“Welcome to Maroon’s. I’m Sarongeh, your hostess for the evening. I’ll take your coats to the coat-check room while you join your party.”
Sarongeh’s warm greeting thaws my inside, so Angie and I take off our matching blue quilted down coats and hand them to her willingly.
“Howdy, pardner!” interjects Galleria from the bar area, waving like a hula girl. She is clutching a Caribbean cocktail with a pink umbrella thingamajig like she’s ready for a beach party.
“We’re with them,” I tell Sarongeh, but I gather she already knows that by Galleria’s racket.
“Omigod, you have to try this—it’s the bomb-ditty boom!” Galleria says gleefully as we approach. She shoves a punch glass filled with an exotic blue concoction toward me.
“What is it?” I ask curiously.
“It’s called Jamaican Mama Brew!” heckles Galleria. “Sounds right up your rodeo, doesn’t it?” “Hi, ladies,” Ms. Dorothea says, interrupting Galleria’s giddy behavior. (If I didn’t know any better, I’d think someone had slipped Galleria some tutti-frutti punch.) It’s obvious that Galleria is as happy as fried clams to be “in the mix,” as she puts it—and out at such a nice restaurant on a weeknight. Angie and I would be enjoying this special treat a whole lot more if it weren’t for the fact that we have to spill the barbecue beans. My other half shoots me a look, and I know what she’s thinking: “Galleria may be grinning now, but she’ll be stinking mad later.”
Ms. Dorothea swivels around quickly on her bar stool, her pretty, colored, fox muffler swiping Chanel on her right temple in the crossfire. “Oh—I’d better check this, too,” she says absentmindedly, handing the muffler to Chanel like she’s on coat-check duty. “Aqua, you and Angie look perplexed.” Suddenly, I shriek inside. Leave it to Ms. Dorothea to know something is up with the Huggy Bear Twins. After all, she can read people faster than the New York Post.
“Let me make it real simple for you,” Ms. Dorothea continues, depositing a drink menu in my hand. “All you have to do this evening is order the most exotic cocktails right now, then once we sit down, the most succulent appetizers, entrees, and desserts this establishment has to offer, because, my darlings, the price is definitely right.”
I take a deep guppy breath, then let out a chuckle. Ms. Dorothea is right. We don’t have to pay for this special treat, and we earned that gift certificate, so we might as well enjoy it. I break out into a grin of relief. Thank goodness Ms. Dorothea isn’t on to us—just yet. After all, we don’t want to ruin the fun for everybody the whole time we’re here—just part of the time—and preferably after dessert! (I don’t care what Angie thinks, I’m waiting till everyone has a full stomach before I tell them our sad, sorry story!)
“I was almost tempted by the Caribbean Calamity—coconut, mango juice, and cherry syrup. Sounds like a tasty solution to me. What do you think?” probes Ms. Dorothea.
Dag-on this is hard. Ms. Dorothea is so nice. Usually, we are so glad to see her, but tonight, seeing the Grim Reaper would have been a more welcome sight. I tug at my skirt riding up my thick thighs.
“Where’s Mr. Garibaldi?” I ask, wondering if he is still at their factory store filling orders for Christmas.
“Working,” Galleria hoots back, confirming what I thought. Then she mumbles mischievously, “Better him than me.”
We’re glad Mr. Garibaldi isn’t here. Not because we don’t like him—we like him a whole heap. But he gets upset when Galleria is upset. Obviously, he’s the opposite of Daddy, who doesn’t give a hoot when Angie and I are miserable.
“Yoo-hoo, Aqua!” Ms. Dorothea repeats, trying to get my attention.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, ma’am, I’ll have a Caribbean Calamity,” I say, clearing my throat. Just what we need—another calamity! Angie shoves me in my side. Galleria levels her trademark furtive glance in my direction, like she wants to ask, “What’s up, buttercups?”
“You look nice,” Angie interjects politely to Ms. Dorothea, deflecting my plea for help.
I nod in approval. Ms. Dorothea has the most unique way of dressing than anybody we’ve ever seen—even in New York. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you wearing an outfit that isn’t leopard print.” Tonight Ms. Dorothea is wearing a sort of glittery knit poncho with a big crochet flower at the neckline, and a matching flared wool skirt in some sort of juicy peach color that makes her skin glow.
“Predictable is boring—always leave them guessing,” Ms. Dorothea quips.
“I can’t believe even your shoes match!” Angie says in awe, staring down at Ms. Dorothea’s peachy-looking tweed pumps. This is so much fun—Lord, why do we have to face the music tonight? I want to grab Angie so we can scuttle to the bathroom, get right down on our knees, and pray about this. Please, God, just give us a sign telling us what to do. Any sign. Is that too much to ask?
“Ladies, your table is ready,” Salongeh announces, interrupting my plea for help from the Almighty.
“Let’s get lovely,” chirps Galleria, springing off her bar stool and following Salongeh’s sashay into the dining room. Following right behind them, Angie and I glance at the huge, old-timey black-and-white photos in vintage frames scattered on the walls. They remind me of the old pictures Big Momma has stacked in her photo albums. One photo in particular catches my eye: a pretty brown lady wearing a fox stole, strands of pearls, and a tight skirt cropped at the knee. She has her dainty purse clutched in her hand, and she looks like she is strolling about her business.
“I like that one,” Angie says, pointing to the picture right next to it—a young boy in his Sunday best, standing next to a tall vase stuffed with roses on an antique marble end table.
As we turn the corner into the main dining area of the restaurant, the din of chatter and noise in the crowded room makes me feel self-conscious all of a sudden. Sarongeh parks us at an empty table wedged in between two occupied tables. Of course Galleria motions for us to pile into the chairs against the mirrored wall. I examine the narrow space between the tables like a tightrope artist speculating the odds of pulling off the latest fantastic feat. Tiny Dorinda has already slithered into the space and is sitting down. At Angie’s prodding, I turn sideways so I can squeeze in between the two tables while trying not to look down at the man’s head that is directly parallel to my sucked-in stomach! A smirking Galleria sits facing us, flanked on both sides by Ms. Dorothea and Chanel. Dag-on, this is the one thing we don’t like about New York—everything is so crowded and cramped.
When I do squeeze into my seat, I make sure my eyes don’t meet the man at the adjoining table. I’m so embarrassed! My shame vanishes when a bus-boy plops a piping-hot basket of corn bread and biscuits in the center of our table. Just as quickly, a tall and dark bald man with flashy white teeth arrives at our table and announces himself grandly. “Good evening, ladies. I’m Mechel Thompson, the owner, and I want to welcome you to Maroon’s!” he says, revealing a foreign accent.
“Hi, darling. I’m Dorothea Garibaldi and these are the Cheetah Girls,” responds Ms. Dorothea. “What a lovely place you have here.”
“Thank you. We want to make sure that you are served to your satisfaction—I understand you girls won the Harlem School competition,” Mechel continues enthusiastically. “I’m sorry I couldn’t attend, but we had to get things properly sorted out here that evening for a private party.”
“Sorted out.” I repeat the phrase to myself while I try not to stare at him.
“Where are you from?” asks Galleria, while holding a piece of corn bread hostage in her left hand.
“London,” Mechel informs us proudly, “but I moved to Jamaica when I was just a tiny pup.”
Quickly I have a flashback of the vintage photos on the wall. “Is that a picture of you on the wall?” I ask sheepishly, hoping that I’m not wrong. When I was little, I used to hate when people would confuse me with Angie. Even though we are twins, we are distinct and different in our own way.
“Yes, back in Mandeville. My g
randmother used to like to dress me up and take me to a photo studio.” Mechel giggles. “The other photos are of my partner, Arlene, her mother, and some of our other relatives.”
“I hope we get to go to London—and Jamaica,” Galleria pipes up wistfully, then adds in her usual confident style, “we’re going to be in the studio for the rest of the month with Mouse Almighty.”
“Oh, brilliant. Kahlua eats here all the time when she’s in town,” confides Mechel, letting us know that he is quite familiar with the recording artists in Mouse Almighty’s roster. “Well, I wish you girls much success. I’m sure you’ll be trotting around the globe, holding court in Buckingham Palace, and drinking Earl Grey tea with the Queen!”
Galleria looks at him in amazement. “I can’t believe you said that! I—I mean—we—I mean, me and Chanel, because we started the group together before we hooked up with—anyway, we would sit around and fantasize about all the places we were going to perform….”
“Well, people with big dreams do think alike, darling, don’t they?” Ms. Dorothea riffs at Mechel, like grown-ups sharing a trade secret.
Mechel giggles again and swipes his bald head gracefully like a gazelle. “This is true. Arlene and I opened this place five years ago, with pennies in our pocket and big dreams in our heads and buckets full of charm for the landlord when we didn’t have our rent money!”
“Trust me, I know. The Texas chain gang didn’t work half as hard as I did to get my boutique off the ground,” Ms. Dorothea says, assured that the accuracy of equating prison labor to opening her boutique Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes cannot be disputed even in a court of law!
“I should have known you were a fashion diva, because you are working that pink outfit for points.” Mechel rests his wrist gently on Ms. Dorothea’s shoulder. “That color looks genius on you.”
“Well, actually it’s not pink,” Ms. Dorothea says hesitantly, “it’s a shade of salmon.”
“Yes, I know, but I didn’t want to say that, darling,” Mechel whispers, leaning over Ms. Dorothea, “in case it sounded fishy!”
Ms. Dorothea howls at Mechel’s wit and I can tell these two will be breaking a lot of corn bread together in the future.
“Well, nice to meet all of you—and I’ll send a waiter over straight away!” Mechel gushes, then marches off.
“Straight away!” howls Galleria. “I dig his vocab!”
“Word.” Dorinda is obviously tickled pink by the exchange between Mechel and Ms. Dorothea, because her cute dimples have deepened. “He’s right, though—you are working that outfit. I don’t mean to be ‘knit-picking,’ but it’s silk, right?”
“Fresh out of the cocoon,” Ms. Dorothea chuckles.
“Cocoon?” I blurt out without thinking. I’m sorry, but Angie and I are as green as spring tomatoes when it comes to textile science—one of the courses Dorinda takes at Fashion Industries East.
“The silkworm’s cocoon,” explains Dorinda, who can tell that the Walker twins are still not on the same fashion page as the rest of them.
“Lemme explain the silky situation. Legend has it that an Asian princess discovered silk back in the day—I mean waaay back in the B.C. day—Before Christ—”
“We know what B.C. means, Dorinda. We do go to church every Sunday,” says Angie. “Just tell us what happened with Princess Cocoon already!”
“Sorry—so she was sipping her Oriental tea, right? And one of the cocoons fell in her cup—” continues Dorinda.
“Just fell from the sky like SpiderBabe?” Galleria asks in a skeptical tone.
“Let her finish,” moans Ms. Dorothea.
“I don’t know—maybe the cocoon fell from a closet or something that was near the table where she was drinking the tea—so, anyway, she fished the cocoon out of her cup and the silky threads were exposed because the liquid had dissolved the cocoon.”
“I see, said the blind man—so Cinderella isn’t the only fairy tale to come out of Asia?” quips Galleria.
Even though I didn’t know about the origin of the Cinderella story, either, I clamp my mouth shut.
“Thank you, Dorinda for that ‘fabrication.’ What says you about the attorney ‘situation’?” Ms. Dorothea asks, fishing for an update on Mrs. Bosco’s battle.
“Well, Mrs. Dropkin, the attorney, says Mrs. Bosco should hire a private investigator, just in case they can dig up any extra dirt about Mr. Dorgle—Corky’s father,” Dorinda explains carefully. “She said it could only help the case.”
“Well, that makes sense—everybody is hiding something,” remarks Ms. Dorothea.
Angie has a knee-jerk reaction to that comment and kicks me under the table. Luckily, the waiter comes over and hands us each a pretty, colored menu. Ms. Dorothea eyes the menu like a prisoner just released from lockdown. She pants, “Decide quickly, girls, so we can order, pronto!”
“Which appetizer should I get—jerk chicken wings or codfish critters,” I mumble to Angie. Meanwhile, I can’t help overhearing tasty tidbits from the couple at the table to our right.
“I can’t believe you expect me to pay dog alimony!” hisses the man. He plops his glass down firmly on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “What will you think of next. Getting a dog nanny?”
We all pretend that we aren’t paying attention to the dueling duo, even though we are. Now I even feel sorry for the poor dog that is getting dragged into the middle of their mess. It reminds me of Angie and me when our parents separated. I can almost feel the same sensation in my stomach. We were walking around with so many cherry pits in our stomach we could hardly concentrate in school. Our seventh-grade science teacher, Mrs. Chummins, even called our parents to find out what was going on at home that had us so distracted in class.
“Aqua!” Galleria barks, rescuing me from eavesdropping. She has her left hand wrapped around the bottle of Walkerswood Jankanoo Hot-Pepper Sauce like it’s Aladdin’s lamp. “This is off-limits for the fabulous Texas Walker twins, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond automatically.
According to Galleria, “stars don’t carry Hot Papa sauces in their purses.” Well, we learned our lesson all right: We still carry it, but we just don’t whip it out in front of the Cheetah Girls anymore!
“Ending the Civil War was easier than weaning these two off their spice of choice,” Galleria says, making another jab in her “needle point.”
Before I can open my mouth to make a smart retort, other words start falling out of my mouth: “Daddy says we have to be on that plane going to Houston next Friday. He doesn’t care if we don’t finish the demo.”
Galleria gives Angie and me that shocked-bunny look she can do on cue. Then she looks at her mother, Chanel, and Dorinda, then down at her plate—which is pitifully empty except for a few scattered corn bread crumbs.
“So I guess it’s true, huh? There’s no place like home?” says Galleria, dripping with more sarcasm than fat on a bacon strip. Angie and I know what Galleria thought of us when she first met us: that we were two Houston hickory sticks that had to be cured to her liking to be part of the Cheetah Girls.
“Galleria, we wish we could click our heels three times and be in the studio with y’all, and back home with our family so we could make everybody happy!” I stutter, fighting back my anxiety.
“Well, then I guess we’re going to have to finish the demo without the Fabulous Walker Twins. Because the demo is getting done,” huffs Galleria like she’s a courtroom judge delivering a hefty jail sentence. “But I take it you can show up every afternoon at Mouse’s studio up until next Friday? Or will you be toooo busy with pedicure appointments and other primping perks in preparation for your holiday travel plans?”
Ouch. Galleria knows how to deliver a sting better than any yellow jacket bumblebee in operation.
“No, Galleria. We will be at the studio every afternoon, like we’re supposed to,” I retort, still smarting from her mighty sting.
Angie pokes me on the side—this time,
hard. I can’t even get mad at my cowardly other half for her sneaky jab. For once, she was right: peach cobbler topped with melted vanilla ice cream sure would have made this whole thing go down a lot easier. I should have waited until after dessert to spill these burnt barbecued beans!
Chapter
5
The announcement of our Houston-bound holiday trip dampened the rest of our evening. I don’t mean to sound like a Southern debutante in distress, but I’m not exaggerating. Usually Galleria eats macaroni and cheese with the enthusiasm of a mongoose swallowing a mouse, but instead she poked her fork around her plate like she secretly wished it was our faces instead!
And if enduring such a dreadful “last supper” isn’t bad enough, as soon as we get home, Daddy serves up more unappetizing news. “Big Momma had a flare-up. Your mother is expecting a call from you—right now.”
I sigh and take my coat off, then turn to go to the bathroom, but Daddy jumps down my throat like a bumblebee determined to get his buzz on, “Do it right now!”
“How bad is it, Daddy?” Angie asks, panicking. See, Big Momma has had rheumatoid arthritis since we can remember—it’s a terrible disease that never goes away, and nobody on God’s green earth knows what causes it. When we were little, there were times Big Momma would just lay in bed, moaning and calling for the healing powers of the Lord. Once, we cried to Daddy because we thought somebody put a spell on Big Momma. How else could you explain the fact that she would be fine one minute, then in agony? I’ll never forget when Daddy sat us down and told us everything about “RA.” That sometimes it makes Big Momma’s joints so stiff and inflamed, it causes excruciating pain.
I pick up the phone and dial Big Momma’s house. I feel like my throat is on fire. Ever since Daddy told us about RA, I conjure up these horrible images of Big Momma’s joints being “on fire.” I just don’t like those words “inflamed” or “inflammation.” They sound like the work of the Devil, if you ask me.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars Page 4
