Oops, Doggy Dog!

by Deborah Gregory

  “So you know it’s gonna take some time for us to get to know each other, but I want to come right out of the box with some product that the record company can comprehend. You know what I’m saying? ’Cuz the bottom line is about selling records, moving product. When I take this demo to Freddy Fudge, all he wants to hear is the sound of ka-ching. You know what I’m saying?”

  We all nod like little cheetah cubs.

  “Now, I’ve put a few acts out there, so you’ve gotta trust me on this.”

  We nod our heads again, and I’m starting to feel like, Well, he is the man. Let’s just do this whole thing his way.

  “See, I don’t want y’all to sound like a bunch of kids. We’re gonna go the sophisticated route, so you can go out there, be marketed to the youth market, get a little adult action, too. Is that cool with y’all?”

  We nod our heads again. “Yeah, we definitely don’t want peeps looking at us like we’re a bunch of kids,” I say, trying to convince myself that this is the move.

  “Now, I know y’all got some songs, but we don’t want to come out the box with the gimmick, you know? I wanna record some songs that are gonna get you a record deal. Are y’all down with that?”

  We nod our heads yet again. “So it’s cool with y’all that we rehearse this one?”

  “Yeah,” I say, since Mouse is looking directly at me.

  “I’ma ask Cindy to order down from Chunky Cheese. Y’all want anything? Some shakes and burgers? ’Cuz we’re gonna be here awhile.”

  “Yeah,” Angie says excitedly. I smile weakly at her. She would get excited over grub.

  After we down our cheeseburgers and shakes, we practice the Mystik Man joint for an hour before Mouse feels that we’re ready to lay down some tracks. “This is Son Seven, my master engineer,” Mouse says, pointing to the bald man in the control room.

  We wave at him, then put on our headphones and get ready to jam. I look over at Chuchie and Dorinda, and I can tell they’re totally psyched, just like I am. At least I feel like we’re a real girl group now—laying down tracks, taking meetings, performing for peeps, and cutting a demo. Finally!

  After we finish laying down the tracks for three different versions of “Not a Chance,” Mouse comes into the room and flashes a big grin. “You hooked it up!”

  “Thank you for the cheeseburgers,” Dorinda tells him as we head back out to the reception area.

  “Yes, thank you,” I chime in, remembering my manners.

  We sit in the reception area, waiting for Aqua and Angie’s dad to pick us up. Mouse leans over to the receptionist and gets his messages. There’s a big stack of them. “Ayiight—that’s too bad, he’s gonna have to wait.”

  Now I really feel glad and excited that we’re working with such a big-cheese producer. All of sudden, I wanna scream, “We’re in the house with Mouse!”

  Chuchie is staring at all the CDs on the wall. “What’s it like working with Kahlua?” she asks Mouse excitedly.

  “Oh, she’s mad cool,” Mouse answers, smiling. “You know, she may look like she’s large overnight, but she’s been in the game more than a minute.”

  “So when do we get a record deal?” I say, joking with him because I’m totally amped.

  “Hang on to that thought for a minute,” Mouse says, chuckling. He pushes his long dreadlocks off his face. “We have to do two, maybe three more songs, then see what happens.”

  “I heard that,” Dorinda chuckles.

  “Y’all got that deep vibrato going,” Mouse says, pointing to Aqua and Angie. “I’ll bet you tear it up in a choir, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, we’ve been singing in church choirs since we’re six,” Aqua says proudly.

  “You’ve got great voices,” Mouse says, nodding like he’s grooving to a beat. “Brings a lot of harmony to the mix.”

  I feel a sting on my cheeks, but I just keep smiling. How come he didn’t say anything about our singing? I don’t look at Aqua or Angie, because I feel insecure. I can tell by looking at Chuchie that she feels the same way, because she starts twirling her hair in the front, something she only does when she gets upset.

  “Awright, so check this,” Mouse says. “I’m gonna holler at your mother, set up another session with you girls, awright?”

  “Right,” I say, nodding.

  “Awright, you girls get home safe. I’m out, gotta go to this club and check out some product from a new songwriter.” Mouse rubs his forehead, and I can tell that he is tired. I know it must be really hard being a Big Willie producer, and keeping the hits coming. Or the “product,” as he calls it.

  Mr. Walker arrives, and Chuchie greets him happily.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Aqua says, and I can tell by the sound in her voice that she’s real tired.

  Mr. Walker looks at the CDs and photos on the wall. I can tell he’s impressed, because he just nods his head silently.

  “Bye, Cheetah Girls!” the receptionist yells after us as we leave.

  I wave good-bye to her even though she’s on the phone, and she winks back at me while she talks. “No, there’s no studio time tomorrow, he’s booked solid.”

  As we ride in the back of Mr. Walker’s Bronco, I start feeling sad again about Eddie Lizard not calling me. I just feel so amped and excited that I want to call him and share every tidbit about our studio session with him. “Should I call Eddie?” I ask Chuchie.

  “Not a chance!” Chuchie shoots back, then giggles. Dorinda joins in, too, but the twins just stare at us. I look Aqua straight in the face and smile. She smiles back, but there is a look in her eyes like, I’m gonna get you later.

  Well, let her simmer in her Southern stew just a little longer. Eddie Lizard likes me, not her.

  At least, I think he does.

  But then, why hasn’t he called me?

  Chapter

  8

  “How was your session?” Mom asks as soon as I come through the doorway.

  “Fabuloso!” I tell her, sitting across from her at the dining room table. In the kitchen, I can hear Daddy humming and clattering as he rustles up some grub for us. “He wants us to come in two or three more times. He said he’s gonna call you to set it up!”

  “I know, darling.”

  “You know?”

  “I called the studio after you girls left and spoke to Mouse. He seems to think it went really fabulous.”

  “He said that? Hot diggity!”

  “He also said it’s gonna be a couple weeks till he can clear enough time for you girls to have another session.”

  “A couple weeks? That’s so long!”

  “Well, it’s Christmas season coming up, and you know, Mouse Almighty is a very busy man.”

  “I know, but jeez …”

  “Now, now, let’s talk about other things,” she says, brushing off my blues. “Don’t you want to hear the latest on Operation Get a Puppy?”

  “Yeah!” I say. “What happened? Give me the blow-by-blow.”

  Mom laughs. “My little florist delivery plan worked like a charm. I understand Mrs. Brubaker was yelling so loud that Peter Pruitt down the hall stuck his head out of his door and told them both to shut up! Peter says she even tried to stuff the summons into Nunzio’s back pocket!”

  “Did Mrs. Brubaker tell Mr. Pruitt if she’s gonna show up tomorrow in court?” I ask.

  “No, she didn’t. But you know Esther Brubaker, she’s more slippery than a buttered escargot.”

  “Hi, cara, have you eaten?” Daddy asks me, coming out of the kitchen and pecking me on the cheek.

  “No—and why is the kitchen sink covered?” I ask, noticing that it’s got a drop cloth draped over it.

  “A pipe broke in the basement. Everybody is backed up in the whole building, so don’t use it, or maybe a rabbit will jump out,” Daddy explains, waving his hands. “José is coming to fix it.” José is the handyman who fixes everything in the building, even my computer when it broke once.

  “Va bene,” I say.

  “I’m su
rprised you can get anyone to fix anything around here,” Mom humphs. “Leave it to the landlord to raise the rent even if the roof fell in.”

  “Oh, by the way, did Eddie call me?” I ask sheepishly.

  “No, thank goodness,” Mom says, putting on her cheetah reading glasses and starting to do her paperwork from the store, which is piled up in front of her on the table.

  There has gotta be something wrong. Now I wonder if Eddie’s even gonna show up to class at Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory on Saturday.

  The doorbell rings, and I jump up like RoboCop. Maybe it’s Eddie Lizard! I’ll bet he’s already heard through the grapevine about the Cheetah Girls’ big studio session. I look at my watch, and see that it’s already nine o’clock. If it is him, Mom is never gonna let me go out this late on a weeknight. I fling the door open and see José the handyman’s face.

  “Hi, José,” I say, smiling to try and hide my disappointment.

  He beams back at me, then waves at Mom and Dad as he walks into the kitchen with his toolbox. “Very big night next door,” he says, smiling at Mom.

  “Oh, really?” Mom says, peering over her cheetah reading glasses at him. “What happened? Esther make a rabbit roast?”

  José chuckles at Mom’s joke, but I can tell he is excited to tell us something.

  “What’s the deal-i-o, José?” I ask, butting in.

  “The little Buffy—she have the babies already!” José says in his thick Spanish accent, proud of his spying skills.

  “What?” I gasp in disbelief. “I can’t believe Mrs. Brubaker didn’t even tell us!”

  “Well, darling, if you were expecting an engraved invitation to the baby shower, forget about it,” Mom says sharply. “After all, we are suing the woman.”

  “What’d they look like? How many?” I badger José like I’m a detective on a case.

  “They look nice, very little,” he says, cupping his hand to show me how tiny they are. “She have them in a little basket. I have to fix her sink, too, but I was looking at them, and she come over, nasty, you know? Waving her hand for me to come to the kitchen.”

  I can tell that José doesn’t like Mrs. Brubaker, either. Nobody in the building likes her because she’s mean to everybody.

  “How are we gonna get those puppies?” I ask out loud, my face contorted from worry about my babies.

  “Darling, let the judge decide tomorrow. That’s what arbitration is for,” Mom says. Then she shakes her head. “That sneaky Esther. I’m surprised she didn’t sell them off already!”

  “Mom!” I moan. “I wanna see them.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” Mom snaps at me. “We simply have to wait until tomorrow.”

  José fixes the sink while I sit and sulk. No puppies and no Eddie Lizard.

  “Well, if you keep pouting, I’m not going to give you your present,” Mom says, staring at me.

  I stop instantly, sitting up straight in my chair. “Why didn’t you say so!”

  Out of Mom’s bag comes a book—Buffy: From the Garbage Can to the Catwalk, Doggie-Bag Tips from a Furry Fashion Hound.

  “I saw this book in the window of Barnes and Noble, and I thought it was so funny that they both had the same name,” Mom says, pointing to the foxy black terrier on the cover. “Her fashion advice is a hoot—she’s such a dog!”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, reaching over and kissing her on the cheek. Leafing through the pages, I stop at the picture of Buffy marrying her dream man, Bosse—a three-year-old Hollywood hound—in a fancy “muttrimony” ceremony, in front of a preacher and everything. Suddenly, I feel a pang of sympathy. “Mom, why can’t Toto marry the Buffy next door, the love of his life?”

  “Darling, not even a shotgun wedding is in the cards for those two,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “That is not the kind of bone you want to pick with Mrs. Brubaker. We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t try to get a restraining order against Toto, so he can’t get within a mile of Buffy till his dying day!”

  “Oh, that is so unfair!” I sigh, resting my head on my left arm. “Mom, I’m not going to be okay if we don’t get at least one puppy out of Buffy’s litter.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Galleria?” Mom asks, looking at me like I’m a basket-case bozo. “I’ve already called all over town, and gotten a tentative appointment with a top child psychologist for you if we lose.”

  “I’m not a ‘child,’” I say, looking up at Mom, challenging her.

  “That includes troubled teens,” Mom says, correcting herself. “I double-checked.”

  “Mom, I’m not joking.”

  “I know, darling. But what will be, will be.”

  José comes out of the kitchen. “Everything is okay,” he announces, holding his toolbox.

  “How many in the litter?” I ask him.

  “Six.”

  “Six!” I repeat, feeling warm inside just thinking of those little cuties.

  “But as far as you’re concerned, one is the only number that matters!” Mom says firmly, gazing hard at me.

  “I know, I know.” I give up and start mindlessly leafing through the pages of the doggie picture book. “One is better than none.”

  “How was your music today?” Daddy asks, changing the subject.

  “I think Mouse Almighty’s a good producer,” I say. “I just wonder if he really likes us.”

  “Why do you say that?” Mom asks, curious.

  “Because, I mean, why won’t he look at the songs I wrote?”

  “Darling, when you have a gold record, he’ll not only listen to the songs you wrote—he’ll spoon-feed you!”

  “Cara, you’re just fourteen years old,” Daddy says. “I mean, he is a businessman, no? He knows his business.”

  “I guess so,” I say, not really convinced, but not wanting to talk about it anymore. “I’m going to sleep,” I mutter, then rise from the table and kiss Mom and Dad good night.

  I close my bedroom door and lie on my mattress in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. I know I should be imagining a golden future for the Cheetah Girls, but I can’t help feeling sad. It’s not because we’re not recording any songs I wrote, either. I can live with that—for now. And I know we rocked it to the doggy bone in the studio, too. But it all went away as soon as I got back home. And I know why.

  It’s Aqua. When me and my crew aren’t together in spirit, nothing else is right. And why aren’t we together? Because she’s jealous about me and Eddie Lizard, that’s why.

  It’s funny, you know? She’s mad because he likes me. But if he likes me so much, then why hasn’t he called?

  As I walk to the kitchen in the morning, I hear Mom and Dad whispering about me. “What will be, will be!” Dad whispers in a hushed voice. At least someone is concerned about me, which is more than I can say for Eddie Lizard. I didn’t sleep the whole night, worrying about him.

  But I’m not gonna tell them that. Instead, I moan about the other thing that’s on my mind. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I don’t get my paws on Buffy’s litter. I’ve gotta have a puppy!”

  “What would you like for breakfast, darling?” Mom asks, ignoring my whining.

  “Some Biggies bubble gum,” I snap. “I’m having a massive gum attack.”

  “That’s not gonna solve your problems, Galleria,” Mom snaps right back.

  “Cara, hurry up and eat, so I can drive you downtown to the courthouse,” Dad butts in. He places a cereal bowl in front of me.

  “You look nice, darling,” Mom says. “At least your skirt is long enough today.”

  Remembering what happened to me on the street on the way to Mouse’s studio, I have to admit she was right about not wearing the miniskirt. “Sorry, Mom. You were right,” I say, giving her props. After all, she’s a great mom and a great manager. And it’s not her fault Mrs. Brubaker is acting like such a bozo.

  If I thought I’d seen the worst of Mrs. Brubaker, I was wrong. After Daddy drops us off at the courthouse, we run
into the “defendant” in the lobby. From the look on her face, I decide I’d rather run into the Wicked Witch of the West. We all get into the elevator together, but I can’t get the nerve to say anything to her.

  Glancing downward, I notice how chipped Mrs. Brubaker’s nails are. I mean, they look raggy. Shame on her! I chuckle to myself, even though I don’t feel so chuckly, because my stomach has a bad case of the squigglies.

  When the elevator door opens, Mrs. Brubaker shoots out like a cannonball.

  “Did you see her nails?” Mom snips, as we walk down the corridor to Room 101A. “She doesn’t need a manicure. She needs to be declawed!”

  I’m really nervous now, so I clutch Mom’s hand tightly till we get inside. The courtroom is a lot smaller than I thought it would be—not like the ones you see on television. Sitting down at a long table, I try to avoid Mrs. Brubaker’s glare, but Mom doesn’t care. She stares right back at her until Mrs. Brubaker looks away.

  The judge comes into the room and sits at the head of the table. A court stenographer positions himself in front of a funny-looking little typewriter.

  “Good morning, my name is Judge Fowler, and I’ll be presiding over this arbitration. I will listen to both sides, then render a decision. You will receive such decision by certified mail the next business day.”

  I sit there staring at Judge Fowler’s hair. It’s long, red, and straightened, which makes him look like Simba from The Lion King. I look over at Mom, wondering what Judge Fowler means by the next business day? I’d raise my hand and ask, but this isn’t school—it’s a courtroom—and I don’t know the rules of behavior.

  “The plaintiff, Mrs. Gari … boodi, may proceed first,” Judge Fowler says, peering at Mom’s name on a piece of paper on his desk.

  “That’s Mrs. Garibaldi,” Mom corrects him.

  “Pardon me—Mrs. Garibaldi. Please proceed,” Judge Fowler says, without cracking a smile. I sink further down into my chair, afraid of what might happen next.

  “Our dog Toto, whom we love and adore—I mean, we adopted him from the ASPCA even before my daughter was born—” Mom takes a cheetah handkerchief from her purse and starts sniffling.