In the House with Mouse!

by Deborah Gregory

  Now I know what Angie asked her—if she liked Eddie.

  Suddenly, I realize what the first part of my horoscope meant—you can’t make someone like you. They either like you or they don’t. Well, I don’t care anymore if Galleria does like Eddie, or if he likes her. They deserve each other!

  Chapter

  8

  The next morning, Angie and I come straight home after church to call the hospital, and see if Daddy can be released.

  “Yes, Mr. Walker is being discharged today,” an attendant tells us over the phone.

  “Really?” I ask, like I can’t believe it.

  “Yes, the residing doctor has ordered his discharge. Everything seems to be fine. He’ll need an adult to sign him out.”

  “Yes, we know,” I reply.

  “We can pick up Daddy!” I shout to Angie, who throws her arms around my neck and hugs me, stepping on my nicely shined pumps in the process.

  “Ouch, Angie—you’re gonna put me in the hospital now!” I say.

  But she just slaps me on the shoulder and smiles. “’Member how Uncle Skeeter told us that when he was younger, Big Momma used to pay him five dollars to walk around in her shoes to stretch them out?”

  “Yeah—no wonder he can’t keep his head on straight!” I chuckle back. “Dag on, I wish Uncle Skeeter was here right now. I could use some cheerin’ up.”

  “Me, too,” Angie mumbles.

  We’d never realized until this morning—when we tried to think of an adult to bring along to check Daddy out of the hospital—how sad we felt about not having any relatives in New York. You have to understand, we have so many relatives spread all over down South, that when we have our annual family reunion picnic in Bayou Wildlife Park, we take up the whole eighty-six acres! Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating just a bit, but we have more relatives than most people.

  “It’s just plain pitiful that we had to ask Ms. Dorothea and Mr. Garibaldi to take us to St. Luke’s and sign Daddy out,” I say, shaking my head. We didn’t know who else to ask—and believe me, it kills us to have to ask Galleria for anything, after yesterday’s drama.

  I know we could have asked somebody at our church—Hallelujah Tabernacle—but we don’t know the people in our congregation that well. Besides, Reverend Butter, and the pastors and aides, are real busy getting everything ready for our big Christmas celebration—that’s all everybody over there is talking about.

  “I hope Daddy doesn’t act strange in front of Ms. Dorothea,” Angie mutters while we change the sheets on his bed—just like Docktor Lizard and his son Eddie suggested we do. (Of course, Angie and I were too tired to finish cleaning last night, because Galleria kept the Cheetah Girls in the chat room, swooning about Eddie Lizard, till I was bitten to death by the green-eyed monster!)

  I drill Angie on how we’re gonna play it with Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi. “As far as Bubbles’s parents are concerned, Daddy fell faint from dehydration and stress, and had to go the hospital for some tests. After all, they know how hard Daddy’s been working at his new job at SWAT Bug Spray, whipping up marketing campaigns for the new flea spray they’re launching in the spring.”

  We’ve already asked the Lord to forgive us for “withholding information”—that’s what Big Momma calls it when you don’t tell people the whole truth about something until the right moment.

  “Should we call Ma now and tell her?” Angie asks.

  “And tell her what?” I counter. “If you ask me, I’d rather wait until the sun goes down on this mess.”

  “But we always call her or Big Momma after church on Sundays!” Angie protests.

  “Well, we’re busy living our lives in the Big Apple, so I’m sure they’ll understand if we call later,” I snap back at her. Shoot, I may be stubborn as a mule, but Angie just plain kicks stuff around like a mindless donkey!

  The doorbell rings, and I run to the door with my coat in my hand, because I know it’s Mr. Garibaldi and Ms. Dorothea. Now Angie will have to move her slowpoke butt away from the telephone, and stop thinking about calling Ma or Big Momma and broadcasting Daddy’s problems all over the country!

  “Hi, Aquanetta!” Mr. Garibaldi exclaims, kissing me on both cheeks. I just love when he does that! (It’s a European salutation, I guess.)

  “Hello, Miz Aqua,” Galleria says, squinting at me to keep the sun out of her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I would swear Galleria is acting insecure.

  “Where’s Angie? Let’s get this rodeo on the road,” Ms. Dorothea says, clutching the collar on her fake cheetah-fur coat.

  “Angie! Let’s go,” I yell loudly.

  She finally comes downstairs, and we run outside to Mr. Garibaldi’s van. “What station do you girls want to hear?” he asks once we get comfy inside.

  “Hot 99, Daddy—we’ve gotta hear the new jammies!” Galleria blurts out, speaking for all of us as usual.

  “So, what new songs are you girls working on?” Mr. Garibaldi asks excitedly. I wonder why he asks us that. He should be asking his daughter, since she’s the one who writes all our songs.

  “Um …” I start in, but Galleria cuts me off.

  “Daddy, you know we aren’t working on anything until Chanel gets better, or until we hear from the Def Duck peeps about a showcase, or getting in the studio with Mouse Almighty!”

  “That’s quite an earful, darling. I hope you spurt out sound bytes for interviews as quick as you spurt out your whines,” Ms. Dorothea comments, like she’s a reporter doing commentary “I wasn’t whining, I was just saying,” Galleria replies with a smirk.

  The new song “Hot Diggity Dog,” by Kenny Knuckles, comes on the radio, and the three of us sing along, because we know all the words:

  “You can pay your rent

  So you think you’re heaven sent

  Don’t wreck my life and cause me strife

  ’Cuz I’m going for mine all the time

  Hot Diggity Dog

  Don’t mean I’m the alley cat with a wack attack

  Hot Diggity Dog

  Don’t mean I can’t he down with the mack

  Hot Diggity to my Dogs

  Then we can all get along in this song!”

  “You think they play this song enough? That’s the thirtieth time this morning, and we haven’t even had our breakfast yet!” Ms. Dorothea moans.

  “You know how it is when a new jammy comes out, they give it major-domo airtime,” Galleria says, bopping along.

  “Who’s the artist?” Ms. Dorothea asks. She’s real interested in the new acts coming up, now that she is officially our manager.

  “Kenny Knuckles,” I reply.

  “Kenny ‘Pig’ Knuckles is more like it—’cuz he’s packing an extra fifty in the music video for the single,” Galleria snorts.

  Suddenly I feel uncomfortable. Angie and I aren’t exactly fluttering doves in the weight department. Maybe, when the Cheetah Girls start getting famous, people will say the same thing about us!

  “You know, you always look heavier on television than in person,” I retort, crouching a little farther back into my seat so I don’t take up so much room. “It’s not fair that male artists can be as big as the post office, but nobody says anything. I don’t like the fact that people expect female artists to be skinny, like Mariah, Kahlua, or Whitney—it just isn’t right.” I fall silent, hoping Ms. Dorothea will come to our defense.

  “In my opinion, as long as you don’t eat all the profits from the record trough, you’re entitled to a few good meals,” Ms. Dorothea quips, coming through for me. But then, she asks the question I was hoping wouldn’t come up this morning. “Aqua, what exactly happened yesterday?”

  I get a queasy feeling in my stomach. I wonder if Galleria told her mother about Eddie Lizard. She probably even told her that I liked him!

  “W-what do you mean?” I respond, stuttering.

  “When you came home from vocal practice?” Ms. Dorothea asks suspiciously.

  “Oh, we, um, Daddy was lying in bed, and said he d
idn’t feel too good,” I say, cutting my eyes at Angie, who throws me a glance faster than greased lightning.

  “That’s all?” Ms. Dorothea asks, like she doesn’t believe us.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that a grown man wouldn’t have called the hospital himself?” . Dorothea continues interrogating me.

  “Um, yes, but I think he was waiting for us,” Angie mumbles, so low that Ms. Dorothea asks her to repeat herself.

  Ms. Dorothea doesn’t ask us any more questions, though. I’m so glad when we finally get to the hospital, I almost jump out of the car before Mr. Garibaldi puts his foot on the brakes!

  I know Ms. Dorothea doesn’t believe us, but right now the only thing I care about is getting Daddy out of this place, and seeing if the spell has really been broken.

  “Daddy!” Angie says excitedly when she sees our father sitting quietly in the outpatient room. Daddy stares back at us sternly, which causes my heart to flutter. I think Daddy really has recovered, and is back to his old self. Well, praise the Lord and shame that headwrap-wearing “She-devil!”

  “Mr. Walker,” Mr. Garibaldi starts in, putting his arm around Daddy’s shoulder.

  “Gall me John,” Daddy says politely.

  “Sí, sí—forgive me, Giovanni!” Mr. Garibaldi says, grinning from ear to ear.

  “I like the way your name sounds in Italian, Daddy,” I say, smiling.

  Daddy doesn’t say a word, but Mr. Garibaldi just keeps chattering away. “Can we expect you at our dinner table at eight o’clock? The lobster fra diavolo is simmering perfetto right now, and waiting for you later!”

  “Of course, I don’t see why not—eight o’clock, as planned,” Daddy chuckles. Mr. Garibaldi could make dead people smile in their coffins if he wanted to.

  “Mr. Garibaldi, what does lobster fra … um, you know, mean?” I ask, grinning because I cannot pronounce the word. (I’m sorry—I’m just terrible at trying to say things in other languages.)

  “Lobster fra diavolo?” Mr. Garibaldi repeats, humoring me.

  “Yes, sir,” I shoot back.

  “It means, lobster a la Friar Devil,” Mr. Garibaldi explains.

  My heart stops right in its tracks. No, please, not the devil again! Mr. Garibaldi sees the shocked look on my face, and quickly goes on to explain. “No, cara, it does not mean that exactly—um, how do you say—?”

  “It’s not a literal translation,” Galleria says, throwing a smirk in my direction.

  Since she knows the truth about Daddy, I guess she’s entitled to get a good laugh from that one. “It’s just a fancy way of saying spicy spaghetti with some seafood thrown in the mix—definitely the flavor that you two savor.”

  I feel a sting in my chest when Galleria says that—and she catches it too, by the look on my face. Suddenly, I feel stupid, because I realize Galleria doesn’t mean anything bad by those things she says. I’m just being overly sensitive. Shoot, before that cute boy in a snakeskin rattled his way into Drinka Champagne’s, I would have paid Galleria’s remarks no mind—as a matter of fact, Angie and I laugh at her jokes all the time.

  “Aquanetta, you havva not lost faith in my cooking, no?” Mr. Garibaldi says, teasing me.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Garibaldi, we will be at your table at eight o’clock sharp!” I reply quickly “Dorinda and Chanel are coming too, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Galleria says, imitating me, then putting her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t forget to tell me my horror-scope later!”

  I feel myself cringing again at Galleria’s remark, but this time I stop myself. Galleria always asks me to read her “horror-scope,” because she gets a kick out of it. Being the capricious Gemini she is, she’s always full of tricks and surprises!

  “See you later, Ms. Dorothea.”

  “Bye, darlings—be on time, and don’t wear white!” she quips, making a joke about the hospital uniforms, I guess.

  The first thing we do when we get back inside our house is walk over to the ugly Bogo Mogo Hexagone Warrior Mask, turn to Daddy, and ask, “Is it okay if we take this thing down now?”

  “Throw it out—I don’t want to ever see that thing again!” Looking defeated, Daddy walks upstairs to his bedroom.

  “Good-bye, Bogo,” Angie mutters, as we stuff it into the trash can outside the building.

  “I don’t trust this thing—why don’t we throw it in the garbage down the block?” I say, pulling it back out. We know we’re not supposed to do that, because people are real fussy about their garbage cans in New York. One day, I saw Mrs. Elliot yelling at the people in the building next door, because they left a stack of magazines for recycling in front of our building.

  “Yeah, let’s put Mr. Bogo in a garbage bin far away from us!” Angie quips.

  After we say good-bye to Mr. Bogo for the last time (we hope), we go straight back up to Daddy’s bedroom to see if he’s okay.

  “How are you feelin’, Daddy?” I ask. But he just sits on the edge of his bed like a robot We sit next to him quietly, until the spirit moves me to tell him exactly what my horoscope said yesterday.

  “The unconditional love for which you yearn cannot be bought at any price.”

  All of a sudden, Daddy puts his head down in his hands, and starts bawling like a baby! I have never seen Daddy cry like this, except for the day our parents’ divorce papers came through. He sat at the dining room table that day, looked at the papers for the longest time, then cried.

  “It’s been so lonely up here without your mother,” Daddy blurts out all of a sudden.

  “We know, Daddy,” Angie pipes up. “We didn’t tell you, but you should have seen how lonely Ma is down there without you.”

  Daddy gets real quiet for a long time, then whispers, “There wasn’t anything wrong with me a doctor could fix, was there?”

  “No, Daddy, there wasn’t,” I reply calmly “Do you remember us coming to the hospital yesterday with, um, Doktor Lizard, and his son?”

  “No,” Daddy says. “The last thing I remember is Abala coming over after you girls left for your vocal lessons.”

  “Daddy, who is Mattie?” I blurt out.

  From the look on Daddy’s face, I know I have stepped on a land mine. Angie gets real still.

  “Why do you ask?” he asks, looking guilty.

  “Because you mumbled her name when you were sleeping.” I hold my breath, waiting for Daddy to answer.

  “I was with her … before your mother,” Daddy says solemnly.

  Now I wish Daddy hadn’t told me who Mattie was. Then I wouldn’t know that he still loves her. I can tell he does by the look in his eyes.

  “I told Abala that I still carried a torch for Mattie,” Daddy confesses. “I mean, she was my first real love. I think that’s normal, but I don’t think Abala took it the right way.”

  “Maybe that’s why she sped up the spell!” Angie says, playing divette detective again.

  “Did you tell her anything about Ma?” I ask hopefully.

  “Yes, I did—I told her that I still love your mother … very much,” Daddy says, putting his hands to his face.

  “Well, it sounds like Abala might have panicked, and tried to erase all the memories from your heart,” I say, thinking out loud.

  “Anything else?” Daddy asks sternly, looking at me and Angie, like, “The True Confessions Show is over, and stay tuned for the next episode!”

  “Um, no, Daddy—we just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I say, heaving a deep sigh. Daddy has had enough drama this weekend to last until—well, until Ma calls, anyway.

  “I feel fine,” he says, still threatening us with his eyes. “And don’t you girls have homework to do?”

  “Yes, we do!” Angie and I say in unison, smiling with relief. We turn to go, but Daddy stops us.

  “Tell me one thing—” he says.

  “Yes, Daddy?” I hold my breath. Please, God, don’t let him know that I had a crush on Eddie Lizard. I hope he hasn’
t figured that out!

  “You didn’t tell your mother I was in the hospital, did you?”

  “No, Daddy, we didn’t,” I say softly.

  “Good. Please don’t say anything—yet,” he says firmly.

  “Okay,” I say, relieved that Daddy doesn’t know anything about Eddie Lizard. Daddy doesn’t take kindly to us liking boys, I don’t care what spell he is under! Like I said, he doesn’t want us dating until we’re sixteen, and that’s that.

  “Um, Daddy—you just have to promise us one thing,” I tell him.

  “I can’t promise till I know what it is!” Daddy barks, just like he used to before all this happened. “Come on, out with it!”

  “Please don’t bring any more of those nasty shakes in this house!” (I’m talking about all those herbs he drank, instead of good meals like we’re used to cooking—and Daddy is used to eating!)

  “That’s a promise,” Daddy says, breaking out into a small smile, which on him looks bigger than the one on the Cheshire Cat.

  We both kiss Daddy on his forehead and run off to our room. “You’re gonna help me with my math homework, right?” Angie starts in.

  “All right, Miss Smarty-Britches—but you owe me one!” I am determined to make my sister pay for all those snide comments she made yesterday. “And I do not like Eddie Lizard one bit!” I hiss, as she lies on her bed and opens her math notebook.

  “I know you do!” Angie shoots back, smirking at me.

  “It’s a long time till sundown, sister, so you’d better pray you don’t end up tied to some voodoo doll that looks like a crawling Lizard,” I warn her.

  “That’s right,” she says, “’cuz you’ll just untie me and tie yourself to it!”

  Angie screams as I wrestle her to the floor.

  “I thought you girls were doing your homework,” Daddy yells from his bedroom.

  For the first time, we’re dee-lirious that Daddy is yelling at us about something, ’cuz we know he’s back to his good old gruffy self again!