“What do you think you girls are up to?” Ma barks into the receiver, but doesn’t wait for my response. “How could you call Big Momma and tell her something like that without talking to me first? Have you lost your minds up there?”
I recoil from Ma’s sting. I’ve been stung so many times this evening, I’m tempted to reach for the calamine lotion before another word comes out of my mouth!
“No, ma’am, we have not,” I reply calmly. There is no point in telling Ma that we only called Big Momma first because Daddy forced us, on a dare. We learned a long time ago, when Ma’s midnight train of terror rolls out of the station, the best thing for us to do is stay out of her way.
“Do you know that the neighbors had to go over and help Big Momma out of bed this morning because she couldn’t move? Doctor says the inflammation is finally spreading to her internal organs. Now what do you have to say about that?” Ma barks at me mercilessly.
“We’re coming, Ma,” I say, surrendering to the guilt eating away at the lining of my stomach. Even though it’s irrational, Angie and I have always felt responsible for Big Momma’s flare-ups. But this particular time, it’s obvious we are.
“Oh, I know you’re coming home, but you’d better call your grandmother in the morning and talk to her. Do you hear me?” Ma threatens, but doesn’t stop for refueling: “If it wasn’t so late I’d make you two call her right now. But she is worn out and we finally got her into a peaceful sleep. Now, I don’t want to hear anymore nonsense like you’re some big-time singing group.”
Obviously we’re not! I want to scream at Ma, but I know better than to sass. “Yes, ma’am,” I squeak instead, and hand the phone to Angie so Ma can chew her out, too.
Afterward, we hightail it to our bedroom, just in case Daddy gets riled up again. Lying in my bed, I think about Big Momma sleeping peacefully I’m glad that at least one of us will be sleeping well, because I’m not going to. Meanwhile, it doesn’t help that Angie is fumbling with leftover wrappings in her bed. I try to decipher the smells wafting from her side of the room—hints of cinnamon and white frosting. “Why are you eating in the dark?” I whisper. I turn on the lamp on my nightstand. Angie is lying there, bug-eyed, swallowing dawn a slice of red velvet cake, which we found out tonight is a Jamaican dessert.
I am so anxious about Big Momma that I don’t even ask Angie for a bite. That’s why she knows that I’m so upset my stomach is hurting.
“What is it, butterflies?” Angies asks, concerned.
“No, elephants,” I moan. I lie down again and try to sleep while the light is on and Angie is munching away. Suddenly, I have a vision of Angie and me sitting on a back porch in Houston with a ten-pound bag of green beans and a big metal strainer like we used to have when we were little. But in the vision, we’re old and wrinkled, and have such bad arthritis that we don’t have even the strength in our fingers to snap the ends off the beans! I’m so frightened, I jump up out of bed and go to my desk and turn on my computer.
“You’re gonna do homework now?” Angie asks me in disbelief.
“No,” I mumble, ignoring her. I sign onto the Internet and search Google for “Rheumatoid Arthritis.” “There has to be something we can do to help Big Momma.” Scanning information on the different sites, I try to decipher all the fancy medical language and understand what this thing is that Big Momma has. Angie gets up from her bed and looks over my shoulder. Talking out loud, I try to explain. “When you have RA, something in the body’s immune system starts attacking healthy joint tissue and eating them up. That sounds horrible.”
“That’s why we always thought something was attacking Big Momma—it is,” Angie says with a sigh.
Poor Big Momma. Tears well up in my eyes. I decide when we get to Houston, I’m going to spend more time with her. I keep searching, trying to find more information. (Secretly, I know I’m searching for something else, too—I want to know if the flare-ups are caused by being upset, but I can’t find anything.) After visiting a lot of sites, I realize that nobody seems to know what causes this type of arthritis. “The cause of rheumatoid arthritis is not yet known.”
“It seems like there is nothing we can do,” I say, defeated. I turn off the computer, feeling more confused than before.
“Do you think they are going to make the rest of the demo without us?” Angie asks, crumpling the tinfoil and stuffing it back into the brown paper doggie bag she got at Maroon’s.
All of a sudden, I feel like a card-carrying member of the I-don’t-know club. “I don’t know,” I mumble emphatically to Angie, clutching the ugly blue bedspread around my neck like it’s going to protect me from all the fears and worries that are sweeping me into a nasty avalanche. I close my eyes and decide to pray again, but not in the spiritual way that we were taught to pray, but in the “I can’t help it, because I’m desperate” way. Please, God, don’t take Big Momma from us.
The next day, I can tell that Angie is just as scared as I am. Not because she’s acting afraid, but because she asks me what we should wear to go to the studio instead of just putting on anything she pleases, which usually doesn’t please Galleria.
“Something cheetah,” I reply, knowing that’s exactly what would make the Cheetah Girls’ committee happy. Thank goodness Daddy has called to tell us he is working late. Otherwise, he would drive us to the studio, and I’d prefer if he didn’t. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I don’t want him coming up and being stern with us in front of the Cheetah Girls. It’s going to be embarrassing enough to face them without him there causing more friction.
“Let’s wear the pink cheetah stuff,” I say emphatically.
“We just wore that to the benefit,” Angie protests. Before she gets her itchy fingers on that white petticoat again (which I still haven’t had time to pack away, with all this drama going on), I pull out both of our pink cheetah tops and skirts, and shove hers into her chest, ordering her to “just put it on.”
“We should call Big Momma again before we leave,” Angie warns me. “I just feel so bad about everything.” My nerves are still numb from speaking to her this morning. I mean, Big Momma didn’t mean to sound like she was in a lot of pain, but it wasn’t hard to tell. The biggest tip-off was she didn’t ask us anything about the Cheetah Girls. Usually she wants to know every detail. Things like, “What is Miss Galleria up to? That girl is something else.”
“She knows we have to get to the studio,” I moan, but I know she’s right. We should call Big Momma anyway. I don’t care what I read about rheumatoid arthritis on the Internet, I know she had a flare-up because of my big mouth. Angie levels one of her you-know-we’re-in-hot-water looks at me, and I cave. We hurry up and finish dressing, then hightail it downstairs to hit the phone, dialing Big Momma’s house as we put on our coats.
“Praise the Lord.” Big Momma answers the phone in her usual manner, which makes my heart skip a beat. She must be feeling better! See, that’s what I mean about this rheumatoid arthritis business—it’s strange to me how Big Momma can swing from one end of the pendulum to the other.
“Angie and I just wanted to tell you that we love you,” I coo.
“All right, now, Nettie One,” Big Momma says using the nickname she gave me. “Well, I’m especially glad to hear from y’all. I got a surprise for ya’ll.”
“Really?” I respond, turning into a little girl again, excited by Big Momma’s Christmas presents. When Angie and I were six, Big Momma gave us the biggest dollhouse this side of Toy World. It was so big, we had to put it in the basement instead of our bedroom. We practically lived in that basement, telling our mother, “Bye, we’re going downstairs to our house now!” “Go ‘head,” Ma would say. “Just don’t forget to pay your mortgage.” We sure did take care of that dollhouse like it was a real house. One thing you have to know about our family, there is nothing more important than owning your own home. Guess that dollhouse was our start.
“Yes, really,” Big Momma retorts. My heart starts to swell. I can’t believe h
ow selfish we were for even thinking about canceling our trip home. As Big Momma would say, “God don’t like ugly.” Well, I bet God sure doesn’t like the Walker twins at this moment.
“You’re not going to tell us the surprise?” I ask Big Momma.
“No, ma’am, I won’t,” Big Momma says, her breathing heavy.
“I’ll let you off the hook this time,” I say, kidding her. “You want to speak to Angie?”
“Yes, put on Nettie Two,” she says.
Handing Aqua the receiver, I start feeling guilty about all the preparations everybody back home is doing for our visit. I bet Big Momma has Uncle Skeeter running around like a rooster looking for a cheetah surprise for our Christmas present. I just can’t stand how much we have upset Big Momma with all our drama.
“She is just so tickled by how we dress now that we’re part of the Cheetah Girls,” Angie says, putting her arms through mine as we leave our house.
“Yeah, well, she sure ain’t tickled by our selfish behavior,” I snarl back. I take another deep sigh as we head off to the recording studio—to nibble on some tunes.
Chapter
6
As soon as we get out of the elevator onto the sixth floor, which opens directly into Mouse Almighty’s reception area, our eyes meet Ms. Dorothea’s. She is standing near the glass reception door, with her leopard hankie clenched in her left hand and held against her chest. Before I can extend my arm fully to grab the knob, Ms. Dorothea nudges the door ajar, sticking her head out. She is perspiring so heavily, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was sweating oxtail juice from last night’s dinner at Maroon’s. Now I start sweating and wringing my hands, anticipating that she’ll tell us something dreadful: She probably told Mouse Almighty we aren’t staying to finish the demo and he has thrown us to the wolves. We’re probably banned from his studio!
Patting her forehead with the hankie in a staccato manner like a mechanical Chucky Doll, Ms. Dorothea yelps, “Dorinda is not here yet. Did she call you?” While waiting for my response, Ms. Dorothea quickly scans us from head to toe.
“No, she didn’t,” I answer, secretly hoping that we register satisfactorily on the cheetah meter. Ms. Dorothea scans us up and down again while releasing a faint smile. Relieved, I let the air out of my stomach like a hot-air balloon. Now I feel bad that we didn’t talk to Dorinda today. I know she has a lot to deal with right now. Even without the custody battle over Corky, the Bosco residence always seems like it’s one boiling-hot kettle away from blowing its lid. If Dorinda called anybody, it would have been Chanel, since they are the closest, but I’m sure Ms. Dorothea has already checked that angle.
“If I have to get that girl a cell phone myself, I will,” Ms. Dorothea says, finally ushering us into the recording studio’s reception area and flashing her “I’m so fabulous and so are you” smile at Cindy the receptionist, who looks up from her desk. In return, Cindy gives us a glad-to-see-you’re-back smile, which makes me feel just like that: glad that we are back “in the mix with Mouse Almighty.”
Galleria and Chanel are plopped comfortably on the black leather beanbag couch.
“Hola!” Chanel coos. She looks so cute—she has on a red hoodie sweater with a big pink heart on the front, over a black-and-white cheetah-print skirt; Galleria has on a brown cheetah jumper with matching cheetah boots. Now I’m relieved that Angie and I are looking equally as cheetahfied as they are.
“Howdy,” Galleria says tersely. Joining Galleria and Chanel on the couch, my eyes dart around the office at all the framed photos and RIAA certified plaques for platinum- and gold-selling records. (RIAA stands for the Recording Industry Association of America—the national organization that monitors record sales.) Eventually my eyes settle on the signed photograph of the LoveBabiez, the Pampers-wearing, thumb-sucking singers who just got dropped from Def Duck Records.
“Guess their group is a testament to at least one thing,” says Galleria, joining my gaze.
I don’t respond to Galleria’s probing, but leave it to Angie to take the bait and nosily inquire, “What?”
“That diapers should only be worn by real babies,” Galleria retorts.
A shudder tingles across my shoulder blades as another wicked thought pops into my mind: what if the Cheetah Girls get booted back to the jiggy jungle?
“At least they have one gold record—that’s something to tell their grandchildren,” Chanel says hopefully. She’s right. All we have under our cheetah belts are a few talent shows and gift certificates. Getting people to buy your albums is a different slice of blackberry cobbler. I can’t take the silence, so now my eyes wander over yonder—at the shelves behind Cindy’s desk, filled with exotic bottles of hot sauce. I try not to stare too long—lest Galleria comes up with some new clever comments. But I find myself hypnotized by all the different-shaped bottles filled with red, green, yellow, and orange hot sauces—lined up like a spicy rainbow that leads to hot-sauce heaven. The last time we were here, Cindy told us that the audio engineer, Son Seven, collects hot sauce from all over the world. One day, I’m going to have my own collection—hundreds of bottles, displayed right in my kitchen.
Ms. Dorothea shoots us a look like she has to say something on the down low: “Mouse is in there with Heidi Klum and Seal,” she whispers carefully.
I feel embarrassed, because I don’t know who on earth she is talking about. Obviously, they’re “Big Willies,” as Galleria would describe them, but who are they? I shoot a glance at Angie and I can see she is in the dark, too. Galleria stares at us evenly, like she’s thinking, “Hmmm. The Houston hickory sticks still need more curing!”
I roll the names over in my mind. Heidi Glum and Seal? They sound like a circus act. I know there is Siegfried and Roy, Barnum and Bailey … Heidi Glum and Seal?
“Seal is a very important recording artist on the London soul scene,” Galleria says, picking up on my blank stare. You know, from back in the day.”
“Back in the day?” Ms. Dorothea interjects, puzzled. “His first album came out in the early nineties—that’s ancient history to you?”
“Yup, it is. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away,” Galleria says, flashing a mischievous smirk at her mother. Daddy would slap us straight into Sunday if we talked to him the way Galleria talks to her mom. Her tone and facial expressions are too sassy for Daddy’s stringent tastes.
“Perhaps a Nineties Appreciation Night should be in order,” counters Ms. Dorothea.
“Well, anyway, Seal has had about four albums,” Galleria says, making her point, and turning to me to readdress our ignorance. “He’s from somewhere in Africa.”
“No. He was raised in England, but his parents are Nigerian and Brazilian,” retorts Ms. Dorothea, proving once again that she always knows the “411,” because she reads Billboard magazine like Big Momma reads the Holy Bible.
“I probably heard his music,” I add quickly, so I don’t seem so ignorant.
“And who is the other person he’s with?” Angie asks.
“Heidi? I know that one up and down like a seesaw,” Galleria pipes up. “They interviewed her on MTV like, last week.”
Well that explains it. We have don’t have the time to be watching MTV—not with all the chores Daddy gives us.
“You don’t know who she is, mija?” interjects Chanel.
“No, we don’t,” I answer for both of us.
“She is a big supermodel. I mean major,” Galleria says emphatically, to get her point across. “Let’s just say she is Victoria’s Secret—”
“Besides Tyra Banks,” Chanel adds quickly.
“No doubt,” Galleria chimes in. “They’re both major.”
“Oh, I see,” I say, nodding. We used to always peek at Ma’s catalog when we were back in Houston. Now that I think about it, we haven’t seen a catalog since we started living with Daddy.
“Anyhoo, Heidi and Seal are quite ‘the toasty’ these days. You’ve got to start reading something else besides the astrolog
y page in The Post,” Galleria chides us. By “toasty,” I gather Galleria means that they are boyfriend and girlfriend.
“When you brush up on your geography, Aqua and Angie will expand their newpaper reading to more than astrology,” Ms. Dorothea says, referring to Galleria’s mistake about Seal’s origins. “And Ms. Heidi, by the way, is from Cologne, Germany, in case you were wondering.”
Cologne, Germany. Now I wonder if Heidi’s hometown is where the word “cologne” comes from, but I don’t ask, because the door flies open and in walks a very harried Dorinda. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
As she cuts across the reception area and plops down next to Galleria, I get a whiff of the strangest odor. It’s a chemical scent that reminds me of one of Daddy’s SWAT bug sprays.
“Speaking of ‘cologne,’ why aren’t you wearing any?” asks Galleria, embarrassing poor Dorinda.
“I did put some on, Galleria,” Dorinda responds, flustered, “but the apartment was bombed—”
“What happened?” Chanel asks, interrupting Dorinda’s tale of woe.
Because of Daddy and his job, I realize what Dorinda is probably trying to say. “You mean the apartment was bombed for, um, roach infestation, right?” I probe gently.
Dorinda nods her head, because she is almost too upset to talk. “Mrs. Bosco forgot to take all the clothes out of the drawers—before the exterminator came. If she had just told me before I left this morning for school, I would have helped. But she is so absentminded because of this Corky thing, and—” Dorinda stops in midsentence to catch her breath, then recharges like a Chucky Doll, “now all our clothes smell like a chemical factory, and I had to sweep up all the dead roaches lying around before I came here!”
“Don’t worry, mija,” Chanel coos, shuffling through her purse until she finds her bottle of Yves Saint Bernard cologne. She spritzes it heavily into the air, like an airplane glider releasing insecticide spray on an innocent peach orchard. Chanel is so enthusiastic about camouflaging the “Roach Motel” scent, that poor Dorinda starts sneezing and ducking for cover.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars Page 5
