Dorinda Gets a Groove

by Deborah Gregory

  “Really?” Tiffany asks, impressed. “But I like her hair better with braids.” Tiffany smooths down her fine, blond hair, then adds, “My hair is more like Marian’s when she straightens it.”

  “You like Mariah, too.” I smile.

  “Are you kidding? I want to see her in concert this Friday, but my parents won’t let me go,” Tiffany says, annoyed.

  I wonder why they won’t. I’ll bet they could afford the fifty dollars for the cheapest tickets. Maybe they think she’s too young or something.

  “Is the record company really going to let you go in the studio and record songs?” Tiffany asks excitedly.

  “I guess—they said they would team us with producer Mouse Almighty—you know, he worked on Karma’s Children, Kahlua, and Sista Fudge’s records, too.”

  “Really?” Tiffany asks with bugged eyes. Every time I tell her anything about the Cheetah Girls, she acts like a kid in a candy store. Soon I get to hear why.

  “I want to be a singer too,” she confesses, kind of self-consciously.

  “Let me hear you sing,” I say, egging her on so I can see if she has the skills to pay the bills.

  “Not now,” she says, getting all coy and blushing. She walks over to a pink trunk in the corner of the room and says, “See? Look in my glamor trunk. I was a Cheetah Girl, too—even when I was little.” Holding up a tiny cheetah skirt with a matching cape, Tiffany puts it against herself and wiggles her hips. “I used to walk around the house wearing this outfit, and singing like Mariah Carey—’I’m just your butterfly, baby!”’

  I chuckle at Tiffany’s squeaky voice.

  “I’m just playing around—but I really do sing. When I know you better, I’ll do it,” she says shyly, then takes her pet hamster out of her cage. “Want to pet Miggy?”

  “Okay,” I say, letting Tiffany put the hamster in my palm. I keep looking around Tiffany’s room, until I notice the electronic keyboard against the wall.

  “That’s the keyboard I got for my birthday,” she brags. “My parents felt so bad about me finding out I was adopted, they let me have it. Now they’re being really nice to me.”

  “They weren’t mad at you for snooping around and finding the key to the locked box?”

  “Nope—they felt too guilty about the whole thing,” Tiffany says, lying back on her bed. Then her face gets sad. “I told Christine, my best friend at school, that I found out I was adopted, and she went and told Leandra, who hates me. Then Leandra went and told everybody at school. Now the kids are making fun of me. They call me an adopted Miss Piggy.”

  Tiffany is—well, chubby—but that sounds really mean. I think she’s kinda cute. Now I start thinking about the situation I’ve got at home. “I got a new foster sister yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah—this girl that was on the news, because her mother left her by herself in Coney Island.” Suddenly, I feel uncomfortable. Why am I telling her this?

  Tiffany sits up straight on the bed and stares at me. “How old is she?”

  “Nobody knows. She looks about five, I guess. We don’t know anything about her, except she says her name is Gaye.”

  “That’s so sad,” Tiffany responds. “Maybe somebody will come looking for her.”

  “Maybe—they had her picture on the news and everything. I guess somebody has to know her, right?”

  “Unless she’s not from New York,” Tiffany says, like a divette detective.

  “Wow, I never even thought of that,” I say.

  “Maybe her mother came all the way to New York so nobody would know her, and then left her there in Coney Island, because she knew somebody would find her,” Tiffany says, her blue eyes widening.

  Maybe Tiffany knows where I was born, I’m thinking—but I don’t want to ask her. “You said you were born in California?” I ask instead, hoping maybe shell tell me more.

  “Yeah—I think our mother moved there, then left me—I mean us.” Tiffany doesn’t seem sad about it at all. “Where were you born?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, disappointed that she doesn’t know. “I guess I always thought I was born in New York, but now I’m not so sure.” Suddenly, I get a pain in my chest. “I don’t care where I was born,” I blurt out. “I don’t care where our mother is!”

  “I do,” Tiffany says. “Maybe we can find her together.”

  “You can go look for her yourself—because I have better things to do with my time!” I pout.

  “Okay,” Tiffany says, shrugging her shoulders. Then she gets up, grabs a booklet, and hands it to me. “Here’s the book for the keyboard. You wanna learn how to play it?”

  “Yeah. Why not—if you don’t mind listening to some wack playing!”

  Chapter

  5

  I have never played any instrument before, so I feel kind of nervous about playing the keyboard—with Tiffany, no less. But it turns out she is a really good teacher. After an hour of trying, I’m actually playing pieces of songs I know. I can’t believe I’m learning to play the keyboard! “This is dope,” I say after a while. “Let me hear you play something.”

  Tiffany starts playing, and I recognize the song instantly. Kahlua Alexander and Mo’ Money Monique’s duet, “The Toyz Is Mine.”

  Tiffany definitely has mad skills playing the keyboard. Next to me, she sounds stomping. “I’m going to get us some lemonade and cookies,” Tiffany says, jumping up.

  I bang around some more on the keys, and I feel like I could do this all day. Then I feel a lump rising in my throat. I wonder how much a keyboard like this costs?

  “Um, where did your parents buy the keyboard at?” I ask Tiffany when she comes back, handing me a pretty pink glass of lemonade.

  “Kmart. It cost twelve hundred dollars,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “How do you know what your birthday present costs?” I ask, surprised.

  “’Cuz when we went to Kmart to buy my school supplies, I went into the aisle where the keyboards were and I saw mine—that’s how,” Tiffany has that satisfied smirk on her face—the one she gets when her supa-sleuth skills pay off.

  “It’s going to be a long way down the yellow brick road before I can afford a keyboard,” I moan. Then I start wondering why I should bother learning at all, if I’m not going to be able to afford one.

  “You can come over and play it whenever you want, Dorinda,” Tiffany says, putting her hand on my shoulder.

  Then she goes on teaching me the keyboard like nothing happened. I get interested again, and soon I forget about whether I can afford to buy one of my own. At least when I do get one, I’ll know how to play it. “You know, you’d make a really good teacher,” I tell her.

  “Are you trying to tell me I’m not going to be a singer?” Tiffany says, turning to me on the bench, and giving me that earnest look with her big, blue eyes.

  “I didn’t say that,” I respond, my cheeks turning warm.

  All of sudden, Tiffany breaks out into a big smile. “Psych! I know I’m gonna be a singer, too.”

  I don’t want to rain on Tiffany’s parade, you know what I’m saying? Who am I to say she can’t be a singer, even if she sounds like a hoarse hyena in a rainstorm?

  “Maybe I could sing for the rest of the Cheetah Girls, and they’ll let me be in the group with you!” Tiffany says, getting excited and putting her head on my shoulder. Her blond hair is so soft, and I smell the familiar baby powder scent that now reminds me of her.

  “I don’t know, Tiffany. It’s not my group or anything,” I say, because I feel bad. Here she is being nice to me, trying to be my sister and everything, and I don’t want to be down with her like that.

  “Please?” she says, giving me a pleading look with her big, blue eyes. Now I can tell she’s really serious. “I could sing and play the keyboard. I mean, you don’t have a keyboard player, right?” I’ll bet she’s used to getting her way about everything.

  “Well, we don’t use instruments at all—you know that; you came and
saw us at the Apollo, when we were in the ’Battle of the Divettes’ competition. See, we use tracks, just like a lot of other groups do. It costs a lot of money to have live musicians onstage.”

  “I’d play the keyboard for free,” Tiffany says, not letting up.

  “Well, I’ll ask the rest of the Cheetah Girls if you can sing for them. How’s that?” I say, finally giving in, and hoping she’ll leave the Cheetah Girls bone alone for a while.

  “Okay—when?” Tiffany asks directly.

  “I … have to call and ask them.”

  “You can call Galleria now,” Tiffany suggests, handing me the phone. “She’s the leader of the group, right?”

  “R-right,” I say, then add quickly, “but she’s not home right now.”

  “Do the Cheetah Girls go into a chat room?” Tiffany asks, like she’s getting at something.

  I can’t tell her what chat room we go into—then maybe shell be trying to sweat us all the time! But how can I not tell her? “Um … Yeah.”

  “Well, which one?”

  “Phat Planet,” I say, telling her the truth, because I don’t want to lie.

  “My onscreen name is LimpCutie,” Tiffany says, proud of herself.

  I realize that it’s probably a riff off of Limp Bizkit, seeing as she’s got their poster on her wall.

  “I can go on tonight, and see if the Cheetah Girls are in there, okay?”

  I know she isn’t really asking me, so I don’t say anything. Tiffany walks over to her closet and opens a trunk. “Here’s the safety equipment I told you I was gonna give you,” she says, pulling out a pair of knee guards and a pair of elbow guards.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed again. I don’t want her giving me things. I don’t think it’s cool.

  “Take them—I told you when we first met in the park that I had an extra set. I don’t need them.” Tiffany shoves them into my lap.

  “Okay,” I say, smiling, “then I’m going to make you an outfit.”

  “Really?” Tiffany just gets excited about everything. Skating, singing, playing the keyboard, you name it!

  “Yup, I’m gonna design an outfit and make it for you. Let me take your measurements,” I say, finally feeling like I have something to give her, too. “I have a sewing machine at home.”

  “Really?” Tiffany says again. I guess that’s the one thing she doesn’t have. “I don’t know how to sew anything.”

  “You got a tape measure?” I ask her, chuckling.

  “No—wait. I think my mom has one in her room.” Tiffany runs to get it.

  All of a sudden, I hear the apartment door open, and some voices in the hallway I get nervous, because I realize that it’s probably her parents. I hope they don’t get upset that I’m here. I can’t make out what they’re talking about, so I just get off the keyboard bench, and sit in the princess throne by Tiffany’s bed.

  Tiffany comes running back into the room and whispers, “I can’t get the tape measure now, but we’ll do it next time you come over. My mother’s home from work, and she wants to say hello.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Tiffany drags me by my arm back into the living room, where Mrs. Twitty is sitting on the couch, wearing a black dress with a strand of white pearls around her neck. She seems really nice and proper, just like she did when I met her at the Apollo.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling.

  “Please sit down, Dorinda,” motions Mrs. Twitty.

  “Thank you. That was real nice of you, bringing Tiffany to see the Cheetah Girls at the Apollo.”

  “Oh, it was fun,” Mrs. Twitty says. “I really enjoyed it. I think you girls are very good. You know, that’s all Tiffany talks about now—being in a singing group. She just loves singing groups. She plays those CDs all the time, and she loves that keyboard,” Mrs. Twitty says, like she’s not sure if she likes it or not.

  “I want to go to a performing arts school, like the Walker twins do,” Tiffany says, putting her head on her mother’s shoulder.

  “Well, we won’t have any of that, dear,” Mrs. Twitty says. “We pay good money to send you to St. Agnes.”

  Tiffany pouts, and I can tell she’s not happy, but I’m not saying anything.

  “Dorinda is gonna let me try out to be a Cheetah Girl!” Tiffany says suddenly.

  I can’t believe she said that! I didn’t say she could try out for the Cheetah Girls! I decide I’d better keep my mouth shut, but Mrs. Twitty is definitely interested in hearing what I have to say about it.

  “Is that right?” she asks, looking straight at me. Her eyes are really blue, just like Tiffany’s. In a way, she looks like Tiffany’s real mother, I guess—except that her hair is dark brown, and her nose is straighter than Tiffany’s. “That would be really good for her.”

  I guess Mrs. Twitty sees the confused look on my face, because she quickly adds, “To try out, I mean.”

  “Yeah, um, I’m gonna ask the rest of the Cheetah Girls if she can,” I say, glad that Mrs. Twitty has made it seem less scary than it is.

  “I’m teaching Dorinda how to play my keyboard,” Tiffany says, like she’s really proud of herself. “She’s really good, too!”

  “Tiffany just loves that thing—she’d play it all day if we let her,” Mrs. Twitty says, nodding her head at me.

  I wonder if I should say good-bye, because I’ve been sitting here a long time. I’d better be getting uptown, to see what’s cooking with my new foster sister, Gaye, if you know what I’m saying. Just thinking about going home, the heavy weight that I feel lately on my chest has come back in full force.

  “The two of you sure have something in common,” Mrs. Twitty continues.

  “What?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I spaced out for a second.

  “Well, you’re both musically inclined. Tiffany plays the keyboard, and you sing. That’s what I meant,” Mrs. Twitty adds, like she hopes she didn’t offend me or anything.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, nodding. I don’t think it’s such a good idea for me to ask the Cheetah Girls if Tiffany can try out.

  “That’s all Tiffany talks about is singing. Or this singer and that singer. Did you see all the posters on her walls?”

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  If you ask me, I think Tiffany is just trying to be in the mix ’cuz she thinks it’s fun. I wonder what Tiffany sounds like when she’s really singing. She seems kinda shy about singing in front of people—and Tiff any isn’t shy otherwise, if you know what I’m saying.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Mrs. Twitty asks me.

  “No, thank you,” I respond quickly. I want to tell her why I have to go home, but I feel embarrassed, so I decide not to.

  “I got out of work earlier today than usual,” Mrs. Twitty continues, “so we won’t have to eat takeout.”

  “Where do you work?” I ask Mrs. Twitty, since I figure I can talk about that.

  “I’m the research director for The Butterfly Foundation,” Mrs. Twitty says proudly.

  “Oh—that’s why you have all the butterflies on the wall,” I say excitedly. “My fos—um, my sister Twinkie loves butterflies.”

  “Well, she’ll have to visit sometime. My husband is the head scientist there—that’s where we met, you know. I guess you could say the ‘nutty professor’ caught me in his net,” she says chirpily.

  “Wait till I tell Twinkie—she’ll be so excited!” I say, chuckling at Mrs. Twitty’s joke. She is a funny lady. “Well, I’d better get home.” I get up and grab my backpack and the safety equipment. Suddenly, I feel self-conscious, like a bag lady or something. Mrs. Twitty notices me clutching the bag, so I quickly add, “Um, Tiffany gave me the pads—she said she didn’t need them.”

  “Oh, yes, she must have outgrown those by now,” Mrs. Twitty says, causing Tiffany to wince.

  “Mom, I can still fit in them,” she protests; but when Mrs. Twitty looks at her, she adds with a sheepish giggle, “Well, almost!”

  I guess it
is kinda weird that I’m smaller than Tiffany even though I’m older.

  “Well, I’m glad someone can put them to good use,” Mrs. Twitty says, then gets up to show me to the door.

  Once I’m in the hallway, Tiffany sticks her head out her door and says, “Sorry you have to bounce, mamacita!”

  “Me, too,” I say, chuckling at my sister. As I walk to the subway station, I’m thinking about how much fun I had learning the keyboard. Even though I’m jealous that she has so much and I have so little, I’m glad I came over to my sister Tiffany’s house—she is a trip! Besides, she’s my for real, forever sister—and that means a lot.

  Chapter

  6

  Thank goodness for my crew. They may not live in foster homes, but I know they care about me. When I meet them at Riverside Church for our Kats and Kittys Klub meeting, I just start babbling about the latest drama in my house, when I didn’t even plan on telling them diddly widdly.

  Last night, Gaye kept me up all night, crying and screaming from nightmares. She even got out of bed and ran down the hallway, yelling that a car was chasing her. “Please don’t hit me!” she kept screaming, over and over.

  “Maybe she wasn’t really talking about a car,” Galleria says, putting her arm around my shoulders, and I can tell her mind is working on the divette detective tip.

  “That is just so sad,” Aqua says, and I see tears forming in her eyes. “I can’t believe a mother would shame the Lord by leaving her child in the street.”

  I wonder where my mother left me, a voice shrieks in my head. It’s something I’ve never thought about before, but now that Gaye is living with us, I can’t get that thought out of my head. Not that I really want to know, if you know what I’m saying.

  When we’re climbing up the steps inside the church, Chanel almost misses one, and wobbles with her crutches into the railing, but luckily, Aqua grabs her arm. “Let me help you, Chanel,” she insists.

  Now I feel bad for babbling while poor Chanel is hobbling around on crutches. It seems like I’m always thinking about myself. Even though Chanel hasn’t whined once about spraining her ankle, I know those crutches must be driving her loco.