Oops, Doggy Dog
The Cheetah Girls, Book 13
Deborah Gregory
For Kristina Paris in NYC,
Show your spots, mamacita!
Contents
The Cheetah Girls Credo
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Oops, Doggy Dog!
Glossary
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Cheetah Girls Credo
To earn my spots and rightful place in the world, I solemnly swear to honor and uphold the Cheetah Girls oath:
Cheetah Girls don’t litter, they glitter. I will help my family, friends, and other Cheetah Girls whenever they need my love, support, or a really big hug.
All Cheetah Girls are created equal, but we are not alike. We come in different sizes, shapes, and colors, and hail from different cultures. I will not judge others by the color of their spots, but by their character.
A true Cheetah Girl doesn’t spend more time doing her hair than her homework. Hair extensions may be career extensions, but talent and skills will pay my bills.
True Cheetah Girls can achieve without a weave—or a wiggle, jiggle, or a giggle. I promise to rely (mostly) on my brains, heart, and courage to reach my cheetah-licious potential!
A brave Cheetah Girl isn’t afraid to admit when she’s scared. I promise to get on my knees and summon the growl power of the Cheetah Girls who came before me—including my mom, grand-moms, and the Supremes—and ask them to help me be strong.
All Cheetah Girls make mistakes. I promise to admit when I’m wrong and will work to make it right. I’ll also say I’m sorry, even when I don’t want to.
Grown-ups are not always right, but they are bigger, older, and louder. I will treat my teachers, parents, and people of authority with respect—and expect them to do the same!
True Cheetah Girls don’t run with wolves or hang with hyenas. True Cheetahs pick much better friends. I will not try to get other people’s approval by acting like a copycat.
To become the Cheetah Girl that only I can be, I promise not to follow anyone else’s dreams but my own. No matter how much I quiver, shake, shiver, and quake!
Cheetah Girls were born for adventure. I promise to learn a language other than my own and travel around the world to meet my fellow Cheetah Girls.
Chapter
1
I’m sitting in the green waiting room at Lincoln Hospital, but I’m not sick or hurt. I’m here with Chuchie and her mom, ’cuz it’s time for Miss Cuchifrita to have the cast taken off her foot. I say a prayer: “Pleez, God, let Miss Cuchifrita’s sprained ankle be healed, so the Cheetah Girls can be revealed—as the singing stars of the future, that is!”
The Cheetah Girls are me, Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi; Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons (my best friend in the whole world); Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers; and those fabulous Walker twins from Houston, Aquanette and Anginette.
Believe me, we Cheetahs are hungry! We’ve been waiting forever to take advantage of our biggest break yet—the chance to go into the recording studio with Mouse Almighty, the world-famous record producer, and make a demo tape for Def Duck Records! Once the A&R peeps at Def Duck listen to it, they’ll decide if they’re gonna give us a record deal. And with Mouse in the house, we like our chances.
We were all set to rock a month ago, when Chuchie sprained her ankle. That set the whole process back, and we’re still waiting. This Thursday’s supposed to be the big day, but who knows? Between now and then, anything could happen, especially with Chuchie involved, you know what I’m sayin’?
Even if Dr. Reuben says Chuchie can hang up her crutches, we still have to go straight over to my house so my mom can check her out. Mom doubles as the Cheetah Girls’ official manager (or “head cheetah in charge,” as she likes to refer to herself). She knew Chuchie was getting her cast off today, so she went ahead and made the appointment for us with Mouse Almighty. But if Mom doesn’t think Chanel can stand on her ankle for hours in the studio, she’ll cancel, and we’ll be right back on that old treadmill to nowhere.
When I’m nervous, like I am now, I can’t sit still. And the part of me that just won’t stop—no matter what—is my mouth. Without even thinking, I start pulling on my bubble gum like it’s a yo-yo.
“Stop it, Galleria,” Chanel’s mom hisses under her breath. She thinks I’m a bad bubble-gum influence on Chuchie, and she’s even complained about it to my mom.
“Sorry, Auntie Juanita,” I say, throwing out the gum (even though it’s my last piece and I’m not done with it).
I know Chanel is nervous, too, because she starts tapping one of her crutches on the floor. “What if I walk funny without the crutches?” she says.
“We’re going to Mouse’s studio to record songs, not put on a show,” I point out. “So what does it matter if you get a little wobbly or something?”
“Madrina’s not gonna let us go,” Chuchie sighs, referring to my mom.
“You’ll be lucky if I let you go,” Auntie Juanita butts in, smoothing her ponytail.
Then she turns to me. “Dottie didn’t already make an actual appointment with that producer—without asking me, did she?”
Oops. I bite my lip, looking for a way out. This is no time to ruffle Auntie Juanita’s feathers. Luckily, just then the receptionist calls out Chanel’s name. Chuchie hops up on her crutches, and we follow her into an examination room.
No sooner are we in there than Juanita starts in again. “Well? Did she?”
I hate giving her a reason to fight with my mother. Those two are always at each other. But it looks like I have no choice. “Yes, she did, but that’s her job. She’s our manager.” I wince as I wait for the boomerang to come back at me.
“We’ll see about that.” Auntie Juanita plops her purse down on the chair and whips out her cell phone.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t use cell phones in the hospital,” the nurse informs her, then points to an empty corner. “And could you please put your stuff over there.” Auntie Juanita huffs a couple times, but complies.
Meanwhile, I help Chanel sit up on the gurney, and set her crutches against the wall.
“Can we burn them after?” she asks, giggling.
“Not so fast,” Auntie Juanita snaps, crossing her arms impatiently. “You may be walking out of here with them. Está bien?”
Chanel and I keep our beaks closed. We sit in silence for another ten minutes, and I’m beginning to feel like we’re playing a game of hospital musical chairs, because we’re still waiting to see Chanel’s doctor, only in a different room.
Finally, the door swings open. “How are you, Chanel?” Dr. Reuben asks, breezing in and taking a pen from her lab coat pocket.
“Estoy bien! I’m okay,” Chanel says, perking up.
Dr. Reuben scribbles on Chanel’s chart, then bends over to remove the soft cast. “Have you been keeping your weight off your ankle?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good, it looks fine. Let’s weigh you, then get your blood pressure.”
When Chanel steps on the scale, she almost loses her balance. “I can’t believe I gained two pounds!” she shrieks.
I give her a look, like, Just chill.
Dr. Reuben ignores Chanel’s protests. “Weight or no weight, you’re to do absolutely no exercising for three weeks.”
“Oh … okay.” Chanel looks defeated. After Dr. Reuben bids us good-bye and leaves, she says, “I’m never gonna eat again.”
“What do you expect after lying u
p in bed for two weeks?” Auntie Juanita asks her.
I can’t believe she’s being so unsympathetic. If Auntie Juanita gained an ounce, she wouldn’t eat even a sunflower seed until she lost it back. Trust me, I know her. She spends all day exercising in the studio she built in her loft—belly dancing, salsa, yoga, whatever.
I’m tempted to run into the hallway and ask Dr. Reuben if it’s okay for Chanel to perform. I mean, she said, “no exercising,” but what about just standing up for hours and singing? Now, if my mom was here, she would have asked Dr. Reuben. I guess that’s why she’s our manager and Auntie Juanita isn’t. Mom knows how to handle our business—and other people’s, too!
Chanel gets down from the gurney and makes her first careful steps without crutches.
“Wow,” I say, encouraging her. “I feel like I’m watching the first woman astronaut walking on the moon!”
“Galleria, you’re so dramatic,” Auntie Juanita says.
She should talk! You’d think she’d be pleased that Chanel is finally walking without crutches, but I can tell she can’t wait to call my mom and ruffle her feathers about our big studio session.
Auntie Juanita and my mom were both models back in their day, but my mom was more successful, and I think it bothers Auntie Juanita even now. And all this drama over our singing group really takes the cake, okay? It seems like they’re always fighting over Cheetah Girls stuff. Auntie Juanita doesn’t want us to “rise for the prize,” but my mom does, because she knows how important it is to me and Chanel to be in a singing group. That’s all we’ve ever really wanted to do!
“Can we go eat?” I ask, listening to my stomach grumble. “I know I’ll get my grub on when I get home, but I need a pit stop first.”
“Okay,” Juanita says, “but I’m not eating.”
As we walk up to the door of Dunkin’ Donuts, Chanel lets out a yelp, which makes me think there’s something wrong with her ankle again.
“No way, José!” Chanel blurts out. “I’m not eating here—I’m too fat!”
“Awright, just wait while I get a Dunkaccino and jelly doughnut to go,” I say, relieved it’s not her ankle after all. “You can watch me eat it.” When I’m hungry, my stomach cannot be denied.
“Oh, okay,” Chanel chuckles, giving in without even a fight, “I’ll get a Vanilla Bean Coolatta—just to keep you company.”
“I knew you couldn’t resist,” I tease her. That’s Chuchie for you. Her willpower is like rubber—it bends whenever you push it, then comes right back. You know she’ll be complaining later about how fat she is, and saying: “Galleria, why’d you let me order that Coolatta? So much sugar!”
Chanel and I slurp and munch our gooey concoctions happily while Auntie Juanita sips a Diet Coke, then makes the call on her cell phone. “Dottie, did you make an appointment with that producer for the girls?” she says, breathing fire. “Chanel is barely off her crutches, and I don’t want her running herself ragged, like she did before the accident…. ‘But’ nothing. I know Galleria is trying to get everybody all worked up about this singing group, but—let me finish, Dottie.”
Get everybody worked up about this singing group? Jeez, Louise, Auntie Juanita is like a dog with a bone, she just won’t leave us alone! I’m so tired of her acting like the Cheetah Girls are just some after-school soda-pop group, sitting around drinking milk shakes and giggling. I can’t wait till we prove to her—and everybody else in this world—that the Cheetah Girls are down for the twirl. Then they’ll have to take us seriously, even if we are a bunch of teenagers.
“Well, I’ll think about it,” Auntie Juanita says, still huffing. “’Cuz I’m not sure she’s up for it, that’s why. Okay, fine, fine.” Auntie Juanita snaps the phone shut. “Galleria, you and Chanel go on. I have to go jogging.” Then she says something to Chanel in Spanish before leaving.
“What did she say, Chuchie?” I ask, curious.
“That I’d better not say anything to your mom, and I’d better be home by nine o’clock.” Chanel breaks into a big grin. “Hey, forget about her—I’m off my crutches, mija!!”
We do our Cheetah Girls handshake, then give each other a fierce hug.
Chapter
2
“You don’t think she talked Madrina out of letting us go to the studio with Mouse Almighty, do you?” Chanel asks, coming right back down to earth.
“You never know. But we’ll find out soon enough, when we get to my house.” I’m feeling so nervous about Auntie Juanita jinxing our date with destiny that I clutch Chuchie’s arm and steer us to Singh’s deli for some fresh bubble gum. Gotta have it, even though I’ve only got five duckets in my cheetah wallet.
“Gimme too, mamacita,” Chuchie whines, grabbing her own pack of Biggies Bubbles, then ripping off the foil wrappers one by one until she’s stuck a whole pack in her mouth.
“’Gimme too?’ What are you, on Sesame Street!” I giggle, paying for hers because Chuchie has even fewer duckets than I do. Auntie Juanita has had her on a starvation budget ever since Chuchie, alias the shopaholic, borrowed her credit card and maxed it out.
Chewing away like a pair of chomp-happy cows, Chanel and I are strolling arm in arm down the hallway to my apartment when I hear a door being unlocked behind us. “It’s Mrs. Brubaker,” I whisper, shushing Chuchie.
Mrs. Brubaker is my “Wicked Witch of the West” next-door neighbor. Her hair is dyed such a bright red, she looks like a rooster. My mom calls her “a snob without a job.”
I get ready to put on my polite face and say hello to Mrs. Brubaker. I wouldn’t care if she never spoke to me if it wasn’t for her little bichon frise, Buffy, who is the cutest dog in the world—besides my Toto, of course. Buffy is—get this—paper trained, because Mrs. Brubaker doesn’t take her outside to do her business. “Buffy could pick up diseases!” she always says.
I wonder what Mrs. Brubaker wants. It looks like she opened her door when she heard the elevator coming. She must be expecting someone.
“Galleria!”
“Oh, hi, Mrs. Brubaker.” I realize suddenly that Mrs. Brubaker has been waiting for me.
“Ooo, can I play with Buffy?” Chuchie asks excitedly. She is so shameless, she’ll do anything just to pet a fluffy pooch!
“Well, that’s exactly what I need to talk to your mother about,” Mrs. Brubaker says to me. “I’ve rung the bell, but she doesn’t answer, even though the doorman told me she’s home.”
Why, all of a sudden, do I feel like I did something wrong? “Oh? What do you need to talk to her about?”
“Never mind, just tell your mother I need to see her immediately.”
“Can’t I see Buffy for just a second?” Chuchie pleads, oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Brubaker is radiating supa attitude.
“No, you may not!” Mrs. Brubaker backs up and slams her door right in Chuchie’s face.
“She’s definitely got a bee in her stupid bonnet,” I hiss, loud enough for Mrs. Brubaker to hear me right through the door. “Buzzzzzzzzzzz.”
We go on into my apartment. Mom is there in all her cheetahness, sitting at the dining room table reading Billboard magazine and sipping iced tea. Usually she works really late at the store, but I guess that conversation with Auntie Juanita got her uptown faster than Bisquick rising.
“What are you doing home so early?” I ask, like I don’t have a Blue’s clue.
“You know why I’m home,” Mom snaps at me. “Juanita sounded like she was going to have a coronary! Chanel, honey, come over here and let me see you walk, so I can decide if you’re going to keel over at Mouse Almighty’s studio.”
“Yes, Madrina,” Chanel coos, then runs over to my mom with no trace of a limp, and gives her a big, happy kiss.
“Well, you seem to be moving fast enough to record a hit record, don’t you?” Mom says, giving Chanel a good look-over.
“Thank gooseness!” I say, relieved. No way, José, did I want Mom to cancel that appointment! “Oh, by the way, Mom, Mrs. Brubaker says she
rang the bell but nobody answered.”
“I know. I looked through the peephole, saw that prune-dried face, and tiptoed right back into the kitchen. I’m in no mood for any of Esther’s drama today. I mean, how can you talk to someone who hasn’t changed her hairstyle in twenty years?”
It’s true that Mrs. Brubaker is always bothering us about something. Either we didn’t put the recycling bags in the right place, or didn’t tie them tight enough. Or we left too many newspapers and magazines in the incinerator room. Or Toto is barking too loud. Or we played our music too loud on a weeknight. And if she’s not bothering us, she’s bothering someone else in the building with one of her pet peeves. I guess Mom’s right—who cares what Mrs. Brubaker wants?
“What I want to know is, what are you girls going to wear to Mouse Almighty’s studio on Thursday?” Mom peers at us over the top of her cat-eye-shaped cheetah eyeglasses. “It’d be nice if you came up with something new, but true to your look.”
“I don’t know what we’re wearing,” I say, “’cuz we sure don’t have new-but-true duckets.”
“Wake up and smell the vinyl, darling. You want Mouse to think you’re the next-best thing since the Spice-Rack Girls?” Mom says with a twinkle in her eye. I can tell she’s got something sneaky up her sleeve. I just hope it results in some duckets in my pockets! “I could be convinced to give you a few duckets for a head-turning accessory that will bring your cheetah-ness to a glorious new level,” she says. “But in exchange …”
Now I see that there is a point to this joint. “In exchange for what?”
“For that ticky-tacky, cow-curdling bubble gum—which I want banned to never-never land for at least one week! You two girls are too fierce and fabulous to sound like firecrackers wherever you walk. You probably scare half the neighborhood with that noise!”
“Mom!” I shriek, wondering where Daddy is when I need him to defend me. Of course, I know where he is. He’s at the factory he runs in Brooklyn, where all the clothes are manufactured for Mom’s Soho boutique, Toto in New York.
Oops, Doggy Dog! Page 1
