“And big models,” Angie blurts out.
“Okay, so Chanel’s mom, Mrs. Simmons, she’s got this boyfriend we call Mr. Tycoon—he’s a sheik or something—”
“Real rich!” Angie chuckles, but I poke her. She knows Ma is feeling lonely, so why does she have to rub it in?
“Anyway, Mrs. Simmons is writing this book, called It’s Raining Sheiks, about women who have sheiks for boyfriends or something.”
“But not all of them are happy,” Angie adds, like she knows what she’s talking about.
“Stop interrupting me,” I hiss.
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m just trying—”
“I know.” I cut her off. “So, Chanel—that’s our friend from the Cheetah Girls—”
“I know who Chanel is now,” Ma says, switching on her blinker because she is about to change lanes on the freeway.
“So Chanel had this dream about money falling from the sky, and she told Galleria. But see, Chanel doesn’t like it that Galleria writes all our songs, so she goes ahead and writes two lines for the new song—”
“Uh-uh,” Angie says, holding up her hand. “She only wrote one line.”
“Yes, you’re right—bless her heart—she wrote one little line in her notebook, Galleria said. Galleria went over to Chanel’s house, and she wrote the rest of the song—but it’s cute, right?”
“Yeah, it’s cute,” Ma says as we approach the exit for Kemah Boardwalk, which is right on the water.
I hum some more of the song. I wish Ma could meet the Cheetah Girls, and Ms. Dorothea, and even Mr. Garibaldi. They sure know how to have fun. Ma would love them.
I know I’ve been running my mouth, but I’ve got to tell Ma the story of how Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi met each other. I remember when we first heard the story, Angie and I thought we had just met the kookiest people in New York. Who knew they would turn out to be the happiest people we’ve met there so far?
“Ma—you know how Galleria’s mom and dad met?” I ask.
Now Angie throws me a look like, “Why you wanna bring that up when you know Ma and Daddy are dee-vorced!” I decide maybe I’d better not tell Ma, but she eggs me on.
“Why’d you stop talking? Tell me the story,” she says, amused.
“Well, they met through the New York magazine personals ads.”
“Really?” Ma says, and now she seems real interested.
“Yes. Mr. Garibaldi’s ad said, ‘Lonely oyster on the half-shell seeks rare black pearl to feel complete,”’ I say, laughing out loud, and even Angie joins in. I don’t care how many times I hear that, it just tickles me silly. “I saw the ad, Ma—they have it in the family photo album!”
Ma bursts out laughing. “That is funny. Is he Eye-talian?”
“Yes, he is—and he cooks, too! Weren’t those chocolate cannolis dee-licious?” I ask.
“Yes, indeed,” Ma says wistfully. “Maybe that’s what I need to be doing.”
“Making cannolis?” Angie asks, puzzled.
“No. Answering personal ads like Ms. Gari-bodi,” Ma chuckles.
“Ma—her name is Ms. Gari-baldi—and you’d better not be doing anything foolish like that!” Angie exclaims.
“I don’t know how foolish it is—y’all seem to like those people, so they must be nice—’cuz I know we raised you right. But do you know what the chances are of a black woman over forty finding another man?”
“What?” Angie and I ask in unison.
“Less than the chances of getting hit by a plane falling from the sky,” Ma says.
We both laugh, relieved, because Ma is obviously joking.
“You laugh? One in forty thousand—that’s what it said in Sistarella magazine,” Ma says, getting out of the car and shutting the door. “Y’all want me to go inside with you?”
That’s just like Ma, changing the subject when she’s talking about something serious. I’m not gonna let her off the hook that easy. “Those statistics don’t say anything about a beautiful woman like you, Ma,” I say, giving her a hug.
“Well, I guess your Daddy didn’t think I was so beautiful.”
We are stunned, so we don’t say anything. We are definitely not telling Ma about Daddy’s new girlfriend!
“Don’t think I don’t know your Daddy is up to something, either,” Ma says, shoving the keys into her purse and zipping it up. “He’s been awfully nice these past few months.”
“Well …” Angie begins.
“Nettie Two, don’t open your mouth before you know what’s coming out of it. You never were good at lying—so don’t think you’ve suddenly improved overnight.”
I was gonna get Angie back good myself, but Ma beat me to it.
“That’s all right—if I was your daddy, I’d be careful of any woman fool enough to put up with him. That’s all I’ve got to say,” Ma huffs, then looks at the thousands of people descending on the Boardwalk like locusts. “Boy, they sure have a lot of tourists here for the holidays, don’t they?”
“I guess so,” I mutter.
As we walk closer, we see that all the people are concentrated in one area, making it impossible for us to get by. That’s when we hear the man with the bullhorn, saying, “Everyone is going to get to audition. The line will go a whole lot quicker if you stay to the left of the railing.”
Ma looks at us and says, “Well, I guess we should have brought our lunches—’cuz it looks like we’re gonna be here all day!”
Chapter
7
We can’t believe how people are pushing and shoving out here on Kemah Boardwalk. It’s just like in New York!
“All this commotion for a gig that’s not paying one red cent,” grumbles an older man with several missing front teeth. He is standing on the out-of-control line directly in front of us, with his somewhat younger crony, who is a good-looking man wearing a red baseball cap and dark sunglasses.
“Don’t get me wrong, though,” the toothless man says. “It’s not often old-timers like us get the opportunity to show our chops. Everybody wants to see you young folks.” He grins shamelessly, then accidentally jabs Angie with his beat-up instrument case.
Ma winces and takes control of the situation. “Sir, maybe you should move that case off your shoulder,” she says nicely.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Toothless says, apologizing sincerely, but turning and hitting Angie again with the case.
“Ouch,” Angie says, making a comical grimace.
We look at his baseball-capped friend with pleading eyes, hoping he’ll help his manner-impaired crony.
“Fred,” the man says, “take Bertha off your arm and hold her in front of you, before you poke that poor girl’s eye out!”
Bertha. Lord, don’t tell me they are carrying body parts in that case! As if reading my mind, the man with the dark glasses says, “That’s Fred’s banjo—he calls her Bertha, ’cuz she’s been with him for thirty-five years.”
“That’s right—longer than any other woman,” the man called Fred says, chuckling at his own joke.
“Y’all in a group together?” Angie asks, folding her arms to protect herself from any more attacks from moving instruments.
“Yes, indeed, young lady,” the younger one says. “We’re Fish ’N’ Chips. He’s Fred Fish. I’m Chips Carter.” Mr. Carter adjusts his sunglasses and looks up at the bright, blue sky. “Young people don’t listen to the kind of music we play—heart-thumpin’ blues,” he says.
“What instrument do you play?” Angie asks Mr. Chips Carter. It’s hard to tell by the shape of his duffel bag—which he is smart enough to hold in front of him.
“I play the tambourine—shakin’ up the blues.”
“We always used to listen to blues music at our grandfather’s house when we were little,” I inform Fish ’N’ Chips.
“Muddy Waters and B. B. King—Grand-daddy loved them,” Angie adds, grabbing on to Ma’s arm.
We don’t remember much about Grandaddy Selby Jasper—Ma’s daddy—but we’ll never fo
rget his music. “Nothing like the blues,” he used to say, playing it loud enough on the stereo so he could hear it sitting out on the porch, sipping his lemonade and watching us play in the backyard. Uncle Skeeter would bang out beats on a crate, while Angie and I hummed along, making up our own melodies.
“I guess we are the oldest fools out here,” Mr. Fred Fish says to his partner.
Finally, we hear one of the security guards yelling into a bullhorn. “Listen up, people. Everybody is going to get to audition for the Montgomery Homeless Shelter Benefit. But it would help us a lot if you would just form one line against the left railing. We’re getting a lot of complaints from the patrons on the Boardwalk!”
“Montgomery Homeless Shelter Benefit—is that the same thing y’all are here for?” Ma asks, concerned.
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. “Karma’s Children are performing, but all the proceeds from ticket sales are going to the Montgomery Homeless Shelter.”
“Oh,” Ma says, nodding her head. “I thought the benefit was for all the shelters in Houston.”
“No, ma’am. Montgomery is the one with the most homeless women and children, so they need money to build another wing,” Mr. Carter explains.
I nod my head in agreement. We know it’s true, because the members of the Houston chapter of the Kats and Kittys Klub were talking about it. We still have Kats friends here—and we call them from New York every once in a while.
Now a bunch of girls are bumping into us from behind. We turn around, and almost shriek at their big gold earrings and freeze-dried curls.
“Twanda, there’s no way they are gonna have all these people audition by six o’clock,” one of the girls says to another, getting all upset.
What on earth are we doing out here? I wonder.
“Ma, I can’t believe that you’re being so nice and staying out here with us,” Angie says.
“Excuse me,” says one of the freeze-dried girls, poking me in the back. I never realized before that we had manner-impaired people down here too!
Ma sees the look on my face, so she addresses Miss Bo-bangles. (I’m sorry, but those are not earrings she is wearing on her ears. Those are bangles, and they belong on her arm!)
“Yes?” Ma asks politely.
“What’s wrong with her? She can’t talk?” one of the other girls mumbles out loud so I can hear, but I don’t say a word.
The girl who poked me keeps talking. “We wuz wondering—do you think Karma’s Children are going to be inside?”
“I don’t know,” Ma says politely, then folds her arms across the pale yellow sweater she’s wearing.
“I don’t know either,” I say, finally speaking up for myself. I’m not afraid of these girls either.
Miss Bo-bangles sucks her teeth. “Shoot, Twanda—we shouldn’t waste our time standing out here if they ain’t gonna be inside. I want to get those pants down at the Galleria before they close, and I am not standing here all day.”
Now another girl in the line turns, and asks someone else if Karma’s Children are gonna be inside at the audition. What are they thinking? That Karma’s Children would be sitting in the Crabcake Lounge, looking at all these people?
Angie looks at me and reads my thoughts. “I hope they at least stop by or something.”
“With this crowd, I wouldn’t count on it,” Ma says sympathetically. “This is a mess.”
We all take a deep breath. Now the security guards with bullhorns are walking around and ordering people to form “an orderly line.”
“I don’t think the line has moved at all,” Angie moans.
“Twanda, I’m not playing—let’s go,” Miss Bo-bangle says to her friend. They are both wearing Gucci sunglasses like Ma’s, but I think they are fakes.
“Not everybody is willing to work for their dreams like you girls are,” Ma says when they leave. She hugs both Angie and me, which makes us feel a whole lot better for standing on a line like cattle waiting to be slaughtered.
“We could go get those leather pants at the Galleria, too,” Angie says, imitating one of the Bo-bangle girls.
“How do you know they’re leather pants, Angie?” I ask, chuckling.
“Well, just look at those girls, Aqua—they ain’t running to the Galleria mall just to buy jogging outfits!”
Even though Ma is wearing her dark sunglasses, I can tell by the way her face is tilted that she’s getting that faraway look in her eyes again. “Ma—where do you think Uncle Skeeter is?” I ask.
“I really wish I knew, ’cuz I’m worried sick about him—and so is Big Momma.”
“After we finish with this audition, we’re gonna help you find him,” I promise.
I don’t know what I’d do if my Daddy was as irresponsible as Uncle Skeeter. Still, Egyptian and India need their father, just as much as Angie and I need ours.
It is almost dark by the time we get anywhere near the front of the line. At this point, one of the attendants hands us a form to fill out.
“Come on, Fish ’N’ Chips—you know it’s your turn to sing for us,” Ma chides the blues singers. Truth is, they’ve been entertaining us on and off for the past few hours—which otherwise would have seemed like years.
Almost everybody on line has been doing some singing, but I don’t mind telling you our performance got a bit of a standing ovation. Even so, Fish ’N’ Chips got the most applause by far. I think most of the young people in the line had never heard anything like their music!
“All right, Fred—let’s give the young ladies—and that includes you, too—a taste of the blues,” Mr. Chips says, winking at Ma.
Omigod—I think he likes her! “See, Ma, I told you those statistics were incorrect,” I tease her.
“Well, what do you expect? He can’t half see behind those shades,” Ma jokes. “Okay, then, let’s hear it,” she says, turning back to Fish ’N’ Chips.
“Duh-do, duh-do,” Fred starts warming up, then Chips joins in, and Fish ’N’ Chips start frying up another blues song:
“I went down to the store to get a root beer
But when I came back, nobody was near
Not my woman, not my banjo, and not my dear
Then one of my neighbors made it real clear
He said, son, you done lost your woman
to a bad case of the blues
The next time you go to the store
you’d better look at the news
I said, I lost my woman to a bad case of the blues
And maybe that’s why she ran off with my shoes
I’ve got those lost-woman blues
those dirty, lowdown, lost-woman blues!”
We clap up a storm, because Fish ’N’ Chips deserve it! They sure seem to make Ma happy, too. She almost seems like her old self again. “Why don’t y’all come on over Tuesday night for some pre-Thanksgiving dinner?” Ma asks them both.
“Well, I reckon we could,” Mr. Chips says, winking at Ma again. “What do you think, Fred, have we lost our heads?”
Fred chuckles loudly at his partner’s joke.
“Well, Miss … uh …” Mr. Chips pauses, because he doesn’t know what to call Ma. He probably thinks she’s married.
“Call me Junifred,” Ma says, her eyes twinkling.
I gasp. I haven’t heard Ma call herself that in years!
“Well, Junifred, we would be delighted to accept that invitation!” Mr. Chips says, beside himself.
“What part of our town do y’all live in?” Ma asks them.
Fish ’N’ Chips just sorta pause and look at each other. “Well, we live over by Montgomery,” Mr. Chips says quietly.
“Oh, y’all live over by the shelter?” Ma asks.
“No, ma’am,” Mr. Fish says, taking over for his partner, who has become speechless. “We live at the shelter.”
I’m so embarrassed. We didn’t know they were homeless!
“Well, that’s fine,” Ma says, not backing down from her invitation. “If you need a ride to my house Tuesday
night, just let me know. Otherwise, I expect to see the two of you at my dinner table around eight o’clock!”
We are so proud of Ma. Now I wish the rest of the Cheetah Girls could meet our mother—they would be proud of her too!
“Gentlemen, could you step inside?” says a security attendant to Fish ’N’ Chips.
“Well, ladies, it looks like it’s curtain time,” Mr. Fred Fish says, as the two of them go inside for their audition.
We wish them good luck—and we really mean it. Fish ’N’ Chips sure earned their tartar sauce tonight! I start humming a bar from their song as we wait for our turn.
After about fifteen minutes, Fish ’N’ Chips reemerge in the doorway of the Crabcake Lounge. Ma seems genuinely happy to see them again. “Why don’t you two wait out here with me, while the girls go inside?” she suggests to them.
Angie and I grin from ear to ear as we are ushered into the Crabcake Lounge for our audition. “I’ll be waiting right here!” Ma yells after us.
The first thing I notice when we get inside is the stacks of forms. They are piled in big bins on top of a table with a checkered paper tablecloth. The place really looks a plain mess.
I can feel the disappointment in my heart when I look around and don’t see Karma’s Children. I knew they weren’t here, because we would’ve seen them come in. But somehow, I guess I held out hope that they were hiding under the bar or something.
Angie and I smooth down our cheetah skirts, and stand quietly on the tiny stage until we’re addressed. There are about six people sitting at the tables talking, and a few more running around, busy doing things.
“Okay,” says one of the ladies, who is wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a fringed jacket, and a badge that says VOLUNTEER.
“You girls are …?” the lady asks, then pauses, obviously waiting for us to fill in the blank.
“Angi—” my slow sister starts in.
“The Cheetah Girls,” I say, thinking quickly. That’s what the lady wants to hear—the name of our group. “My sister was trying to say that she’s Anginette and I’m Aquanette Walker—but we’re the Cheetah Girls. The other members of our group are in New York—you know, for the holidays.”
“Ah, yes,” the cowboy hat lady says. “You girls are from Houston though, right?”
Growl Power! (The Cheetah Girls Book 8) Page 5
