“I know that’s right,” I say again. When Galleria gets that look in her eyes, you know something good is about to happen, because there is no stopping her determined ways.
I just wonder when something is gonna happen with our group. With Chanel being on crutches, we don’t want to push anything, but Def Duck Records did say they were going to put us in the studio with producer Mouse Almighty to cut a few songs for a demo. It’s been a long time since we got a call from them—and we’ve all been getting anxious that they’ve forgotten about us.
“Have you heard a little something from Mouse Almighty?” I ask hesitantly, because I’m not sure if I even want to hear the answer.
“No. Just a whole lot of nothing,” Galleria says, smirking like she’s unhappy. “He’s in the studio with Kahlua, working on her new album. Let’s hope when he finishes, he won’t forget about the five hungry cheetah cubs he promised to work with.”
“Well, darling, people only remember the last bread crumbs you threw on the pond,” Ms. Dorothea pipes up. “So you can bet Kahlua Alexander is putting every producing morsel that Mouse Almighty has to offer into her platinum-selling beak.”
“I heard that,” I chuckle. Ms. Dorothea always has a real interesting way of putting things. Maybe Mouse Almighty will be ready to work with some new talent after filling Kahlua’s beak. We sure hope so.
“Madonna, what a voice. Ché voce!” Mr. Garibaldi says, putting his beaver hat on his head and prancing around happily.
“Madonna doesn’t have a voice like that,” Dorinda replies, thinking Mr. Garibaldi was comparing Mariah’s voice to Madonna’s.
“No, silly willy—‘Madonna’ is just an Italian expression,” Galleria says, correcting Dorinda’s blunder. “You know, like, ‘Holy cannoli’—that type of shout-out.”
“Word?” Dorinda says, scrunching up her cute nose in amusement. “I didn’t know that—is that how Madonna got her name, then?”
“Absolutely, schnooky—she’s Italian-American,” Galleria says, grabbing Dorinda by the shoulders and practically picking her up off the floor, “Man, you hooked us up. We can’t thank you enough—Do’ Re Mi hooked up her posse!”
Galleria twirls poor little Dorinda right into this couple, but they just beam at us, digging Galleria’s energy We walk down from the steep rows of seats, but there are so many people that the crowd is moving slower than snails stuck in a mudslide. All we want to do is figure out how to get to the backstage area.
“You never know how things flow. I mean, we might just pull this abracadabra off without even breaking a sweat,” Galleria says. But I know she is just trying to reassure us. The rest of us don’t have Galleria’s nerve. Truthfully, we get real nervous if we feel like people are rejecting us, and it seems like there are always a whole lot of people trying to keep you from doing things, or reaching your dreams.
“You really think we’re gonna get to meet Mariah?” Tiffany asks, her blue eyes getting bigger. It seems like she is the biggest Mariah fan out of all of us. Dorinda says Tiffany’s whole room is covered with Mariah, Christina Aguilera, and Limp Bizkit posters. Daddy would have a proper fit if we hung up posters like that in our room!
Galleria puts her arm around Tiffany and heckles, “Well, I don’t know if we’re gonna meet Mariah, but she is certainly gonna meet us!”
Chapter
2
Finally, after crawling through the crowd forever, we are on the ground floor of the arena, next to the concession area. Angie and I look longingly at the Mariah posters and T-shirts that are hanging up for sale.
“Don’t sleep on the Mariah posters, y’all!” yells the vendor, holding up a T-shirt of Mariah in a blue bikini.
“You girls want one?” Daddy asks, and I almost fall out of my shoes.
“Yes!” Angie replies, before I can say anything.
I can’t believe Daddy is letting us buy a poster! I wonder what he thinks we’re gonna do with it—keep it rolled up underneath our bed?
“I hope you know that we’re going to hang the poster up in our room—on our very nice, white walls,” I start in, to see how Daddy responds.
“I figured as much. Just don’t go overboard—one poster on the wall is more than enough,” Daddy says sternly. “I must say, I rather enjoyed her singing, though.”
I think Daddy has almost cracked a smile. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he has a crush on Mariah, the way he is staring at the poster! Boy, we sure are glad Dorinda invited us to this concert!
I whisper in Daddy’s ear so Dorinda doesn’t hear me. “Daddy, maybe we can have Dorinda’s family over for dinner one night—you know, as a thank-you?”
“Well, as long as you girls are doing the cooking, I don’t see why not,” Daddy says. “Maybe after I finish redoing the living room.”
“Redoing the living room?” I repeat, shocked right down to my shoes. Daddy just spent six months decorating the apartment! There’s not a spot or a dot anywhere, and nothing is out of place. What on earth is he talking about?
“Abala felt it could use a little cultural warmth, so we’re going to do it together,” Daddy says, beaming. “She’s taking me to a dealer in African arts and textiles on Sunday.”
Now I know Daddy’s been “touched by a cuckoo,” because he can’t possibly mean it! Angie looks at me like, “What is going on?” All of a sudden, Madison Square Garden is turning into Madison “Scare” Garden, and Halloween is long past! I mean, isn’t it bad enough that we have to look at that ugly Bogo Mogo Hexagone Mask hanging in the hallway—the one Abala gave Daddy as a present?
“Daddy, are you okay?” I ask, noticing the gray cast to his complexion. I wonder why I didn’t notice it before—maybe because the lights are so bright here.
“I can’t say I’m feeling up to speed, but maybe it’s the weather,” Daddy says, wiping the tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “I’m gonna get a lot of rest this weekend, that’s for sure.”
What I know for sure is, those herbs that High Priestess Abala Shaballa has Daddy taking aren’t doing him one bit of good! I get this strange feeling in my chest, which I try to ignore. I just hope those herbs aren’t hurting Daddy.
See, when Abala comes over, she has Daddy drinking all these herb drinks, to the point where he doesn’t even eat regular food anymore. She gave him all these herbs to take at night, too—including frightshade, fenugreek, and some other odd names I can’t pronounce!
While he is paying for our poster, I whisper into Angie’s ear, “We are throwing those herbs on his nightstand right into the garbage!”
Angie nods her head, and I know we have a plan. There is no stopping us when we put our heads together.
All of a sudden, I realize we haven’t paid much attention to Chanel—and we don’t want her feeling left out of everything just because she’s hobbling on crutches. Of course, Ms. Dorothea has that situation under control: she is tending to Chanel like she’s the most delicate cabbage in the patch.
“Excuse me, sir, could you not lean over her?” Ms. Dorothea commands a man who is trying to reach a poster. “Chanel, darling, don’t move—from the looks of this buffalo herd, you could become one terribly trampled cheetah!” Ms. Dorothea holds up a tiny Mariah T-shirt, and asks Galleria, “Do you think this is too small for Toto?” Toto is their precious little dog—who eats better than we do!
“His butt will stick out!” Galleria giggles.
“That’s the general idea, isn’t it?” Ms. Dorothea snipes, then pays for Toto’s latest fashion item.
“How does your ankle feel?” I ask Chanel, concerned.
“I can’t wait to get rid of these crutches!” she huffs.
“Don’t worry, mamacita, you’ll be flying like Mary Poppins in no time,” Galleria says. She helps Chanel balance on her crutches while she peers at the poster near the top of the display.
“Oooh, look at the Butterfly T-shirt,” Twinkie exclaims, pointing at the T-shirt stand. I feel bad that Dorinda’s foster brothe
rs and sisters can’t get T-shirts—but at twenty dollars each, they can’t afford them.
“You just love butterflies, don’t you?” Tiffany asks Twinkie.
“I wish I was a butterfly and I could fly away!” Twinkie replies.
“Did you like the concert?” I ask her.
“Oh, yeah—can we meet the Butterfly Lady?” Twinkie asks, her innocent blue eyes opening wider.
“Well, we’re gonna try—if Mrs. Bosco doesn’t mind,” Galleria says firmly, grabbing Twinkie by the hand.
“That’s all right with me,” Mrs. Bosco says. “I think Gaye’s having a good time, so let’s keep going.”
Gaye just stands there, quiet. I think it’s the least we can do for her. She might not know who Mariah Carey is now, but maybe when she gets bigger, it’ll be something nice to remember—instead of all the painful memories she’s gonna have when she grows up and finds out that her mother abandoned her in a playground.
“Sir, how do we get backstage?” I ask the T-shirt vendor.
The vendor gives us directions. Then I squeeze Angie’s arm, which is locked into mine, and yell, “Come on, y’all—this caravan is moving south!”
If we thought the security guards at the Karma’s Children concert in Houston were mean, then the ones guarding the backstage area in Madison Square Garden are big ol’ bulldogs who missed their mealtime! We haven’t even gotten past the backstage door when one of the security guards, with biceps the size of whole turkeys, barks out, “Please, exit to the right!”
All of sudden, Angie and I feel like the Lion in The Wizard of Oz—two weaselly cowards without enough courage to spread on a split-pea sandwich! We stand there, speechless, frozen in our tracks.
“Let’s just leave,” Dorinda’s older foster sister Monie blurts out to her boyfriend, Hector. “Dorinda, we’re gonna bounce.”
“Why don’t we just wait and see what happens?” Hector says quietly.
“What for?” Monie snaps at him, sucking her teeth. “They ain’t gonna let us back there, so let’s just go.”
Hector whispers to her again, but this time I can’t hear what he’s saying.
“No—let’s just go!” Monie insists, and I can tell she’s gonna win this argument.
We look over at Dorinda, and she raises her eyebrows, like, “Here we go again—another showdown at another rodeo.” I feel sorry for Dorinda—it must be hard, sharing a bedroom with that sourpuss Monie. At least Angie and I get along like two peas in a pod—even though she tries to sneak up in my shoes sometimes, or puts holey stockings back in our sock drawer.
“Bye, Mrs. Bosco—thank you for inviting us,” Monie says to her foster mother.
“Don’t thank me—thank Dorinda,” Mrs. Bosco corrects her. Good for Mrs. Bosco, sticking up for poor Dorinda! See, Mrs. Bosco had told Dorinda she could invite whomever she wanted. If it was me, I sure would have run out of tickets before I picked Monie’s name out of the grab bag. God would’ve had to forgive me for that one!
“I already told her thank you,” Monie says, getting a snip of an attitude—more than Daddy would ever allow, that’s for sure.
I sneak a look at Daddy, but he is engrossed in conversation with Mr. Garibaldi. Daddy looks grayer and more tired than ever, and I start feeling worried all over again. Besides, Dorinda’s younger foster brothers and sisters seem like they’re getting fidgety. Maybe we should all go home.
“I’ll see y’all later,” Monie says, waving good-bye to me and Angie without even cracking a smile.
“Good-bye, sourpuss,” I want to yell after her—but of course I don’t.
Now LaRonda, Dorinda’s friend from school, has lost her courage too. “I told my mother I’d be home at eleven, and I gotta go all the way to the Bronx,” she says, shifting her weight like she’s kinda nervous.
“It’s not even ten yet!” Dorinda pleads.
“I know, but I don’t want to cause any problems. I really appreciate you inviting me to the concert,” LaRonda says, trying to be real nice but backing out.
“Awright,” Dorinda whines, kissing her good-night on the cheek instead of pulling her cowardly tail.
“Mariah was off the hook,” LaRonda says, brightening. Then she turns to Galleria. “Wait till I tell Derek Hambone on Monday—he’s gonna be too through with you!”
Derek is this boy at their school who likes Galleria. He joined our social club, Kats and Kittys, just so he could hang with us.
“Ooo, you’re terrible!” Chanel says, catching LaRonda’s drift.
“Now we’ve gotta slay this dragon,” Galleria says, motioning her head in the direction of the security guard—who looks like he has had more than his share of Hungry Man dinners.
“Ladies, you cannot block the entrance, please exit door right!”
Peering up at the security guard from under her big cheetah hat, Ms. Dorothea barks back, “We’re guests of Mariah Carey—which way is her dressing room?”
“That way!” the security guard motions without cracking a smile.
Whew.
“Leave it to Mom to find the yellow brick road,” Galleria whispers in my ear.
“She could slay a dragon with that hat if she wanted to,” Daddy says, smiling with satisfaction.
“Yes she could!” I beam back at Daddy, surprised that he cracked a joke. That’s so unlike him! I’m surprised he’s even going along with this whole backstage caper. Daddy doesn’t like cat-and-mouse games, if you know what I mean. In other words, he’s awfully strict. Ms. Dorothea, on the other hand, is more our cup of mint julep tea—she likes to have fun, but she takes care of business, too.
Snaking through the crowd and going up two flights of stairs, we find ourselves in another long hallway, with a row of security guards in business suits lined up in front of us.
“Oh, boy—just when we thought we were on the yellow brick road,” hisses Galleria as we approach one of them. We all huddle together, like a swarm of nineteen bees in search of a beehive. “Maybe Mrs. Bosco’d better ask him.”
“I’ll ask,” Mrs. Bosco offers, pulling Gaye to her side. I think Gaye is scared now, because she starts sucking her thumb. “Excuse me, would it be possible to have a word with Ms. Carey? She invited us,” Mrs. Bosco tells one of the guards. “Or rather, her charity did.”
Dorinda looks at me, embarrassed.
“Her charity?” the security guard says, looking puzzled. Angie and I are so embarrassed, we just look at his navy blue suit.
“Darling, we’re Ms. Carey’s guests—could you ask if we can see her?” Ms. Dorothea says, jumping in.
“I’m sorry, but all these other people are waiting for Ms. Carey too, and we’re not letting anyone else in,” the bodyguard says. I notice that he has one of those ear things on.
“Certainly—we can wait here with the other people. There’s no harm in that, now, is there? Just in case?” Ms. Dorothea continues.
“Suit yourself. I’m gonna have to ask you to please step aside, though.”
I wonder how people can be so mean … I hope I never have a job where I get to be nasty to people all day!
I can tell that Dorinda is still embarrassed. “Maybe we should just go,” she says to her foster mother.
Much to our surprise, Mrs. Bosco retorts, “Ms. Dorothea is right. We waited this long—what’s it gonna hurt to wait a little longer? You know I ain’t cooking dinner tonight when we get back home, so I’m a free agent!”
“But next Sunday night, I expect all of you at our dinner table,” Mr. Garibaldi pipes up.
“Yeah!” Twinkie says, jumping up.
“I’ll have to ask my parents,” Tiffany says, looking at Dorinda.
“What are we gonna eat?” Topwe blurts out, causing the rest of the kids to giggle.
They must be awful hungry. Even though we had dinner before we left for the concert, I could eat another meal right now—and I’m sure I ate more for dinner than they did!
“Daddy makes lobster fra diavolo every Sunday
night—you know, it’s like a family tradition,” Galleria says, looking down at Topwe. He is wearing a white shirt, with a cute little burgundy bow tie that makes him look like a little gentleman. It must be so hard, dressing all these kids every morning!
“Does the lobster bite?” Nestor asks, grinning at his joke. He’s a little younger than Twinkie, and has lots of pretty, curly brown hair. I wonder how he got to be in a foster home…. We never ask Dorinda anything about the kids unless she tells us—and she doesn’t tell us much, that’s for sure.
Chapter
3
We stand outside Marian’s dressing room for ages. We feel worst for Chanel, because it can’t be good for her sprained ankle and tailbone to be standing so long on her crutches. Of course, shell never admit any such thing, but that’s just Chanel for you—she never lets on when she’s hurting. You’d think the bodyguards outside of Mariah Carey’s dressing room would have some sympathy for a poor girl on crutches!
“How long are they gonna keep us waiting in line, like wolves in the cold waiting for a Happy Meal?” Galleria hisses, then snuggles up to her mother.
As if Glinda the Good Witch heard Galleria’s whine, the dressing-room door opens, and a lady with a clipboard steps into the hallway. We look at her like she’s the ticket to our next meal. Feeling our eyes on her, she turns and smiles at Ms. Dorothea. (Daddy is right, Ms. Dorothea’s cheetah hat sure does come in handy for emergencies!)
“Um, Miss, do you think you could help us?” Ms. Dorothea asks the lady.
“I don’t know, but I’ll see,” the lady responds hesitantly, like she hopes she didn’t open the box with the booby prize inside.
Ms. Dorothea whispers in the lady’s ear.
“Oh, I see—well, the tickets were extended through Mariah’s charity organization,” the lady continues, “and we can’t extend any further invitation beyond that.”
“Yes, yes, we understand,” Ms. Dorothea says. She pauses, then adds, “Look, do you know how much it would mean to poor little Gaye, here, just to get a picture with Mariah? You know all about her situation, don’t you?”
In the House with Mouse! Page 2
