house in Massachusetts. We go there on weekends, and Thanksgiving and Christmas, too. In the summer it’s cool, because there is a big lake to go swimming in.”
“Well … I got to go to Houston for Thanksgiving.”
“Really?” Tiffany acts like she’s really interested, so I tell her all about the Cheetah Girls’ adventures in H’Town—leaving out the showdown at the Okie-Dokie Corral, of course—with those fake wannabe Cash Money Girls, who tried to run us out of Dodge over some stupid beef jerky.
“You got any pictures?” Tiffany asks excitedly.
“We bought a cheetah photo album when we were there, and now I’m gonna keep all the pictures we take,” I announce proudly. Then I realize she wants to see them now. “Um, but I didn’t bring it with me.”
“Oh,” Tiffany says, disappointed.
I tell Tiffany about the mouse in the kosher restaurant. She breaks out in a fit of giggles. “Oooo!” she squeaks, her eyes lighting up. “You wanna see my hamster, Miggy? He’s in my bedroom.”
Tiffany’s bedroom is just like I expected it to be—frilly, pink, and filled with stuffed animals, CDs, and posters of singers—everybody from Mariah Carey to Kahlua Alexander to Limp Bizkit.
”Oh—you like Kahlua?” I ask, standing in front of the big poster of my favorite singer. Kahlua is responsible for the Cheetah Girls getting the hookup with Def Duck Records—even though nothing has happened yet. I explain this all to Tiffany, almost knocking into her fancy scooter, which is propped up against the wall.
“I wish I could put my hair in braids like Kahlua’s,” she says.
“She doesn’t have braids anymore,” I tell her. “We met her at Churl It’s You! salon when she was getting her hair done for this movie.”
Dorinda Gets a Groove Page 3
