Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars

by Deborah Gregory

  As we’re waiting for the elevator, Drinka Champagne yells out from Studio Two, obviously trying to catch our attention. “Don’t you girls leave without saying good-bye!” she quips, startling me again.

  “No, ma’am,” I reply automatically. I’d swear Drinka was looking directly at me when she said that, but she probably was talking to all of us.

  When she comes out and places her hands on the hips of her red jumpsuit, causing her Christmas ornaments to really “jingle,” I realize that I’m right. “So, you girls are all set for the holidays?” she asks, staring directly at Angie and me.

  “Um, yeah,” I stammer.

  “Well, I’ll be seeing you girls real soon,” Drinka says, her long false eyelashes fluttering along to their own private Morse code.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angie replies.

  “Why is Drinka up in your barbecue grill?” Malcolm Extra queries as we pile into the elevator. I guess even he noticed that Drinka showered the fabulous Walker twins with some “Bubbles of Love.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t ask about that ‘handsome father of yours,”’ Galleria says, mimicking Drinka. “You should have seen Mr. Walker’s face when Drinka was showing off her concert photos. He blanched like an almond!”

  “Who wouldn’t? She dressed up in metal chains and was carried onstage by bare-chested body-builders, hello?” heckles Harmony.

  “That cowboy hat your father was wearing was, well, extra!” Malcolm Extra chimes in, practically cracking himself up.

  Now I’m blushing from ear to ear.

  “You are so-o-o malo, Malcolm,” Chanel says, shaking her head. “Bad boy.”

  “As long as he digs it—since he’s wearing it,” Dorinda says, sticking up for us.

  “Okay, for real—let’s get some Atomic Wings,” Galleria says, gazing down the block.

  “Um, we have to go straight home,” I say in a louder voice. This time I know Galleria can hear me.

  “What happened?” Chanel asks. “You’re not coming with us?”

  “What’s up, whack attack?” Galleria asks, annoyed.

  “We have to go home—that’s all,” I say, stammering.

  “Whatever makes you clever,” Galleria says, staring at me with that piercing pout she puts on when she’s really annoyed. “Come on, let’s bounce.”

  The rest of the Cheetah Girls follow Galleria, as Angie and I put our cheetah tails between our legs and walk in the other direction toward the subway.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Angie moans. “We should stay in Houston. They don’t want us in the Cheetah Girls anymore.”

  Chapter

  9

  By the time we get home, Angie and I look as sullen as two convicted jailbirds reporting to work in a chain gang. Only thing we need now are those ugly striped gray jumpsuits so we can look like real prisoners! Daddy has obviously been busy all morning. He has put up the Christmas tree in the living room, and points to the boxes of ornaments on the floor. “Y’all can start putting those up after lunch.”

  Trim it yourself! I want to scream. It’s not like we’re gonna be here on Christmas Day to enjoy looking at it—all lit up. Angie and I march to the kitchen and stare at the plate of tuna sandwiches on the counter. I’m so upset that I poke out my mouth like Galleria does when she’s mad.

  “Tuna’s okay?” Daddy says, wondering why we are sitting at the counter like statues. He goes to the kitchen and starts unpacking bags of groceries from the Piggly Wiggly. He obviously went to Home Depot, too, because there are a ton more bags lining the dining-room wall. Angie and I eat our sandwiches in silence.

  After Daddy finishes putting the groceries in the refrigerator, he lays out a clear plastic throw by the windowsill. I notice the can of paint and brushes and rolling pans. Daddy notices me staring at the paint utensils and says, “Don’t worry—I’ll do all that. I’m gonna touch up the windowsills.”

  Now I know a woman is coming over, because Daddy has clearly lost his mind! I can’t believe we have to go through all this trouble to clean the house, when we’re the ones going away. We’re not entertaining anybody—he is!

  “I’ll need for the both of you to clean the guest room and put new sheets on the bed in there,” Daddy says. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Angie mumbles.

  “Aqua?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, fighting back the tears. If he knew how dumb we looked today in front of the rest of the Cheetah Girls, he wouldn’t ask us to do another dag-on thing till we leave!

  I roll my eyes around like pool balls. Then I notice the big plastic bags next to the painting supplies. I hope Daddy didn’t get our Christmas presents at Home Depot, or I’m putting myself up for adoption!

  “Can I look inside, Daddy?” I ask, pointing to the bags stacked like potato sacks in the corner. Daddy has gone on quite a shopping spree, and I’d like to know why.

  “What is all that stuff?” Angie asks, curious by all the packages as well.

  “Go find out,” orders Daddy.

  “Oooh, look at these,” Angie says, pulling out two black frosted glass vases. I wonder what she is “oohing and aahing” about. They just look like plain flower vases to me. Angie catches my expression and quickly adds, “We can make our own designs on them—see, here’s the chalk,” she says, pulling out a package of chalk from inside the vase.

  “I’m not in the mood for arts-and-crafts class at the moment. I have to go clean the guest room,” I mumble, feeling glum as a goat.

  Angie starts making heart shapes on the vase. “Don’t overdo it,” Daddy says.

  “Yes, sir,” Angie says, happily drawing away like she’s discovered her inner artist. I want to bonk her over the head so she can start discovering the Lysol spray and sponge! I jab her in the side and motion for her to follow me upstairs. At least we’ll be alone up there—slaving away.

  “Cinderella has got nothing on us!” I gripe, grabbing the clean linens out of the closet and shoving a pile toward Angie.

  “I bet Ma put him up to this, just so we could learn our lesson,” Angie grumbles back.

  “Yeah, so well be real grateful to see her Wednesday. So grateful, we won’t mind cleaning her dirty house, too!” I wince.

  Angie nods in agreement. We couldn’t believe how messy Ma’s house was when We visited her for Thanksgiving. I bet she has reverted back to her old ways in our absence. She confided in us how lonely she is being divorced from Daddy and not having us to look after.

  “We better not say one word about Daddy dating anybody,” I advise my nosy twin sister. It still makes me so sad thinking about Ma sitting all by her lonesome in our old house.

  “Maybe she’s dating Fred Fish,” chuckles Angie, referring to the homeless man in the band, Fish ’N Chips, who performed with us at the “Houston Helps Its Own” benefit. Fred and Ma got along like, well, fish-and-chips. Ma even invited Fred over for dinner right before we left Houston.

  “Big Bird would stand a better chance,” I snarl back. We both know the truth about our parents: Ma is real snobby and Daddy is real mean. “At the rate Daddy’s going, I’m gonna have to borrow a magnifying glass from science class to find the rest of Daddy’s good points,” I moan in despair.

  By the time we finish cleaning the guest room, our bedroom, and the bathrooms, we drag ourselves to our room without brushing our teeth. I am so tired that I fall on my knees to say my prayers. All I can think of to say to God tonight is: Please tell Daddy to hire a maid while we’re away!

  When I open my eyes on Sunday morning, I just want to praise God and shout “Hallelujah!” because it is a brand-new day, indeed. Yesterday was just like watching a bad remake of Nightmare on Elm Street over and over again. Don’t get me wrong, everybody knows that I could watch horror movies twenty-four hours straight—as long as the bad guy gets demolished in the end—but we all know that’s not what happened yesterday, ’cause Daddy sure didn’t get his!

  “What is that smell?” Angie says, sniffing th
e air.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Daddy was cooking Texas barbecue,” I humph, wondering if my big flared nostrils are deceiving me. “Lord, I must be hallucinating from all that housework!”

  “I bet she is coming over for dinner tonight!” Angie gripes, referring to Daddy’s mystery date. For once I think Angie is right. Crawling out of her bed in a huff, Angie puts on her white terry-cloth bathrobe—no, I take that back—my terry-cloth bathrobe, and peers at her face into the etched heart-shaped mirror hanging over our dresser. “Just what I need, a stupid pimple,” Angie says, trying to poke away the whitehead with her index finger.

  “Well, it’s in good company,” I mumble. “You’d better stop sneaking those sodas at school—and could you please put on your own bathrobe, ma’am?”

  Angie switches bathrobes while taking a swipe at my soda-drinking habits: “Take it, you guzzle queen.” She’s right. I drink Coca-Colas every chance I get, even though Daddy says soda is not good for our vocal chords. Well, our vocal chords are working just fine—but if Daddy keeps giving us all these Cinderella cleaning assignments, our complexions are going to break out from all the chimney soot!

  As I bend down to get Porgy and Bess’s water bowl, I feel a terrible crick in my neck. “Oh, lord, my neck is gonna fall off. Can you massage it for me?” I ask Angie, who is standing by our bureau, carefully placing her silver cross in its designated compartment in the white jewelry box Big Momma gave us last Christmas.

  “Only if you massage my feet!” Angie says, grabbing her tube of Pineapple Slush-Fuss Body Scrub and limping into the bathroom.

  “What’s the matter, your dogs are barking?” I ask her sarcastically.

  I follow Angie, wedging my body in between the bathroom door. “I can’t believe Daddy hasn’t even given us our Christmas shopping money so we can buy our presents before we leave on Friday.”

  “Well, call the SWAT roach spray team and tell them!” Angie says, pushing me out of the bathroom and shoving the door shut so she can shower. I can’t believe my own sister still feels uncomfortable about getting undressed in front of me. After all, we are twins with the same identical body—big hips, big butts, and big feet with corns and bunions!

  Flopping down on my bed, I stare at the pile of sneakers squashed in the bottom of the closet like a bunch of grungy rug rats. I try to ignore them, but I can’t. I must be turning into an inspector from Mr. Clean, just like Daddy! I fold my hands across my chest defiantly and force myself to look anywhere else but in the bottom of the closet. It doesn’t do much good, because now I notice the dust on the bureau! Getting up in a huff, I wipe the dust off the bureau, then rearrange the shoes and sneakers in the closet.

  I can’t help it: all we want to do is please Daddy. I try to stay angry at him, but I realize that our room does look more organized. Too bad I can’t invite somebody over, to show it off!

  When we get downstairs half an hour later, it turns out that staying mad at Daddy isn’t going to be hard at all: he is down our throats again like a drill sergeant in the Marines.

  “Did you clean your room?”

  “Yes, sir, we did.”

  “You made your beds, too?” he asks, challenging our definition of clean.

  “Yes, we did,” Angie and I say in unison.

  We sit there speechless, looking at all the food preparation. Now Daddy is sticking pineapple slices on a roasted glazed ham. Daddy must have gotten up with the crows at the crack of dawn to do all this cooking!

  “I need for you two to peel the potatoes and cube them for the potato salad,” Daddy says, pointing to the metal strainer in the sink filled with whole cooked potatoes.

  “I wish you had told us you were cooking for—um—someone. We would have helped you,” I stammer. What, is he ashamed of our cooking, all of sudden?

  “Well, you’re helping me now,” Daddy retorts.

  “But don’t we have to go to church?” I ask, because Daddy knows we leave at nine-thirty on Sunday mornings for the early service.

  “No, you’re not going to church today—we have too much to do before—” Daddy stops himself in midsentence. “Just help me finish, all right, instead of sitting there doing nothing.”

  Doing nothing? My cheeks are stinging from bee bites again! But before I say something that will get me into trouble, I march over to the sink and start peeling the potatoes. Angie gets an onion out of the refrigerator and sets it on the cutting board, then thwacks the knife in a loud, staccato rhythm to cube the onion slices.

  “Don’t forget to put some bacon bits and relish in the potato salad,” Daddy barks to Angie. We shoot each other looks to communicate our surprise: He’s using Big Momma’s secret potato salad recipe to impress some heffa!

  At last one thing is clear: the mystery date can’t possibly be Daddy’s kooky ex-girlfriend, High Priestess Aballa Shaballa, because she hates Southern food. All she ever indulged in were disgusting Mogo Hexagone shakes and brews—that’s how we knew she was up to no good. No normal person would pass up corn bread dripping with butter for dee-gusting concoctions from a galaxy we never even heard of.

  After we spend all morning helping Daddy cook his Sunday feast, Daddy tells us he has to go upstairs and change. Then he comes back down in a clean white shirt and slacks, while we’re still cooking and preparing the rest of the food. “Y’all set the table. I’ll be back around three o’clock.”

  “Where you going, Daddy?” I ask. I can’t take his mysterious behavior anymore.

  “Never mind all that—just do what I tell you,” Daddy says, plugging in the Christmas tree lights, then grabbing his white Stetson hat off the coat-rack. Angie and I run to the window and peek through the blinds while Daddy tears down the street in his white Bronco like he’s in a big hurry.

  “I bet you he’s going to pick her up,” Angie says, pursing her lips.

  “You’re on,” I counter, even though I’m unsure what to think. “Shoot, Daddy could be going to the Twilight Zone, for all we know. ’Cause he sure is acting spooky.” Looking at Angie, I know exactly what she is thinking: too bad we can’t call Galleria to ask her what she thinks about all this. She always knows the answers to everything, but she is too mad with us right now for us to call and indulge in “cheetah chatter.”

  “I’m gonna call Dorinda and see how she’s doing,” I say. Angie nods in agreement. Truth is, I’m hoping Dorinda will spill the barbecued beans about what’s going on behind our backs. If Angie and I are being replaced, then we might as well find out sooner rather than later. “Wouldn’t you hate to come back from Houston and find out we are cheetah-less?” I ask Angie absentmindedly.

  “So, what are we betting?” Angie asks, ignoring me. “You can do my math homework for a week when we go back to school?”

  I want to wipe that “smugly” expression off Angie’s face, but she’s probably right about both things. 1) Daddy is going to bring home some strange woman. 2) What’s the point in fretting about being replaced.

  Clearing my head, I counter Angie’s bet: “Or, you do my Spanish homework if you’re wrong. How do you like those apples?”

  Angie moans. She hates Spanish homework more than I do. “Well, I won’t have to worry about that, mamacita, because I’m gonna win. So you’d better giddyap and sharpen your pencils for all that math homework,” Angie says, sashaying over to the kitchen counter and twirling the head of lettuce.

  “Yes, ma’am—you’re always right,” I nod, dialing Dorinda’s home.

  One of Dorinda’s sisters answer the phone. I can’t tell which one, so I just say “hi.”

  “Hi,” she responds, then gets silent.

  “Hi,” I repeat again, waiting for her to say something.

  “Who is it?” I hear someone yelling in the background.

  “It’s for me!” the unknown sister snaps back.

  I hear her sister break out into a wail of giggles as Dorinda takes the receiver from her and speaks into it. “That was my sister Twinkie
—she wishes she had her own phone.”

  “Don’t we all,” I say, chuckling. “I just wanted to see how my favorite Cheetah Girl is holding up.”

  “This schedule is no joke.” Dorinda laughs. “Mrs. Bosco is real cool about the situation, though. I mean, she’s happy I’m doing my Cheetah Girls’ thing. It’s just that she’s going bonkers now that I can’t help her after school.”

  “Lord, I can imagine,” I respond sympathetically. Since Dorinda brought up the word “schedule,” I decide to dive right into my cheetah-fishing expedition. “Look, I know Galleria and everybody is upset that Angie and I are going—”

  “Handle your Houston business—don’t worry about that situation,” Dorinda says, interrupting me. My stomach sinks like a crab pushed to the bottom of a barrel. She does know something. Using her cheerful Southern drawl, Dorinda adds, “Y’all must be getting ready today for your trip, huh?”

  “Well, not now—we’re cooking,” I blurt out, feeling sorry for the poor Walker twins who might be kicked to a Houston curb in a minute.

  “Give me the phone,” Angie says, swiping the receiver from me.

  “We got Texas barbecue—yes ma’am,” Angie says, nodding enthusiastically.

  I wonder why she is showing off. Daddy is the one who cooked the meat, not us.

  “Texas barbecue is all about the meat—you don’t smother it in sauce or nothing. You just cook it enough so it falls off the bone when you eat it,” Angie explains like she’s on a cooking show talking to the studio audience!

  Angie ignores my glare and goes on and on about all the food we’re preparing, till I can almost hear Dorinda salivating at the gills. I grab the phone back and talk to Dorinda some more. “Please mind her manners. We would invite you over if we could, but Daddy obviously has some other plans for all this food.”

  Dorinda can tell I’m upset because she finally tells me for reassurance: “Aqua—stop sweating it. Nothing’s going to stop our cheetah train. That’s all I’m saying.”