“Stop it. I can help myself!” she snaps at Aqua, so I know I’m right. She must really be buggin’, because Chanel is really sweet to everybody—maybe a little too sweet, if you know what I’m saying. See, Chanel doesn’t always stand up for herself, but I guess Galleria stands up enough for both of them.
“What are we talking about tonight?” Angie asks her sister as we approach the landing. Once a month, we attend a general meeting for the Kats and Kittys Klub, this really dope social club for teens that Galleria and Chanel have belonged to since they were babies. The Kats and Kittys Klub has lots of chapters all around the country, and Aqua and Angie transferred into the metropolitan chapter when they moved to the Big Apple last summer. That was really lucky for us, because it’s how we all hooked up and became the Cheetah Girls together.
“Let’s see—our volunteer drive for Christmas,” Aqua says. Aqua and Angie are teen advisors on the volunteer committee. Galleria and Chanel are on the party and events planning committee.
I’m just lucky they let me in the building, if you know what I’m saying. See, membership into the Kats and Kittys Klub is something like six hundred duckets a year, but Galleria and Chanel pulled a few strings so I could get a one-year scholarship for free. Actually, I think they pulled a whole ball of yarn, but just don’t want me to know.
“We’ve also got to finish planning our Christmas bash, ’cuz the season is coming up, and we’ve gotta head down Candy Cane Lane with fortune and fame!”
“Don’t remind me about Christmas,” I snort. “I’m not so sure I want to be in my house at Christmastime this year.”
Everyone gets silent for a second. Then Chanel asks, “What does your foster mother say about keeping Gaye?”
“That we are just gonna make do,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “I know she can’t afford it, but I guess we’ll get by.”
“Do they give Mrs. Bosco money for that?” Aqua asks nervously.
“Yeah, but not much. Mrs. Bosco says that after she buys the milk and cereal, that check is long gone. I can forget about getting a keyboard, that’s for sure. No way Mrs. Bosco can afford to buy me one. Do you know that a keyboard costs twelve hundred dollars?”
“What happened?” Chanel asks, puzzled.
Then I realize I should tell them about my trip to Tiffany’s crib. “My sister Tiffany is teaching me how to play her keyboard.”
“We didn’t know you went to see her,” Galleria snorts.
“I didn’t even know I was going to see her. I decided on a dime, right after last period yesterday.”
“She knows how to play real good?” is all Aqua wants to know.
“Well, yeah,” I respond. “She had a few grooves, but what do I know?”
I wonder if I should tell my crew that Tiffany wants to be in the group. No way, José! I decide.
As we make our way to the room where the Kats and Kittys meeting is held, Galleria heaves a deep sigh. “Well, I’d better brace myself for the Red Snapper trying to get his hooks into me again.”
The Red Snapper—a.k.a. Derek Ulysses Hambone—is a student at our school, and he has a crush on Galleria. As soon as he found out she was a Kats and Kittys member, he went and joined, because he’s got it like that. See, Derek’s family are automotive “big Willies” in Detroit, who moved to the East Coast when his father expanded his thingamajig company—he manufactures some sort of widgets that you need to put in cars. I don’t know much about cars, so I forgot the name of the part.
“I can’t believe he joined,” Chanel moans.
As we make our entrance, Mrs. Bugge, our chapter treasurer, gives us a shout-out: “Here come the Cheetah Girls. I guess we can start now.” Everybody feels bad that Chanel is walking on crutches, so I think Mrs. Bugge is trying to blow up our spot, if you know what I’m saying.
The Kats and Kittys Klub in New York has two fund-raisers a year, so that we can donate duckets to charities. Today, we’ll decide which organizations to donate the duckets to—and since Aqua and Angie are the teen advisers on that committee, they’ll get to help in the voting process.
We all walk to the other end of the table, where there are empty seats. Derek bares his gold tooth as soon as he catches Galleria’s eye. “Hey, wazzup, Cheetah Girl?” he says in his goofy voice. Derek is wearing a baseball cap turned backward, which makes his pinhead look even funnier.
Finally, Indigo Luther makes her entrance— and I guess it would be hard to miss, considering the fact that she’s six feet tall (even though she’s only fourteen). The hot-pink rabbit jacket she’s wearing would be hard to miss, too. Indigo Luther is our teen chapter president, and already a professional model. “Hi, everyone, sorry I’m late,” she says, plopping her red rabbit pocketbook on the table like it’s a trophy.
“Can I have your attention please,” says Mrs. Bugge. She hands out the minutes from the last Kats and Kittys Klub meeting. “Here is our latest treasury report. We have to take a vote on which charity organizations we would like to donate money to. As you may remember, this is the money we raised from this year’s Kats and Kittys Halloween Bash, where the Cheetah Girls performed for the very first time—but not the last.”
Everyone applauds, and my crew and I look at each other, smiling with pride to think how far we’ve come, and how far we still have to go.
Mrs. Bugge clears her throat. “Aquanette and Anginette—could you take over the voting, please?”
“Our choices for donations are the Riverside Youth Fund, Pediatric Illness Fund, Sickle-Cell Anemia Foundation,” Aquanette starts in.
I wonder why she hasn’t included an organization that helps foster kids. But since I’m not on the committee, it’s not my place to say anything. Besides, I realize, the other organizations deserve the donations anyway.
“But what I would like to suggest,” Aqua continues, “is that we consider donating the money to ACS, in the Division of Foster Care, for the specific use of the Bosco family. They’re the family that has taken in the girl you may have seen on the news—the one named Gaye, who was found wandering around Coney Island and remanded into foster care.”
Everyone gets real quiet, and I can feel some of the Kats and Kittys members staring at me. I stare down at the table like I’m looking for something, because I feel my ears burning with embarrassment. I can’t believe Aquanette is saying this in front of the whole Kats and Kittys Klub! I’ll bet they all already know that I live in a foster home, and that everybody’s been talking about me behind my back. In fact, that must be how Galleria and Chanel got me a free membership!
I feel myself sinking lower into my chair. I can’t even look at Aqua while she’s talking.
“I think we should explain,” Angie says, cutting in. “On Monday, Dorinda’s foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, took Gaye in, after every effort was made to locate her mother, or anybody who knew her. Mrs. Bosco is already taking care of eleven foster children.”
“Well, I think that’s a very valid suggestion,” Mrs. Bugge says. “Let’s include it in our choices.”
“Okay,” Aqua says. “So we’ll begin voting now. We’ll pass around the ballots—please fill them out and return them to the basket.”
All of a sudden, I feel Galleria’s hand pressing down on mine. She must know how embarrassed I am. After everyone in the room finishes voting, Aqua and Angie separate the ballots into piles according to the votes marked on them, then Mrs. Bugge reads the final vote.
“For the record, this year’s Kats and Kittys Klub charity donation will be sent to ACS, in the Division of Foster Care—to be allocated for the specific aid of Gaye, a foster child in the temporary custody of Mrs. Bosco.” Mrs. Bugge smiles at me warmly.
All of a sudden, I burst into tears. I wish people wouldn’t feel sorry for me all the time—it makes me feel totally humiliated!
I keep my head down. I can feel Galleria giving me a hug, before she gets up to speak as the teen adviser for the events planning committee. I’m relieved when she starts talking, becaus
e everybody isn’t looking at me anymore.
“The time is upon us to nail down plans for our Christmas Eggnogger. Instead of throwing it at the Hound Club like we did last year, I would like to suggest that we try another place,” Galleria says, like she’s not taking no for an answer.
“Well, what do you suggest?” Indigo says, looking straight up at Galleria.
“We heard about this new club called the Weeping Willow,” Galleria says, like she’s daring Indigo to defy her.
“I know that place,” Indigo says like she’s bragging. “You haven’t been there yet, have you?”
“No, um, Chanel and I thought we would check it out after we get the committee’s approval.”
“Well, when I modeled in a fashion show for Phat Farm, they threw a party there afterward. I don’t think we can sell enough tickets to fill capacity—I mean, it’s kinda big.”
When I look up, I see the grimace on Galleria’s face.
“If we get each nonsenior member to bring five guests, and senior members to bring ten, then I think we can fill and chill the club, you know what I’m saying?” Galleria asks, looking around at the other members for their opinion—including Derek’s.
“Yeah!” Derek says, piping up in Galleria’s defense. “And, um, are we going to invite peeps from other chapters? That could bring in the noise, you know what I’m saying?”
“That’s basically up to us,” Galleria retorts, waiting for Indigo to counter.
“I say we invite other chapters,” Indigo agrees, surprising Galleria.
“And one parent from each chapter has to be a chaperone—no ifs or buts about it,” Mrs. Bugge adds.
“Okay,” Chanel pipes up, then giggles. “Can we go look at the place?”
“Agreed,” says Indigo. “I move that we close the meeting, and that the advisers for the party committee report directly to me and Mrs. Bugge during the planning.”
“I second!” yells Derek.
“I third that we head out of here and eat some steer,” Aqua pipes up.
“That sounds finger-lickin’ good to me,” Galleria chuckles, happy that the meeting is over, and we can be by ourselves.
Of course, I know that Aqua is just saying we should go to McDonald’s for a Big Mac. But even though I’m having a Mac attack myself, I don’t want to hang with my crew right now, because they really embarrassed me. I need to figure out how I can get out of this plan, and head home to a can of Spam or something….
Chapter
7
Mrs. Bosco is so happy about the Kats and Kittys Klub donation to ACS—the Administration of Children’s Services—that she just dismisses my feelings about being called out as a foster child in front of my fellow Kats and Kittys. She makes me so mad, I don’t want to ask if I can talk to her about her background for my school time-line project.
“Dorinda, sometimes I think you have a hard head. Your life is gonna be so much easier when you learn not to look a gift horse in the mouth.” She is folding up the laundry—which it seems like she’s doing all the time, because there are so many people living in our house.
“I know—and I’m supposed to check it, to make sure it has hooves,” I say, trying to go along with the program. I still don’t know what Mrs. Bosco means by the last part, but I’m not gonna ask. I’ve had enough embarrassment for a whole year!
“I don’t think God loves you any less than other children, just because you lost your mother,” Mrs. Bosco continues. “And obviously, those Kats and Kittys children like you, too.”
Now I feel stupid for coming home and crying in front of Mrs. Bosco. I didn’t mean to, but sometimes I get so clogged up inside, everything spouts out all over the place—kinda like that girl in The Exorcist. I guess I don’t know how to express my feelings the way other people do.
Suddenly, what Mrs. Bosco just said sinks in. What did she mean by “I lost my mother”? Maybe she knows what happened to her, and she’s just not telling me. Maybe she’s dead!
“Tiffany called you twice today,” Mrs. Bosco says, shaking out Topwe’s red corduroy pants, then folding them really carefully. I hear Topwe coughing from his bedroom. He went to bed early because he’s still not feeling well—otherwise he would never miss his favorite television show, She’s All That and a Pussycat.
At least I’m not HIV-positive like Topwe. My problems are nothing next to his, or Gaye’s. So why am I being so self-conscious about everything?
“Maybe I should make him some warm milk and bring it to him in the bedroom?” I ask Mrs. Bosco, getting up to go to the kitchen.
“No, Dorinda. I gave him some cough syrup and his medicine before he went to bed. Let him sleep if he can.” Mrs. Bosco looks up at me, adjusting her bifocal glasses. I know her eyesight isn’t good, but sometimes I wonder if she does that because she wants to look closer inside me or something—like she has gammaray vision.
“Tiffany told me all about you learning the keyboard. You ain’t said nothing about it.” I can tell, by the tone in her voice, that she’s really asking, “Wazzup with that?”
“Oh—yeah. It was a lot of fun,” I respond, trying to sound kinda bubbly about it. “It’s not easy or anything. I’d have to practice a lot—but I would like to learn it some more.”
“Well, that sounds real good,” Mrs. Bosco says. “’Member you used to want to play the piano?”
I wonder why Mrs. Bosco is bringing that up. The only reason I never took piano lessons is because she couldn’t afford it.
“Maybe Tiffany’ll let you practice with her again. That’d be good for you two,” she goes on.
I know I shouldn’t feel disappointed, but I do when she doesn’t say anything about buying me my own keyboard.
“She also said you might let her be in your group,” Mrs. Bosco says, searching about the bottom of the basket for stray socks.
I can’t believe Tiffany told Mrs. Bosco that! She’s just not going to let up about being in the Cheetah Girls. “Let me help you with those,” I say quickly. There’s always a lot of socks, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the blue ones from the brown ones or the black ones, especially since the light in the living room isn’t really bright enough.
But Mrs. Bosco is staring at me, knowing that I’m avoiding answering her. “Well, it’s not my group,” I say, trying to explain. “And I didn’t exactly tell Tiffany she could be in it.”
Now I feel bad—again! After all, Tiffany let me practice on her keyboard. I guess the least I could do is ask the Cheetah Girls if she could audition, like she wants to. “I guess I could ask the Cheetah Girls to hear her sing,” I say, giving in.
“Well, that’s all you can do, right?” she says, like she’s finally going to leave me alone about it. “You know, if you keep your word, then the rest takes care of itself.”
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” I say, folding the socks tightly into each other. Suddenly, I realize that I haven’t heard one word from my new foster sister. “What’s up with Gaye?” I ask.
“I guess she done finally wore herself out,” Mrs. Bosco says with a heavy sigh.
“Have you, um, heard anything else?” I ask hesitantly. After what Galleria said, I’m beginning to wonder myself. Someone, somewhere, must know Gaye, or know someone who knows her.
“When people disappear, they usually don’t want to be found, and they have a real good way of staying lost,” Mrs. Bosco says.
From the way she looks at me, straight in the face, I suddenly realize that she does know something about my mother—I think she’s trying to tell me that my mother disappeared, and doesn’t want to be found.
Twinkie and the rest of the girls have finished with their baths. I can’t believe that Monie, my oldest foster sister, who is sixteen, actually gave them a bath and got them into their pajamas! Monie usually only thinks about herself.
Twinkie peeks into the living room, even though it’s way past her bedtime. “Hi, Dorinda,” she whispers.
“You can come on in for a second,
Rita, but then you better go to bed,” Mrs. Bosco says, smiling at her. “Come take y’all’s clothes and put them in the drawer.”
“Okay,” Twinkie says, taking the folded clothes in her arms. “Dorinda, the Butterfly lady was on television.”
“Oh, was she singing?” I ask Twinkie. Twinkie calls Mariah Carey the Butterfly lady, because it’s the name of one of her hits.
“No,” Twinkie says, “but I wish I could go see her sing!”
“I know, Twinkie, but her concert costs fifty dollars, and that’s a lot of money,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Fifty dollars?” Mrs. Bosco says, almost choking. “She’d better be doing a whole lot of singing for that kind of money! Where’s she singing at?”
“Madison Square Garden,” I add, feeling a twinge of sadness. Now that I’m in the Cheetah Girls, I spend a lot less time with Twinkie. We used to be so close. I wish I could take her to see Mariah Carey. Shoot, I can’t wait till Twinkie can see me and the Cheetah Girls sing! “So what was she doing, Twinkie?”
“Oh, she was with a lot of kids, talking about foster children. Telling people to take foster children like us,” Twinkie explains.
“Really?” I wonder what she’s talking about.
“That’s not what she means, Dorinda. She didn’t say nothing about y’all or nothing. Just, it’s some kinda, some new, um—”
“Program?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah,” Mrs. Bosco says, then changes her mind. “No, it’s not really a program, you know—it’s more like a commercial, where she’s trying to get people to take in foster children, and they tell you a number to call, you know.”
“Oh. You mean like a public service announcement?”
“Yeah—that’s exactly it,” Mrs. Bosco says, finally satisfied.
“I haven’t seen it,” I say, surprised.
“See, Rita, when you get bigger, you gonna be right smart like Dorinda. She don’t miss a trick.”
“How come she don’t have us on television with her?” Twinkie asks me.
“Well, I guess—no, I know if she knew you, she would,” I tell Twinkie. But what I really want to say is, “Why would you want to be on television, announcing to the world that you’re a foster child?” I wouldn’t do it, not even if Mariah Carey asked me herself, you know what I’m saying?
Dorinda Gets a Groove Page 5
