Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars

by Deborah Gregory

  “Oh, that’s nice, what is that?” asks Cindy, the receptionist, oblivious to the drama because she was too busy fielding calls on the switchboard.

  “Yves Saint Bernard,” Chanel retorts quickly.

  “Oh.” Cindy nods her head in approval. “That’s the bomb.”

  Lord, why did she have to use that word? We all stare at her dumbfounded, like we’re the newest dummies installed in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum. Cindy senses the drama in our midst, so she quickly picks up the newspaper on her desk like she forgot to check something important:

  “Can we check our horoscope?” Angie mutters to me.

  My mind starts racing, wondering what my horoscope says today: Mercury is in retrograde, stirring up mess, which means all Virgos should have stayed in bed today!

  “Backstabba is going solo,” announces Cindy. She is obviously reading something in the newspaper about the lead singer of our least favorite girl group—Karma’s Children—who hail from Houston like we do.

  “Say it ain’t so,” moans Galleria, slapping her hand against her face in a mock gesture. “Another star in the galaxy seduced by the dark side of the force—fame, fortune, and standing solo in the hot spotlight in a sequin gown!”

  Next, Galleria levels one of her you-should-have-told-me looks at her mom, then asks, “Did you know about this?”

  “Of course. I don’t miss an issue of Billboard even if the seams are splitting on my customer’s orders!” Ms. Dorothea huffs back.

  “Her solo album is dropping soon,” Cindy reports further.

  Suddenly, the soundproof door to the recording studios swings open, and out walks Mouse Almighty with two interesting people. Galleria fans the air hysterically with her hands, like she is trying to vanish all the comingling scents—the roach bomb and Yves St. Bernard. I try not to stare at the couple, but they are both really tall and interesting looking. I gather Heidi is the tall blond lady with the chiseled features—anybody can tell she is a model, even if they lived in another galaxy. Seal’s features are chiseled, too, but he’s real dark, with these unusual marks on his cheeks. Mouse waves at us and sniffs the air curiously before continuing his conversation with the famous couple.

  “Yes, that would be brilliant,” echoes Seal. I notice that he has the same accent as Mechel, the owner of Maroon’s. I can’t wait till we visit London one day.

  “Oh, let me introduce you to this new singing group I’m working with,” Mouse says to Seal and Heidi, beaming in our direction.

  We all stand up quickly, but I spurt out, “It’s so nice to meet you Ms. Glum and Mr. Seal!” I extend my hand to Heidi first. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Galleria wince, but that’s too bad. She doesn’t always have to be the first one speaking for us.

  Heidi smiles politely and says, “It’s Klum.”

  My face turns more purplish than any Texas beet in the goosefoot family snatched from its roots at birth! “I’m so sorry, Ms. Plum, but I just love—um—your stuff.”

  Just when I thought it wasn’t possible to turn a deeper shade of purple, Heidi replies sweetly, “It’s Klum.”

  “We’ve been watching your show,” Galleria interrupts quickly, trying to help me save face. I wonder what show Galleria is talking about, but I dare not ask now.

  Heidi catches my “I’m a dunce” expression and tries to console me. “Oh, don’t worry—it’s just one of those funny German names,” she says graciously, revealing a hint of a foreign accent. “Who are you girls?”

  “They are the Cheetah Girls,” Mouse responds on our behalf.

  “Nice to meet you,” Heidi says, while feeling in her purse for something. She pulls out a Palm Pilot, one of those gadgets that Daddy has for organizing everything.

  “Oh, you got a raspberry, too—just got mine. Aren’t they divine?” Ms. Dorothea says to Heidi, and they launch into a discussion about the pros and cons of blackberrys and raspberrys until I can’t keep all the fruit groups separate.

  “Call us straight away when you get to Amsterdam,” Seal says, cupping Mouse’s hand into his.

  “Will do,” Mouse assures him. “And don’t worry, Heidi, Son will even the score out. She’s always a half beat off most of the time, a little wobbly but her vocal styling is tight. I’ll have first edits ready by January for the finale show.”

  I wonder what they are talking about, but it’s obvious it has something to do with music that Mouse Almighty is producing for, I guess, Heidi. After Heidi and Seal leave, we stand there, breathless from all the excitement, until Mouse whispers to the receptionist to “turn up the central air-conditioning.”

  Dorinda winces, because we all know that Mouse’s request has to do with us turning his reception area into an “odorama factory”

  Galleria fans the air again with her hand, when Mouse turns his back to talk to Cindy. “Tell Seth to hang tight, ayiight?”

  When Mouse turns his attention back to us, Galleria blurts out, “Oh, I remember you were working on the tracks for ‘So You Wanna Be a Star.’ How’d that go?” Mouse seems impressed by Galleria’s good memory. The last time we were here, we met the show’s producer, Seth Seidelman. All of a sudden, I hear a little voice inside shriek: Maybe we should try to get on that show, ’cause we can’t even finish a demo!

  “Okay, Bubbly one, let’s focus on the work we’re doing for you.” Mouse Almighty has invented his own version of Galleria’s nickname, which is Bubbles.

  “You mean that we’re already stars and we don’t need to be here?” Galleria queries jokingly.

  “Not exactly. First, we have to get Def Duck Records quacking about your product,” Mouse starts in, getting serious. “You girls are gonna have to ‘bring it,’ so we can make that happen.”

  “Right, I know,” Galleria says, shrugging her shoulders like an ingénue ready for her close-up, even though there isn’t any film in the camera!

  Chapter

  7

  We follow Mouse Almighty, a short, wiry producer with unusually large white teeth, behind the soundproof door, like he is the Pied Piper. As we pass more walls filled with more framed RIAA certified gold and platinum sales plaques, I start feeling ashamed about leaving the Cheetah Girls in a lurch. I can already picture Ms. Dorothea trying to explain to Mouse how the Goody Two-shoes twins have to go back home to Houston, like sacrificial piglets on a rotisserie for Christmas dinner!

  Mouse motions for us to sit down on the metal chairs scattered outside the sound studio. I scurry toward a chair, but stub my toe because I am so lost in my shameful thoughts.

  “So what have you girls been up to?” the Grammy-winning guru asks while stroking his goatee. I can detect his whiskers trying to sniff out what is going on with the five divettes-in-training to whom he is about to lend his Midas touch.

  “They’ve been so-o-o-o busy,” interjects Ms. Dorothea, playing her manager role to the hilt. “First, there was the Harlem School of the Arts competition. Then they had to get ready for the ‘Bring It On!’ benefit. And with Christmas around the corner—tinsel bits have taken over my house.”

  “If we hit the ground running, we should be finished with you girls right before Santa makes his chimney drop,” Mouse Almighty says, chuckling, then sits down and crosses his legs like a master Jedi about to school his pupils. “By the by, I’m sorry I couldn’t make the benefit—what was it for again?” Mouse asks respectfully. He is so busy, we’re surprised he even remembered our “Bring It On!” benefit.

  “Dorinda, why don’t you tell him?” Ms. Dorothea says proudly. But Dorinda starts fidgeting like she’s afraid she’s going to sneeze again.

  “Um, we raised money,” Dorinda says, stopping in midsentence. The rest of us sit silent, like a bunch of hungry kids waiting for her to whack the piñata so we can eat the candy that falls out.

  Mouse Almighty scans our faces quickly, like the MetroCard machine at the subway turnstiles, computing instantly that there aren’t any more fares left in this conversation. “Well; let’s get going
. We’ve got a full rehearsal ahead of us,” he says sharply. “The work you girls did on ‘Not a Chance’ is a good start, so let’s break off a little something, something else.”

  “Ayiight,” Galleria breaks out, imitating Mouse.

  Meanwhile, I wrack my brains trying to remember the name of the songwriter who wrote the first song we recorded for the demo, but the only thing I can remember is that Galleria didn’t like the song. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised she hasn’t already asked Mouse if we can record one of her songs yet.

  Jumping out of his Jedi pose, Mouse motions to Son Seven, and orders him to “cue up the Midget Man track.”

  “Now, this tasty morsel comes from a songwriter I’ve been working with—he’s got real tight lyrical skills—sweet with a lot of bite. Personally, I think that’s what the Cheetah Girls are all about—so you should be able to really sink your teeth into this jammy,” Mouse coaches us. “We’re gonna try it two ways. I’ve had it arranged with more snares and tighter piano riffs, and raised the tempo up a notch to keep the energy bouncing. Really sweet. Then we’ll hit it mid tempo with a keyboard and bass arrangement that might make it a little more, well, sour.”

  I quickly look over at Galleria to see if she is feeling what Mouse has said. Mouse Almighty hands us the sheet music to the Midget Man song, “It’s a Jungle Out There,” and tells Son to “hit the Midget Man track A.” The bass-heavy track fills the room. I snap back to the present, my clammy hands stuck on the sheet music as I stare at the lyrics for the first verse:

  “Don’t take your toys and go home and leave me alone in a world that doesn’t care about my rhythm. Just keep watching my back and I’ll watch yours—because that’s what friends are for in this crazy world of a mixed-up jungle of a jumbo size prize inside of a Cracker Jack box.”

  “Are you feeling it?” interjects Mouse after the first stanza.

  I nod my head, still frozen in my foolish thoughts but trying to force myself to concentrate.

  “I’m not sure I can hit a High C like that,” Dorinda says, squirming in her chair. The chorus on this number has a slightly falsetto feel, which Angie and I can handle just fine, but it is definitely a strain for Dorinda and probably even Chanel.

  “Come in here for a minute, Dorinda and Chanel,” Mouse Almighty says, motioning for the two of them to step out so they can work in the other studio. “Listen, the rest of you girls marinate—we’re gonna work in here.”

  Marinate. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone else besides Uncle Skeeter use that expression. I start thinking about how glad I’ll be to see him next week.

  Galleria jumps up and announces, “I have to go winky tink.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Galleria doesn’t want to be alone with us. I look up, trying to get her attention, but she doesn’t look at me, confirming my paranoid suspicions: she has something up her sneaky sleeve. That’s it! They are probably searching for alternate Cheetah Girls. Or maybe they’re already lined up, just waiting for us to get on that plane—and good riddance to the Walker twins!

  I shoot Angie a look like I used to when we were little and sitting in church and I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the preacher’s Sunday sermon. Angie signals me back. She knows too!

  Mrs. Dorothea whispers to Angie, “Are you okay with the chorus?” A startled Angie ponders the question for what seems like a whole Minute-Rice minute, then nods her head in the affirmative. Then Ms. Dorothea puts her arms around my shoulder, “Don’t worry about Galleria. Leave that to me. You girls just show up here every day after school, and we’ll work out the rest. I’m taking care of it.”

  What does Ms. Dorothea mean by she’s “taking care of it”? My heart sinks to my feet like it’s dropping to the depths of the Armand Bayou back home. Now I’m positive: our Christmas geese are cooked and practically ready to serve on a silver platter surrounded by freshly glazed cranberries!

  “How long do you think it’s gonna take us to finish this demo?” I ask Ms. Dorothea, hoping she’ll tell us the truth. We might as well find out if they’re going to lower the boom on us.

  “Well, it takes what it takes,” Ms. Dorothea says, shrugging her shoulders like, “Sorry, I can’t let you off the hook.”

  When Galleria comes back, she moans to her mom about the lyrics to the song we’re rehearsing, “I don’t like the whole idea about toys—we don’t play with toys anymore—you know what I’m saying?”

  Since Galleria isn’t asking our opinion, Angie and I don’t say bo-peep. We like the song—it seems to go more with our whole “global groove.”

  “What should you be singing about—boys?” Ms. Dorothea queries, concerned. “Trust me, darling, it is a jungle out there—and that’s a very good message to be getting across. So, please, Galleria, for once, pretend you don’t have a mouth—and just follow the bouncing ball.”

  The door to the adjacent studio opens up, and Dorinda and Chanel come through, smiling like they’ve regained their singing stride. Mouse has obviously worked his magic. I wonder if he has had to coach other singers—even powerhouses like Sista Fudge.

  “Okay, Aqua, Angie, you’ll be soprano, Galleria—alto as usual, and Dorinda and Chanel—mezzo is your move,” orders Mouse Almighty, then puts his hands up like he wants to slow down the choo-choo train. “Now hold up, I need to talk to you girls for a minute.” Mouse Almighty pauses, rubs his goatee, then starts in, “You girls have an advantage that artists twice your age don’t have.”

  I like when Mouse Almighty refers to us as “artists.” It makes me feel like we’re not the same girls who came in second at the Apollo Amateur Hour contest. Or the same girls who were afraid of the Sandman pulling them off the stage with his hook.

  “What’s that?” Galleria asks, like it’s the prize behind door number three she’s been panting for.

  “You know who you are—you’re the Cheetah Girls—so relax, even though I’m gonna work you till you believe in Santa—hang in there, ’cause this is supposed to be fun,” Mouse Almighty says, trying to get us into the recording spirit.

  “How are we supposed to relax—this is so-o-o-o important,” Galleria moans.

  “We have one very simple goal here—to get the A&R peeps at Def Duck excited enough to get behind this demo, take it to acquisitions—in front of a whole boardroom of corporate Big Willies who make the decision about which new acts get signed—it’s no biggie!” Mouse chuckles. “In order to do that, you’ve got to be yourselves—then trust me, growl power is gonna rule.”

  “Were you a cheerleading squad leader in high school?” asks Ms. Dorothea, chiding Mouse on his motivational speech.

  “I could have been.” Mouse kicks up his leg like he’s doing a cheer. “Okay, get your hides into rehearsal mode!”

  After two hours of rehearsal and trying out different melodies, Mouse decides it’s time to lay down the track. “Are y’all up for it? We can wait till tomorrow if not,” he asks, egging us on.

  “We’re down for the twirl, so let’s swirl,” Galleria riffs.

  “Those are tasty lyrics, young lady—I may have to take you up on your songwriting skills,” Mouse says.

  Galleria’s eyes light up like the fifty-foot Christmas tree on display at the Galleria Mall in Houston at Christmastime. Mouse motions for us to go into the sound room and put on headphones.

  We sing the first verse of the song at least five times—and each time Mouse has Son Seven stop the takes. Through the headphones we can hear Mouse tell Son to “cut the playback.” Then he says to us, “The five-part harmony is off.”

  I cringe inside, wondering what he needs for us to do. Maybe Angie and I are singing too high—but we are singing in this key to accommodate Dorinda and Chanel’s range.

  “Okay, let’s take five. Son, cut the second verse, pop back into the chorus, and well go again,” Mouse says, like he’s calculating a new strategy. We look at each other, puzzled. Mouse orders us to come out of the sound room while Son fixes the tracks.
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  “I think it’s time we rely on the nourishing powers of Chunky Cheese,” Mouse says, rubbing his stomach. “I’ma tell Cindy to hook us up.”

  I’m relieved. We’re so hungry, we could slap our Daddy, but we didn’t want to say anything until the rest of the Cheetah Girls said something. When Mouse walks out of the room, Chanel asks in a jittery voice: “Did I hit the high C, okay?”

  “Chanel—it’s okay. Let’s just eat, and we’ll work out the harmonies after. They obviously still need tweaking,” Ms. Dorothea says, consoling us all. For once, Galleria doesn’t look at me and Angie like it’s our fault. There is nothing she can ever say about our singing—that’s for sure. But we can’t help but wonder if we are the real reason the harmony is off.

  “Well, whatever it is, Mouse will tell us how to fix it,” Galleria moans.

  Dorinda seems to second that motion. “Judging from all his plaque attacks,” she starts in, referring to the framed record plaques on the walls, “nobody needs to tell this man how to make a hit record.”

  After we down our hamburgers and sodas, we are back in the studio, ready to try something different with the song. Mouse has given us new harmony lineups, and we’re going to try yet another version—this one more uptempo so we can lower our range. After seven takes, Mouse comes into the studio grinning, “You hit it hard, girls. Now hit the sack. See you tomorrow. I have to take this conference call.”

  Galleria is so groggy, she starts riffing off her own Dr. Seuss rhymes: “Look at me! Look at the bee! Look at the sow! It is fun to have sun. But you have to be a cow!” she yelps.

  “Okay, Miss Cat in a Hat, enough of that,” Ms. Dorothea counters, unwrapping a pack of Turns antacid, popping two in her mouth and chewing them like she’s crunching bones. “That was O.T.T. even for you.”

  I scrunch up my nose, trying to figure out what “O.T.T.” means as we shuffle into the reception area. Miss Dorinda comes to my rescue by tugging my sleeve and mouthing to me, “Over The Top.”