Woof, There It Is

by Deborah Gregory

  I want to scream, “Don’t try it.” But for this once, I keep my mouth shut.

  “Mr. Brumble, the club manager, should be here any minute,” Mr. Pett explains to us all, then turns to Mom and asks, “Did you have a good flight?”

  “Yes,” Mom says, telling a fib-eroni. I guess she figures there’s no need to go into all the gory, snory details about the night we spent in the Twilight Zone.

  “Ah, here’s Mr. Brumble now,” Mr. Pett says, stepping aside to let the club manager open the lounge. Mr. Brumble is wearing a black eye patch, and has two gold hoops in each ear and long wavy hair.

  “Mr. Pett, how many acts will be performing in the showcase?” Mom asks, taking off her cheetah shades as we go inside. Even though it’s daytime, and bright and sunny outside, it’s still kinda dark inside the Tinkerbell Lounge—making it seem even more spooky and sparkly.

  Humph, I think as Stak Chedda follows us inside. What Mom should’ve really asked Mr. Pett is how many animal acts will be performing in the showcase. How else did these two bumbling bozos make it onto the same bill as we did?

  “Let’s see, we have the rap group CMG—the Cash Money Girls. Um, the male quartet—Got 2 Be Real 4 You. The Beehives—which is a hot rock group from Boston. Stak Chedda—whom we’re billing as an alternative rap duo. And, let’s see, the Toads—a country-western group who already have a huge following in their hometown, Nashville.”

  What does Mr. Pett mean by alternative rap group? I wonder. An alternative to what—death by a wack-attack?

  “Mrs. Garibaldi,” Mr. Pett asks Mom, smiling. “Since some of the bands aren’t here yet, do you mind if your girls do their sound check first? That way, you can get on out of here and have some time to yourselves before tonight.”

  “It works for me,” Mom says, motioning for us to go on the oval stage. Right in front of the silver tinsel strip dividers are a cool set of drums, keyboards, and bass stands. That would be so dope, if we had instruments like that! You know, just banging on some keyboards and singing songs would be off the hook!

  Maybe one day. For now, Mom hands Mr. Pett the instrumental tracks we use for the songs “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle,” “Shop in the Name of Love,” and “More Pounce to the Ounce.”

  Mr. Brumble tells us to stand right in the center of the stage, and floods us with a glaring spotlight, then softens it to a pinkish hue, with shooting stars bouncing off the stage.

  “That’s dope,” Do’ Re Mi says, smiling.

  After the lights are adjusted, the tracks are cued up, and we sing a few bars of each song to cue the audio.

  At this point, I’m relieved we don’t have to stay and wait for the rest of the groups. In particular, I can’t wait to bounce from the Stak Chedda situation.

  “Why are those hyenas grinning at us?” I whine to Chuchie as we leave the Tinkerbell Lounge and head outside. Behind us, I can feel Stak and Chedda Jackson staring at us, thinking they got us right where they want us. “We’re not their next Happy Meal, okay?” The next thing I know, we’re in “hyena territory,” as Mom would say.

  “Yo, check it, Cheetah Girls,” I hear Stak Jackson yell from behind us. I turn around, and see that he’s poking his head out the front door of the club. Now he pushes the door all the way open and comes over to where we’re standing on the sidewalk.

  “I just wanted to say, we—me and my brother—was feeling you at the Apollo. And, um, we’re sorry the situation had to go down like that. Um, you know what I’m saying?” Stak says, smiling and showing his pointy fangs.

  “Yeah,” I pipe up, rolling my eyes to the bright blue sky. “You shouldn’t have won, we should’ve!”

  “Um, well, I wasn’t exactly going there, you know what I’m saying, but, yeah, you Cheetah Girls had something to say—maybe in another situation, you coulda smoked us,” Stak says humbly.

  “For true,” I reply, not knowing quite how to handle a hyena when he’s being so nice. That was the last thing I expected him to say, tell you the truth.

  “That was real nice of you to come out here and tell us that, ’cuz you know we were heartbroken we didn’t win,” Aqua pipes up.

  Who asked her? Doesn’t she have a new church hymn to learn right about now?

  “We’ll see who’s got the situation locked up later,” Do’ Re Mi says, egging Stak on the dis tip.

  “I heard that,” he chuckles, adjusting his baseball cap like the sun is in his eyes.

  “Where are you from?” Chuchie asks him.

  “The boogie-down Bronx. That’s where we call home,” Stak says, and suddenly his pointy fangs don’t look so pointy. “Yo, I’d better bounce, though, ’cuz we still gotta do our sound check—so I’ll catch you later, awright?”

  “Whatever makes you clever!” I say, then call after him the one question I want answered. “Yo, Stak. How did you and your brother get the hookup for this New Talent Showcase?”

  “One of my boys told us some peeps from Def Duck Records would be rollin’ up into Twice As Nice on the Grand Concourse, on open mike night with DJ Sweet, so we signed up. And, well you know, we freaked it,” Stak says, flexing his hookup.

  “Freaked it, huh?” I say, trying to stop smiling. “That’s how I would describe, um, what you do.”

  “Well, you know, that’s Stak Chedda—and nobody does it better,” Stak says, trying to hide his hyena fangs and flex some more by winking at me. “How’d you Cheetah Girls get the hookup, yo?”

  “Kahlua Alexander told Def Duck about us, and they flew us out here,” I say, flexing back hard.

  “You got it like that?” Stak asks, his eyes opening wide.

  “Yeah, but we’d better bounce now,” I say. I yawn, then put on my cheetah shades. “See ya—and I wouldn’t wanna be ya!”

  Stak shakes his head at me, still grinning, then goes back inside. Instantly, we all crack up laughing.

  “You’re so wrong, Bubbles!” Chuchie says, giving me a Cheetah Girls handshake as we walk a few feet to the Town Car, where Mom is already waiting for us.

  “Dag on, these rap groups seem to get all the breaks,” Aqua says as we settle down in the backseat. “Galleria—you don’t think it’s gonna turn into Nightmare on Sunset Boulevard, do you?” she asks, chuckling nervously.

  The rest of my crew gives me a look like, “Oh, no, not again,” but I’m not having it.

  “We’ve already paid the Boogie Man in full,” I tell them, pushing my hair from my face, ’cuz it’s gotten a little stuck from the sweat. “We’re here, aren’t we? This time around, we’ll see who gets to put some duckets in the bucket!”

  Chapter

  6

  Now, it’s time to do or die. Back in our adjoining suites, Mom sews some extra stitches on the tail of Do’ Re Mi’s cheetah costume. I’ve been soaking my stained cheetah blouse, and now I’m blow-drying it. The stain seems to have come out, thank gooseness!

  Chuchie has had a dope idea for our hair. “We can stick the rhinestones I bought all over our hair with a little Wacky Glue!” she explains excitedly.

  “I’m down,” says Do’ Re Mi.

  “Me, too,” I giggle. “After the strobe lights hit the rhinestones, and we dazzle them with our skills, we’ll be the stars of this showcase, paws down!”

  That’s Chuchie, always hatching new hairdos. “This Wacky Glue stuff isn’t gonna be hard to get out of our hair later, is it, Chuchie?” I ask. But when she doesn’t answer, I figure she knows what she’s doing, and I let it go.

  “Lemme see yours,” I ask the twins when they finish. Even on their smooth bobs, the rhinestones give mad sparkles.

  “You hooked us up, Chuchie!” I yell happily.

  We grab the garment bags with our costumes, and head downstairs to the lobby. “At least the Tinkerbell Lounge has a dressing room, so we can change there,” I quip. “We’re making a rapid climb up the food chain, Cheetah Girls!”

  “I heard that,” Aqua says, smiling ear to ear. “I can’t believe how this all tur
ned around! I mean, we lost the Apollo contest, and now just a couple weeks later, we’re here in La La Land, performing for a record company! It’s like out of a movie!”

  “It sure is,” Angie agrees.

  “And I hope we get to see this movie again and again, está bien?” giggles Chuchie. She has put about fifty rhinestones into her braids, and they are shimmering all over the place, making her look like Sistarella, the fairy princess.

  “All you need is a magic wand,” I chide my make-believe sister. Then I give her a big, tight hug.

  Without Chuchie, I could never do any of this. Actually, without the five of us, I don’t even think we’d have gotten this far. Sure, Chuchie and I used to dream, but nothing ever happened until we met Dorinda, then Angie and Aqua.

  When we roll up to the front of the Tinkerbell Lounge in our Town Car limo, I can’t believe how beautiful the lounge looks, now that the sun has set on Sunset Boulevard. My whole body is tingling with excitement, and I can’t help holding Chuchie’s hand as we go inside.

  “Hello, ladies. You’re in the showcase, right?” says a hostess wearing a silver sparkly jumpsuit with a silver mesh net tutu.

  “Yes, darling, they are,” Mom says, pointing to us.

  “Come right this way,” the hostess says, showing off a sparkly smile.

  I just love the peeps in La La Land. They’re so friendly, and it seems like everybody here wants to be a shining star.

  “You can put your stuff in your available dressing room,” says the hostess, “and make yourselves at home. As talent, you’re entitled to complimentary beverages and entrées of your choice. We’ve got a spread laid out downstairs in the club, but you can eat right in your dressing rooms. Just give your order to Raven—she’s the waitress responsible for talent—and she’ll bring your order to the dressing room when it’s ready.”

  The hostess points to a pretty girl wearing a costume with silver wings. “Mr. Pett will be in to see you soon. Have a wonderful showcase!” She leaves us, and now it’s time to find our dressing room.

  “What a difference from the Apollo, huh?” I say to Chuchie, as we walk past a silver tinsel curtain and into the back hallway. “Am I tripping, or did she say our dressing room?”

  “Mamacita, for once you’re not ‘lipping,’ ’cuz mira, there it is!” Chuchie excitedly points to a dressing room, which has a piece of white paper with our name taped on its door!

  I open the door excitedly, like one of those game show contestants anxious to see if we won the grand prize or just a booby prize.

  Chuchie switches on the light, and I like what I see. “Lip, lip, hooray, we are definitely in the house!” I gasp, fingering all the lipsticks, powders, and oodles of beauty products and stuff on the big vanity table, surrounded by a supa-big vanity mirror with supa-big lightbulbs!

  “Miz Aquanette, we didn’t forget about you, ’cuz I got something for you, girlina,” I start teasing Aqua, and moving sideways so she can’t see what I’m hiding behind my back.

  “What is it, Miss Galleria?” Aqua asks, giving me that look, like “I’m ready for Freddy, yo.”

  Whipping out a big aerosol can of Aqua Net hair spray, I act like I’m gonna spritz her, cornering her against the wall and making Pssst noises. “Did your mom name you after this little can of hair spray?” I ask, laying on the Southern accent.

  “No, Miss Galleria, I really don’t think she even heard of it!” Aqua pipes up. “I know Angie got her name from our great grandmother, Anginetta.”

  “Anginetta, I’m gonna let her—” I sing, making up rhymes like I always do.

  “Shhh!” Mom hisses, and moves to the door, because all of a sudden, there is lots of giggling and noise in the hallway. As she opens our dressing room door, we all gather around to get a whiff of the action, and quickly realize that the other acts have arrived.

  The center of the commotion is none other than a posse of girls wearing chain-link mini dresses featuring dollar bills.

  “I guess we know who that is,” Aqua chuckles, ’cuz she favors ducket designs, too—like the dollar bill decals on her tips.

  Making their way to the dressing room with their name tacked to the door—“Cash Money Girls”—one of the girls turns around and says, “Sorry, we hope we didn’t disturb you.”

  “Not at all, darling,” Mom says. “We just got here ourselves. I’m Ms. Dorothea, manager of the Cheetah Girls.”

  “Hi—we’re CMG—the Cash Money Girls. I’m Georgia Washington,” the platinum blonde says.

  Then the one with the upswept braids turns and says, “I’m Benjamina Franklin.”

  The one with the Miss Piggy eyelashes says, “Hi, I’m Abrahamma Lincoln.”

  “We’ll check you later,” I say, smiling, as we pile back into our dressing room.

  “Their dresses are too short,” Mom snips, then closes the door behind us.

  “I’ll bet you they’re from out here,” I offer as an explanation. All the girls out here seem to dress more “summery,” if you know what I’m sayin’—probably all year round, I guess.

  “You think those were their real names?” Angie asks.

  “Lincoln, Washington, Franklin—duh!” Do’ Re Mi says, exasperated. “Angie, those are ‘dead presidents’—as in duckets, m-o-n-e-y, get it?”

  “I get it,” Angie says, kinda embarrassed, but shrugging it off. Then she mumbles, “After all, Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a real president.”

  “Look at who finally cracked open her history book in school,” quips Do’ Re Mi.

  “At least they had a theme—unlike those bozos Stak Chedda,” I grumble.

  “We’re not going to wear the masks today, right?” Do’ Re Mi asks as she changes into her cheetah costume.

  “No, I don’t think that’s the move. Right, Mom?” I turn and ask.

  “No, let ’em see what they’re getting. I think you should put that glitter stuff around your eyes. You know, ‘Cheetah Girls don’t litter, they glitter!’” Mom says, chuckling.

  “I like that, Madrina!” Chuchie exclaims.

  “That’s dope, Mom,” I exclaim, then whip out my notebook and write it down. “Cheetah Girls don’t litter, they glitter.”

  That gives me another dope idea: “You know, if—I mean, when—we get a record deal,” I say, correcting myself, “we should come up with our own Cheetah Girls Credo that we could put inside the CD or something.”

  “You mean, like the Cheetah Girls Rules we have?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “Yeah, sort of, but more like things we believe in—with some flava,” I add.

  “Word. That’s dope,” Do’ Re Mi chuckles.

  “‘Cheetah Girls don’t litter, they glitter,’” I repeat out loud, staring at the scribbled page in my spotted, furry Kitty Kat notebook, which is like my personal Bible and secret diary mixed together—and it’s for my eyes only.

  “Should I wear my hair down?” I ask, smoothing down the fuzz that’s growing by the minute. “Maybe I shoulda gotten another weave?”

  “I guess you would’ve, if you had weave money,” Mom snips at me.

  All of a sudden, I feel my eyes fill up with tears. Mom would never snip at me like that if she wasn’t mad at me about somthing! I was right, I suddenly realize. It’s my fault Mom and Dad have to work so hard.

  “Oh, weava, don’t ever leava!” Chuchie giggles, not realizing what’s going on with me. “I like it wild like that, Bubbles. That’s the real you.”

  “I like it straight,” I say, frowning to hide my real feelings. “I look like a Chia Pet with all this hair.”

  “Bubbles, if you put it up now, you’re gonna mess up the rhinestones!” Chuchie says, exasperated because, I guess, I’m freaking out. “Párate! Now you’re making me nervosa.”

  “Okay, girlinas, calm down. It’s time to growl, not howl,” my mom interrupts.

  We start chuckling. Mom is mad funny, even though she is too bossy sometimes. Besides, I’ve got to give it to her—she didn’t say anythin
g when I stained my skirt yesterday at lunch. Of course, that’s probably because she’s tired of yelling at me to carry tampons.

  Which reminds me. Taking out a tampon from my cheetah backpack, I make a mad rush to the ladies’ room. “Come with me, Chuchie. That’s all I would need is to start leaking onstage!”

  Chuchie giggles, and follows me out the dressing room door. Four guys in big cowboy hats and boots, and bright red plaid shirts, are rambling our way. They smile at us, and I almost wave with the hand that’s holding the tampon. Luckily, Chuchie pokes me, and I pull it back in time. “Oopsy, doopsy,” I giggle, then say, “Howdy.”

  “Howdy, ladies. Those costumes are mighty pretty!” the tallest guy says.

  Cheez whiz, they have a drawl even bigger than Aqua and Angie’s!

  “Who are you?” asks nosy Chuchie.

  “The Toads,” says the tall guy wearing the hundred-gallon cowboy hat. “And y’all?”

  “We’re the Cheetah Girls!” I say, recovering from my tampon embarrassment.

  “We’re y’all from?”

  “Manny-hanny!” Chuchie says, then giggles. “And you?”

  “Nashville, Tennessee—and believe me, we’re real glad to be here!”

  In the bathroom, I can’t stop giggling about our little encounter with the lonesome cowboys. Then, I suddenly get another idea, “Maybe we should get cheetah cowboy hats, and do a ‘jig’—I mean a gig—at a rodeo!”

  “Where is the rodeo?” Chuchie asks, standing outside my stall, holding the door because the latch is broken.

  “I don’t know. Down South somewhere, no? Let’s ask the goody two-shoe twins!”

  “Qué hora es? What time is it?” Chuchie asks, sounding nervous.

  “Six o’clock. Time is moving so slow today,” I say, feeling cold and chilly, even though the weather is so perfect in La La Land. I always get cold feet when I’m nervous.

  “Feel my hands,” I say to Chuchie, grabbing her hand. “I’m cold as a mummy. You are too, Chuchie.”

  When we get back to the dressing room, Mr. Pett is waiting for us. “Oh, we’re sorry to keep you waiting!” I exclaim.

  “No, that’s fine. I just got here. Is everything okay, ladies?” Mr. Pett asks, like he really wants to know. Nobody asked us anything at the Apollo—even when we were boohooing like babies backstage after we lost. That’s ’cuz they didn’t give a hoot how we felt.