“Well, I hope you’re right,” I sigh deeply, then tell her about all the drama that is going on in our house, and she tells me about all the drama that is going on in hers.
“Now Corky’s father is trying to make it sound like he’s suing for custody because Mrs. Bosco is an unfit mother,” she whispers.
But the screaming gets so loud in Dorinda’s house that she can hardly hear herself talk. Apparently her sister Twinkie is yelling about getting back down to the laundry room before someone steals their clothes. Now I feel bad for keeping her on the phone, so I tell her good-bye and to “hang in there.”
“I will—like a chimpanzee,” Dorinda chuckles.
“Okay now, but watch out for Tony the Tiger!” I yell before hanging up. We still can’t believe that one of the tenants in Dorinda’s building was keeping a four-hundred-pound tiger in his bedroom until the police discovered it. Now I realize how lucky we are that we don’t have to live in the projects, with pets that are ready to pounce—literally.
I plop down on the couch and yawn. All I want to do now is take a nap, but I know Daddy would skin me alive if he came home and found us sprawled out on his couch. Shoot, maybe living in the projects wouldn’t be so bad after all! I sit for a few minutes staring at the blinking Christmas lights on the tree. It sure does look pretty. Angie and I did a real good job of decorating the tree. We trimmed it with all the white ornaments, garlands, and lights, just the way Daddy likes it.
Yawning again and drifting into a daze, my mind starts wandering from “I wonder if Dorinda has a Christmas tree” to “Shoot, Daddy didn’t even thank us for making the house look good.”
Leave it to my sister to snap me back to the drudgery at hand. “Get your butt in here and help me!” Angie snarls from the kitchen.
Dragging myself back to the dining room, we start fixing the dining table and side table and getting everything ready for the feast we’re going to share with somebody who could turn out to be a mean ole witch. “The hearts look real nice,” I say to Angie, admiring the designs she painted on the smoked-glass vases Daddy bought. They’re filled with big bouquets of pretty yellow roses, which makes me think about Ma, because she loves yellow roses. “Too bad she’s not here to see them,” I mutter under my breath.
Angie and I polish the crystal glasses in silence until she blurts out exactly what I have been thinking: “If somebody came in here and saw how pretty everything looks, they wouldn’t know we are now living with a crazy man!”
Chapter
10
True to his word, Daddy pulls up in the driveway at half past three. Angie rushes over to the window, but I call her back. “Don’t do that!”
We sit our butts down at the counter, waiting for Daddy to open the door.
“Please don’t let her be a witch!” I grumble. Angie and I sit with bated breath like those anxious contestants on The Price Is Right, waiting to see what is behind Doors Number One, Two, and Three.
When the door pops open, we can’t believe our eyes.
“HONEY, I’M HOME!” screams our Uncle Skeeter, bursting into the living room. He plops down his suitcase and stands there with outstretched arms. Angie lets out a big squeal. Tears well up in my eyes as I sit frozen for a second before I run over and wrap my arms around my favorite uncle in the whole world.
Angie runs outside and I can hear her squealing, “Omigod!”
“Go help your Daddy with the rest of the bags,” Uncle Skeeter says proudly.
I am crying so hard, the lapel on the left side of his jacket is soaked. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Skeeter—this is a real nice suit!” I say, admiring the burgundy pinstriped suit he is wearing.
Uncle Skeeter gives me his handkerchief, and I blow my nose before Daddy sees me carrying on like a big fool. He takes the used hankie from me and gently pushes me outside the door. I stand frozen in the driveway, watching Angie hugging Ma real tight.
“You got us real good! We didn’t know you were coming!” Angie squeals with delight, like Babe the pig. Then she starts jumping up and down and squealing even louder.
Ma breaks out in the biggest grin. “Shoot, you ain’t the only drama queen around here. You got it from me!”
Suddenly our upstairs neighbor pulls back the curtains in her front window and glances at us to see what the commotion is all about. Ma looks up and waves at the window. Our neighbor, Mrs. Solomon doesn’t wave back. She just smiles tersely, then lets the curtain drop. Meanwhile, Daddy is helping Big Momma out of the Bronco. She stands in place holding onto her cane, and I start bawling like a baby all over again.
Big Momma looks right in my direction. “Come here, Nettie One!” she says with a sly smile on her face. I try to stop crying, but I just can’t. Through my slobbering tears, I try talking: “I can’t believe you came.”
She pats me on the back. “Now, we couldn’t be getting in the way of y’all making some record. Come on now.” Big Momma says, smiling.
“Well, we ain’t exactly making a record. It’s a demo so we can see if the record company will give us a deal,” I explain, embarrassed. I don’t want Big Momma to get her hopes up too high.
“Never you mind—the Lord will find a way to make it happen,” Big Momma says, making me realize that I’m the one who’s worried about getting too hopeful.
But right now, looking at Big Momma’s grin, I feel like we can soar higher than Wonder Woman. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, putting my arm under Big Momma’s as we walk inside.
“When you leaving?” Angie asks excitedly, trying to peek inside of the Uncle Funky’s shopping bag Ma is clutching tightly in her hand. It’s obvious the bag is stuffed with Christmas presents. Ma knows that Uncle Funky’s Boutique is one of our favorite stores in Houston.
“We just got here—you trying to get rid of us already?” Ma asks, slapping Angie’s hand and pulling it out of her shopping bag. “We’re going back on Monday.”
When we get inside, everybody oohs and aahs over the Christmas tree. I beam at Daddy with pride. I’m so embarrassed for thinking all those terrible things about him earlier that I can hardly look him in the eye.
“Lord, look at his snow globe collection—it done grown twice in size!” Big Momma exclaims as Daddy proudly shows her his latest purchase—the Times Square snow globe. Angie and I carry their luggage upstairs and put it in the guest room. “Put mine in your father’s room,” Ma instructs us.
“So you’re sleeping in Daddy’s room?” I ask, hoping it means what I think it means—that maybe they’re getting back together. But Ma sticks a pin in my balloon.
“Yeah, but Mr. Walker will be sleeping on the couch,” Ma announces.
As we set Ma’s luggage down on the floor in Daddy ’s room, Angie chides, “By the time they leave, I bet you they’ll be sleeping in the same room.”
“You still owe me from the last bet!” I exclaim to Angie in disbelief. She’s not wiggling her way out of this one. “You lost—Daddy didn’t bring back no new girlfriend!”
“Well,” Angie says, twisting her neck, poking out her mouth, and putting her hands on her hips. “Technically, I didn’t lose the bet, because I said he was probably going to get her, and that is exactly who he brought back to this house! I didn’t say which her!”
Clapping my hands, I retort, “And the Academy Award for Best Fake-tress—oops, I mean, Actress—goes to the trifling Anginette Vivian Walker!”
“Thank you, ma’am—I’ll take any award I can get,” Angie says slyly. All of a sudden, Angie’s eyes light up, and I realize that she is thinking the same thing I am: “Daddy did go out on a date last week with somebody, didn’t he?”
“He sure did,” I say, staring over at his dresser and catching a glimpse of his new cologne. Picking up the bottle, I try to pronounce the name on the label—Homme Sensual, but I can’t, because I don’t understand French. “I’m sure it means ‘stinky scent’!” I say, giggling.
Angie and I head back downstairs. Ma takes the presents out of the shop
ping bag and puts them under the tree. Daddy goes into the closet and pulls out a shopping bag from the back. Angie and I shoot each other a look. We didn’t even see that one! He puts some more presents under the tree, till it looks like Christmas for real! Before dinner, Uncle Skeeter entertains us all by playing his harmonica. “I’m so glad you’re still playing that!” I exclaim, remembering how much fun we had at the “Houston Helps Its Own” benefit. When we performed there with the Cheetah Girls, we even hooked up Uncle Skeeter up with the homeless band Fish ’n’ Chips.
“We were so proud of you performing with them!” Angie exclaims, hugging Uncle Skeeter so hard, he loses his concentration.
“Fred Fish has been over a few times for dinner,” Ma says, a wicked smile creeping into the corners of her mouth.
“You’re in love!” I say, embarrassing Ma. “Mr. And Mrs. Fish ’n’ Chips!”
“Don’t push it, sister.” Ma gives me a firm look. “Only thing I’m in love with is paying my bills, young lady. That’s true love, okay?”
“I know that’s right,” Big Momma says, chuckling at our nonsense.
“All right, everybody ready for dinner?” Daddy asks, jumping up from the couch. Somehow we get the feeling that talking about love has made Daddy uncomfortable.
Angie and I help Daddy put all the food on serving platters to set on the sideboard.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I say quietly, when the three of us are alone in the kitchen.
“You’re welcome,” he says. And without missing a beat, he takes the glass Pyrex dish filled with his famous macaroni and cheese out of the oven. I’m so proud of him for being such a good cook. I guess that’s another thing we have in common with Galleria: we both have fathers who can cook up a storm. All of a sudden, I can’t wait to talk to Galleria and tell her everything!
“Oooh, the crust is perfect,” I exclaim with delight.
“Always is,” Daddy says confidently. I look over at Daddy and stare at him when he’s not looking. All this time, we thought he was a mean person (you have to admit, not letting us bring Coco home was a real misde-mean-or in our book!). But no real mean person would do all the things that Daddy does for us. Or make the kind of sacrifices he has made for us since we came to live with him in New York. No, sireee, it turns out Daddy isn’t crazy at all. But he sure can keep a secret.
When we sit at the table, Big Momma says grace, and it brings tears to my eyes.
“Lord, thank you for allowing me to make the journey up here to spend time with the only people in the world who matter to me—my precious family. I know you move in mysterious ways, and we’re grateful to have the good sense to follow you wherever that may be. Thank you for watching over my precious granddaughters as they make their way—wearing all those wild clothes and doing what you put them here to do—singing. And thank you for this wonderful feast we are about to eat. Amen.”
“Now I know why Daddy made Texas barbecue!” Angie says, squealing at Uncle Skeeter like she finally figured out a prize-winning riddle.
“Yes, sirree, because everybody knows I’m a car-nivore!” Uncle Skeeter shouts, then lets out a laugh that could scare coyotes back into the hills. “And everybody knows that my favorite animal is a rack of lamb!” We chuckle at our crazy Uncle Skeeter and watch with amazement as he chomps on the ribs like a prisoner on parole. “Mmm-hmm—Johnnie Walker—you sure put your foot in this food!”
“The girls helped, too,” Daddy says proudly.
“Indeed—don’t think I don’t know my own potato salad recipe when I taste it!” Big Momma says, nodding in approval.
After dinner, Angle and I can’t wait to pull Ma aside. “Can we call Galleria now and have you just say hi to her and her mom, Ms. Dorothea?” I ask excitedly.
Ma smiles and dials Galleria’s house. “Yeah, let’s see what Miss Galleria is up to.”
“Good evening—who am I speaking to?” Ma says, putting on her professional, sweet voice. After the person responds, Ma says proudly, “This is Mrs. Walker—the twins’ mother.” Ma shakes her head at us, grinning. “How are you doing, Miss Galleria. People are still talking about the stir you caused in Houston!”
We can’t wait to grab the phone from Ma. We stand there and let them talk for a few more minutes until we can’t stand it anymore.
“We’re in the house with Mouse until you need us!” I yell into the receiver before Galleria can say anything.
“Well, I do declare, you sure gave us a mighty scare,” Galleria says, giggling and using her ridiculous Southern accent. Angie and I are holding hands and jumping up and down. Daddy shoots us a stern look but doesn’t say anything.
“My mom wants to talk to your ma,” Galleria says, tickled by the exchange.
I hand the phone to Ma again. After Ma finishes talking to Ms. Dorothea, Angie grabs the phone like she always does before someone can finish a conversation in peace. “Were you going to replace us?” she boldly asks Ms. Dorothea.
I follow my sister’s rude manners and grab the phone from her. “What an imagination you two have,” Ms. Dorothea says to me, surprised. “We will see you tomorrow evening?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reassure Ms. Dorothea. “We will be there with Christmas bells on!”
Ms. Dorothea chuckles. “Darling, leave the bells and whistles at home—just bring your cheetah-licious selves, okay?”
I feel my cheeks glowing in the dark. This was the first time Ms. Dorothea ever called us cheetah-licious. It really is a brand-new day, indeed! I want to scream praise from the rooftop, but go over and give Big Momma a big hug instead, and plant a big kiss right on her forehead: “Guess we know where we got our cheetah-licious-ness from in the first place!”
Chapter
11
I think Ma is more excited about going to Mouse Almighty’s studio today than we are. And believe me, we’re excited—now that we have finally squashed our barbecued beef jerky with the Cheetah Girls at last. As a matter of fact, Angie and I plan on raising the roof off Mouse’s studio this afternoon, like Southern church-choir girls should.
“Yes, ma’am. If we don’t get a record deal with Def Duck after this, it’s not going to be the Huggy Bear Twins’ fault,” I say confidently to Angie, using the nasty nickname Galleria gave us behind our backs when we first met her and Chanel at the Kats and Kittys’ Fourth of July barbecue. We found out later that they were aghast at how many hot dogs we were shoveling in our mouths while swatting flies.
Ma is standing by the security guard in the building lobby, looking like an eager fawn about to dart into the woods. “Do I look cheetah-licious enough for Ms. Dorothea?” Ma asks nervously, fussing with the yellow carnation in the lapel of her powder-blue suit. “I hope so, ’cause I musta changed three times!”
Even though Ma looks more like an Avon representative about to unleash the latest spring bouquet fragrances on the world instead of “growl power,” I smartly decide to heap on a big helping of encouragement. “You fit right in the jiggy jungle!”
“What about my shoes?” Ma says in an agitated tone. “See that scuff mark there?”
We both examine Ma’s ivory pumps like forensic psychologists looking for clues. “There, I see a little dirt mark right there on the side,” Angie says, pulling an antibacterial wipe out of her purse and bending down quickly. (We have learned the hard way to always be prepared for anything in the Big Apple.)
“I was over on Fifth Avenue, and this woman was walking so fast, she stepped right on my foot,” Ma exclaims in surprise. “I yelled after her, ‘Excuse me, you forgot to step on my other foot!’ I mean, where are these folks’s manners?”
“Fifth Avenue is always crowded with buffalo about to stampede. They don’t have any manners,” Angie chuckles, then jumps up. “There, it’s off.”
“Well, alrighty, then. Thank you, Nettie Two,” Ma says, flashing her pretty smile as we climb into the tiny, cramped elevator that looks like it would collapse if Fat Albert stepped into it.
I noti
ce Ma eyeing the dirty ceiling, so I blurt out, “There’s a lot of old buildings in New York like this.” I just don’t want Ma to think that Mouse Almighty is nibbling on his last piece of cheese or something.
“And I bet he is paying an arm and a turkey leg for the privilege of risking his life every morning in this rickety contraption!” Ma smiles and, folds her beige overcoat over her arm. “How they get away with these rents should be against the law.”
Now I can’t help wondering if Ma is freezing to death wearing such a lightweight coat in this icy weather, but I know the only other winter coat she brought with her is a red wool wrap coat. Even though it’s probably warmer—it doesn’t match her outfit. Trust me, Ma would rather freeze to death than not match. I guess that is what makes her a “diva,” just like Ms. Dorothea, even though the two of them couldn’t be less alike. Speaking of divas, Angie and I have our fingers (and toes) crossed in hopes that the two “divas” will get along. We’re also wondering if she and Daddy are getting along. They certainly haven’t argued since Ma has been here—at least not in front of us.
“Are you and Daddy getting back together?” Angie asks, nuzzling up to Ma.
“Have you lost your mind, Nettie Two?” Ma responds sharply. “Only reason I’m here is because I know how important this whole thing is for y’all.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Angie replies quietly.
My eyes start to tear up.
“Don’t ruin your makeup,” warns Ma.
“If we get a record deal, first thing I’m getting you is a fox-fur coat with gray silver tips,” I say proudly.
“Never mind all that, Nettie One. If I were you, my first agenda would be replacing those ugly bedspreads in your room!” Ma says, chuckling. Angie and I howl. We knew Ma wouldn’t like the way Daddy fixed up the apartment. “Lord, what was he thinking? It looks like a field of blue mushrooms growing on your beds.”
Angie and I try hard to suppress our desire to burst out laughing at Daddy, but we just can’t.
Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars Page 9
