“Oh, right,” I say out loud.
Galleria turns her head like she just got whiplash. “Thank gooseness it’s time to break out,” she groans.
“You sure you don’t want us to wait with you?” Ms. Dorothea asks as the rest of the Cheetah Girls pile out the studio.
“No, ma’am,” I reply quickly. We have to wait for Daddy to pick us up. I’m sort of disappointed that he wasn’t eagerly waiting for us in the reception area.
Turning back around, Ms. Dorothea asks, “What do you think? That Mouse really knows how to nibble on a song, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” squeals Angie. “He could sell sour milk to cows!”
Cindy waves good-bye. I wonder what time she gets to go home. She obviously works really long hours.
“Hurry up and wait, isn’t it always the case,” Angie whines, plopping down on the comfortable beanbag couch. “I wish we had one of these bad boys at home.”
I wish so, too—like the hot-pink one they have in the Ooophelia catalog, which I pull out of the my backpack and devour the pages. The only comfortable chair in the living room is the leather recliner chair, and that’s Daddy’s domain. We don’t even sit it in when he isn’t home.
The phone rings and Cindy answers, then yells out to Mouse, “London on line one!”
I guess that is the call he has been waiting for. I wonder which Big Willie is on the phone. I know it can’t be Seal, since he was just here a few hours ago. Even on the fastest flight—from New York to London it takes hours.”
“I liked the second version of the song,” Angie says, rubbing her eyes.
“I liked the last one,” I retort.
“Well, we’ll see which one he picks,” Angie counters. “That is, if he picks any at all.”
Right now, the only thing I wanted to pick is a new bedspread out of the Ooophelia catalog. I rest my head on Angie’s shoulders. “Do you think Ms. Dorothea told Mouse yet?” she asks, mumbling.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I answer back and for once I really mean it. I close my eyes and, before I almost drift off, I mumble to Angie, “Don’t you wonder who Daddy is seeing?”
“All’s I know is, she’d better not be bringing over any recipes for brews,” Angie mumbles back, then jabs me sharply in the side like she’s wielding a red-hot cattle prod. I whip my head up so I can “cuss her out,” and there’s Daddy coming into the reception area. I sure didn’t hear him open the door! Mouse should put musical chimes on his studio entrance, like the ones they have at Pepto B’s hair salon, Churl, It’s You!
“Good evening,” Daddy says, tipping his cowboy hat to Cindy. She smiles warmly at him, even though she is on the phone. Daddy has been “tip-pin’ out” with someone special—again. He only wears his cowboy hat and leather coat when he wants to look sharp. I can tell that Daddy had a good time, too. “How did your jam session go?” Daddy asks, pleased.
“I think it went real good,” I say, looking to Angie for collaboration. I like that term Daddy uses—“jam session.” I know it’s an old-school term folks use when talking about jazz and blues musicians who used to play in smoky basement clubs and used real instruments like the saxophone, upright bass, and clarinet. Daddy loves jazz.
“Yes, sir. It went just fine. If the record company doesn’t like the harmony we laid down on the Midget Man track, then they must have wax in their ears,” Angie says, getting awfully chatty.
“Midget Man?” Daddy asks, raising his eyebrow in a suspicious manner. “The things people name their children.”
I decide it’s best not to point out to Daddy that Midget Man’s mother probably had nothing to do with his music industry moniker, but I decide to clamp my mouth shut instead. Little does Daddy know how kids used to tease us in school because of our nursery rhyme names—Aquanette and Anginette.
After we get in the car, Angie asks Daddy, “You talk to Big Momma tonight?”
“Yes, I did,” Daddy says, keeping his eyes on the steering wheel. “Her legs done swelled up like watermelons.”
We both get real quiet. Big Momma is having all these problems because of her selfish granddaughters. I can just hear her voice scolding us, “Nettie One, Nettie Two, you should be ashamed of yourselves!”
Chapter
8
By Saturday, Angie and I are so tired from our wannabe-stars schedule—going to school, then the recording studio, then back home to do homework and finish household chores—we’re dragging our behinds like Deputy Droop-A-Long and her dim-witted sidekick. But that’s not the only reasons we’re stressed out: on top of all that, we still have to get ready for our trip to Houston while we walk on eggshells with the rest of the Cheetah Girls, who are furious at us for leaving in a lurch!
“Well, I guess we should thank the Lord our voices are holding up,” I grunt at Angie, secretly wishing we didn’t have to go to our vocal classes this morning at Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory.
“Yeah, but my butt isn’t,” Angie moans, knocking me in the side with her stupid backpack. “And I’m sick of the way Galleria is treating us. Do you really think they’re going to replace us behind our backs?”
“Well, there has to be some reason why Ms. Dorothea hasn’t told Mouse Almighty yet that we’re leaving, right?” I whisper to Angie. “I wish they would say something already.”
Daddy, who is whispering into the phone, snaps his fingers at us to get our attention. We shoot each other knowing looks. Yup, he is definitely talking to a woman in that quiet voice!
Acknowledging Daddy’s command with dutiful nods, we stand like statues by the front door, waiting patiently for Daddy to finish cooing like a canary into the phone. After a few more minutes, we both start fidgeting with the zippers on our down coats like we’re doing a musical duet. Zip, zip, zippety zip!
When Daddy hangs up the receiver, we both stand at attention like army recruits waiting for our orders. Knowing Daddy, he probably wants to give us our travel itinerary and go over everything a thousand times. Daddy is particular when it comes to us flying the friendly skies.
“I need for you girls to come straight home today after your lessons,” he barks, motioning for us to come closer.
“We always come straight home,” I shoot back.
“Don’t you go out with your friends afterward?” Daddy challenges me.
“Yes, sir, we do—to eat lunch,” I say, backing down.
“So, like I said, I need for you to come straight home. I’ll fix y’all lunch here. We have to get this house cleaned today,” Daddy orders.
We stand there dumbfounded, because Daddy can’t be serious. He knows we always go out for lunch with the Cheetah Girls after school, and how important that is to us. Why don’t you clean the house yourself? I want to scream at him, but my good sense kicks in and I respond, “Yes, sir.”
“I can’t believe he expects us to clean the house so he can impress some heffa while we still have to pack and get ready for Houston!” I fume at Angie when we are out of Daddy’s earshot.
Angie shakes her head in agreement. “I can’t believe he won’t let us go to lunch after class with the Cheetah Girls.”
“Yeah, that too!” I add as I chew on the real dilemma: now Galleria is going to be doubly upset with us. 1) We can’t stay in New York to finish our demo. 2) We can’t have lunch with the Cheetah Girls after vocal classes today because we have to go home and clean the house like Cinderella-wannabes instead of wannabe stars.
“Well, I’ll guess now they’ll really be glad they’re replacing us,” croaks Angie, her big brown eyes widening with fear as we enter the reception area of Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory.
Suddenly, a disco tornado almost knocks us off our feet. “There they are—the fabulous Walker twins!” Drinka Champagne announces gleefully, startling us because she has never greeted us like this before. Clad in a tight red jumpsuit decorated with dangling Christmas ornament balls, Drinka’s high-voltage smile is frozen on her face like she’s getting ready to perform
her 1974 hit dance single, “Bubbles of Love,” at a concert or something!
The corners of my mouth curl up on reflex, wondering why she is being so nice to us. Oh, I get it: She probably already knows that we’re getting kicked out of the group!
“Aqua, are you feeling all right?” Drinka asks, concerned.
Embarrassed that I’m not as good a fake-tress as my other half, I quickly stammer: “Oh, I’m fine, Drinka—just tired because we’ve been in the studio all week with Mouse Almighty.”
“So I’ve heard!” Drinka says proudly, putting her hands on her hips. “Go join your crew before they talk everybody’s ear off about the Cheetah Girls latest beau-coup.”
I wonder what a beau-coup is—probably a fancy French word. Drinka has traveled all over the world performing—unlike us, who probably won’t get farther than Texas, because we can’t even finish one stupid demo tape! I moan to myself, my heart sinking to my toes by the minute.
Drinka isn’t the only one who “peeps” my gloomy disposition.
“Feeling twizzled?” Galleria asks glumly when we walk into Studio One. She is huddled with the class “regulars.” Besides the rest of the Cheetah Girls, that would be Danitra, Malcolm Extra, Harmony Jones, and Melanie Melody.
“Mouse is definitely pushing you to the Borderline,” hums Harmony.
“Can it, Madonna,” Danitra heckles, whacking Harmony on the shoulder.
Drinka was right. Galleria has probably told everybody all the details about our recording sessions fifty times over. Flashy Malcolm Extra suddenly interrupts with a standing ovation.
“Can we all give the weary-teary Cheetah Girls a big braaavo, divas!” he sings in his falsetto voice, jumping up from his chair and clapping his hands. Now we’re really blushing like beets.
Galleria and Chanel take a bow. Dorinda grins sheepishly, and I get a sinking feeling in my chest again. Malcolm won’t be applauding us when he finds out the truth: that the fabulous Walker Twins couldn’t even stay in New York to finish the Cheetah Girls’ demo!
“Hey, Aqua and Angie, I found something for you,” squeals Melanie Melody, pushing a book toward us. Melanie goes to The Julliard School in Lincoln Center, which is right next door to Performing Arts High East, but way more prestigious—and expensive.
“When you gonna tell us your name is made up?” Malcolm Extra challenges her.
“It’s my real name—”
“Yeah, that’s what Jessica Rabbit said before she got sued by Roger!” Malcolm throws another one of his infamous darts at Melanie, who he constantly uses for verbal target practice. (We all know Malcolm is crushed that he can’t afford to go to Julliard and has to attend the lowly Performing Arts High East instead.)
“Yeah, well I have a birth certificate to prove it—unlike you, orphan Extra!” quips Melanie, then continues shoving the book at me. “Check out your Style horoscope.”
“Don’t try it, Miss M&M, because I’ll truly see if you melt in my mouth for real!” Malcolm snaps. “I’m not an orphan—I live with my aunt—not a pack of hyenas, like some creature critters.”
Dorinda freezes. She really is an orphan and doesn’t have a birth certificate. At least Malcolm got to live with his aunt when his mother went to prison for credit card fraud, instead of being put in a foster home like Dorinda. I mean, Dorinda doesn’t even know what really happened to her birth mother.
Everyone gets silent for a second before Chanel changes the subject. “What happened?” she asks, grabbing the book out of Melanie’s hand. Chanel flips through the pages, then squeals, “Style-strology? That’s so coolio.”
“What is it?” Galleria asks curiously.
“Style-strology—get it, mija?” coos Chanel. “Here’s your sign, Bubbles: ‘Gemini is fickle when it comes to fashion, changing her look at the drop of a floppy hat. Being up on the latest trends is more important than seeing the latest movies. Accessories are another must since this girl likes to play. Cosmic twin: Naomi Campbell. Must-own item: Juicy couture pink cashmere sweater, $250.”’
“Very funny—ha-ha, I get it, Chuchie,” Galleria says, acknowledging Chanel’s emphasis on the word “juicy.” “But I’m not fickle. Whoever wrote this guide doesn’t have a Blue’s Clue about a Cheetah Girl’s dedication to showing her spots.”
Now Galleria swipes the guide from Chanel. “Give me that, Chuchie, before you read yours. That’s all you need is another excuse to shop. What about you, Dorinda, do you want to hear your Style-strology?”
“Um, no, that’s all right—at those prices, I might have to drop out of the zodiac,” Dorinda responds, chuckling. We’re glad she’s not upset about Melanie and Malcolm’s foolishness. That’s what we love about Dorinda—she lets things roll right off. Unlike Miss Galleria.
“Okay, that leaves the Walker Twins,” Galleria says, tearing through the pages until she finds the page for our style-strology: ‘Image is everything for a Virgo. This girl is always pulled together, favoring clothes that are tastefully understated—rarely trendy or attention-grabbing. Cosmic twin: Sista Fudge. Must-own item: Burberry trench coat, $400.”’
“Well, we like Sista Fudge,” Angie says, shrugging her shoulders.
“Oh, I’m sure you can find a Burb trench coat at the Galleria when you’re back down in Howdy-land,” Galleria says, handing the guide back to Melanie. Then she pulls a cheetah tissue out of her bag and loudly blows her nose.
“Howdyland—that’s funny,” says Danitra, giggling.
Yeah, real funny, I think, blushing with embarrassment. Just because we’re going home doesn’t mean we have money to shop at the Galleria Mall (which Galleria is named after because her mother shopped there when she was a model). Our mother has a humble job as district manager at Avon Cosmetics. She has better things to do with her hard-earned money than buy us $400 Burberry raincoats!
“Is there anything Cheetah you don’t have?” Malcolm Extra asks Galleria as she throws her soggy tissue into the wastebasket in the corner of the studio.
“Yeah, tampons—so if you run across any, let me know!” Galleria says sarcastically.
“Sorry! That’s not my department,” hisses Malcolm Extra, making a circle with his forefinger. “But it’s a good thing you have cheetah tissues for your issues.”
Galleria throws Malcolm a look like, Whatever.
“How’s Derek?” Danitra bursts out. She obviously has been dying to ask about Derek since she met him at our “Bring It On!” benefit, where they both performed. It looked like she was trying to get her hooks into him all evening.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself, since you’re obviously goospitating over him?” counters Galleria. “Or didn’t you get the digits?”
Galleria and Danitra stare at each other like they’re at a Mexican standoff.
“Can you believe Christmas is next Saturday?” asks Melanie, trying to break up the tension. “Are you gonna celebrate finishing up the demo?”
“Yeah, we would celebrate, except Aqua and Angie are going to Houston on Friday,” Galleria says, exasperated.
“But we could have a mani-pedi party at my house on Tuesday night, couldn’t we, mija?” Chanel says sweetly. “This way your toes will look nice for the trip, está bien?”
“That would be real nice,” I say, nodding at Chanel. Bless her heart.
Angie looks at me, then turns back to Chanel, “Yeah, that would be nice. Daddy would be happy, too, if we saved money.”
“Can I come and get my toes done too—even though I’m not going anywhere?” begs Danitra, staring down at her raggedy Boomerang toenails speckled with traces of hot-pink glitter polish that looks like it was applied last year.
“Attention, everyone!” Wolfgang, the pianist, announces when he walks into the studio—our signal to take our seats. Miss Bettina, one of the vocal instructors, comes in right behind him and begins class.
“Since I won’t be seeing you until next year,” Miss Bettina starts in, acknowledging our upcoming holiday break, “I thoug
ht we should concentrate on upper register work today. And you will continue your exercises at home, right?”
“Right,” we groan back. Upper register work is the hardest for most of the students—especially Dorinda, Chanel, and Melanie.
“Okay, warm-up time.” Bettina instructs us, guiding us through our breathing exercises. I try to relax into it, but all I can think about is how much I dread telling the rest of the Cheetah Girls we have to run home today like little kids.
By the end of the class, I have gotten myself so worked up that I can’t wait to grab Angie and nuzzle next to her, whispering in her ear, “Maybe we should go live with our mother?” Maybe all this aggravation we go through in New York isn’t worth having to put up with Daddy and his mean behavior. Coaxing Angie to come to a decision, I try to sweeten the pie: “We could just take Porgy and Bess—and Coco—back home with us. Ma would gladly welcome them. And we can just go to regular high school instead of a performing arts school.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Chanel asks, quickly siding up to us as we all exit the studio.
“Nothing,” we reply in unison.
Chanel absorbs our fib like a sponge: “Did I sound okay?” she squeaks, looking for reassurance.
“You were medi-okra,” Malcolm Extra says, cutting in.
“You’re so-o-o-o mala, Malcolm,” Chanel hisses.
“Don’t listen to him,” Dorinda offers. “You hit all the notes—on point, mamacita. I’m the one who should be worrying.”
“Where we going—Mo’Burger or Mo’Betta?” Galleria asks.
“What’s Mo’Betta?”
“Anywhere besides Mo’Burger, that’s what,” Galleria says, holding her lip gloss wand to her mouth and pursing her lips in midair.
Angie looks around like she doesn’t have anything to say, which annoys me, because that means I’m going to have to do the talking as usual. “Um, we have to straight home today,” I mumble so low that nobody hears me over all the cackling. I don’t have the nerve to say it again, so I just walk, embarrassed, into the reception area. Ms. Winnie smiles at us, then chortles, “All right now, Cheetah Girls, y’all keep giving that Mouse something to nibble on in that studio!”
Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars Page 7
