“Ouch,” I say, wincing at Dorinda, who is nestled to my left. “That reminds me of when you did a lickety-split in your costume onstage.” My mom made our cheetah costumes, and Dorinda’s was a little too tight in the cushion department, if you catch my drift, swift—but she was too afraid to say anything until disaster struck onstage!
“Oh, don’t remind me. Ill never forget everybody looking at my bloomers,” she moans.
I tug on the tail of her cheetah costume, and Dorinda makes a comical grimace.
Finally, pulling the hem of her gown from under her heels, “Miss Houston” giggles nervously into the microphone. “I hope there are no judges in the house tonight!” she says. “Thank goodness I didn’t do that at the Miss Houston contest, or the only title I’d have won would have been ‘Miss Clumsy’!”
We all smile at her corny joke. “I wonder how she did win,” I mutter.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Miss Houston, Amanda Darby—”
The crowd claps and screams, “Howdy, Houston!!”
“Thank you—and I promise to get my dress shortened!” Miss Houston says, exploding into another round of giggles. “Seriously, though—tonight is a very special night for me, because I get to speak at a wonderful event—‘Houston Helps Its Own’…”
The crowd interrupts her with another round of applause. “At this rate, we’d better move sleeping cots into the back!” Chanel mutters.
“You’re right about that, Glitterbug,” I shoot back to Chuchie. With all the glitter pomade she has put in her hair, she looks like one of those fireflies you see in July.
“We do take care of our own in Houston—and that’s why a percentage of all the ticket proceeds will be used to rebuild Montgomery Homeless Shelter. I know fifty dollars is a lot of money to pay, but just remember—your dollars are working for our city!”
The crowd claps again.
“We want Backstabba!!” I yell, but of course, you can’t hear me screaming over the noise. Backstabba is the lead singer of Karma’s Children. A lot of people tell me I look like her, but I don’t think so. She’s taller and thinner, and her hair doesn’t get wack frizzy attacks like mine. As a matter of facto, I’ll bet nobody’s does!
“We want to thank all the wonderful groups who were up here on the stage tonight, performing gratis on behalf of our benefit—and these are all groups from Houston, I might add!”
Now we’re all clapping, and Chanel screams, “Yeah for the Cheetah Girls!”
“Aren’t Miggy and Mo just the cutest things?” Miss Houston says, beaming.
I feel a pang in my chest. How come she didn’t mention us? Chanel and Dorinda look at me, but I just roll my eyes and wave my hands in the air, like I don’t care. “Yo! The Cheetah Girls are in the house!” I yell, my words swallowed up in the general chaos.
“Well, all the groups were great,” Miss Houston gushes, just in case she’s stepped on anyone else’s toes—and believe me, she has!
“It’s time now to introduce you to a group of girls who make us soooh proud. They’ve won two Grammy Awards, the Teen Peoples’ Choice Award, um—” Miss Houston pauses to look at her-cue cards. “I’m sorry—one Soul Train Award. And the best part is, they were born and raised right here in Houston! Please, let’s give a warm welcome to our very own girl groups—Karma’s Children!”
I squeeze Chuchie. This is so live! I can’t wait till someone announces us like that, and we get to hear people clap so loud, calling our names, panting for “more, more, more” till the big score!
Suddenly, we see spec-taculous lights beaming across the stage in all directions. Smoke comes pouring out onto the stage, Chuchie screams. The crowd chants, “Karma, Karma, Karma!”
“Omigod, the stage is on fire!” Aquanette yells. We chuckle. She and Angie can be so naïve sometimes!
Out of the smoke, Karma’s Children emerge, wearing white satin jumpsuits covered by big white capes. “Omigod, they’re wearing white in November!” Chanel shouts.
“Yeah, but they’re dope costumes,” Dorinda points out. And she should know—she majors in Costume Design at Fashion Industries East, where Chuchie and I also go to school. We major in fashion marketing, though. (And in case you didn’t know, Aqua and Angie go to Performing Arts League. The rest of us are thinking of transferring there next year. If things keep flowing the right way for the Cheetah Girls, it’s a definite!)
“For true,” I scream back at Do’ Re Mi. “But we’re not going to wear white after Labor Day or before Memorial Day—that’s a Cheetah Girls rule!”
“Word!” Dorinda seconds, and we all do a Cheetah Girls handshake. I can feel the electricity in Chanel’s and Dorinda’s palms. This is the kind of moment I want to remember forever.
“Omigod, look how big Backstabba got!” Angie shrieks, pulling my arm.
She is a lot taller than I remember, but then again, I’ve never seen her this “up close and personal.” Okay, we’re stuck in left field, and I can’t see her face that well—but we’re in the house! Close enough to see that she’s one tall girlina!
Backstabba is the leader of the group. She stands poised in the middle of the stage, hiding behind her cape. She is so dopalicious! I think she-’s about seventeen years old, but she looks older now, because they’ve gotten themselves more supa-dupa glammed up.
The four of them have been performing together since they were about nine. That’s younger than we were when we started—and look how famous they are now! The other three members of the group—Greedi, Peace, and Luvbug—stand in a half circle behind Backstabba, with their hands above their heads.
I notice Dorinda’s eyes popping. She’s probably taking choreography notes. The beat to the song comes on, and she looks at me, puzzled.
“This must be one of the songs off their new album,” I tell her.
We know every song they’ve ever done. Their biggest hit so far is, “Yes, Yes, Yes,” which went double platinum—and that’s supa-dupa better than the Midas touch! I can’t wait till they drop this new album.
As if reading my mind, Backstabba pouts and breathes into the mike, “We love you Houston—that’s why we’re giving you a preview of the songs from our new album, which drops with Santa.”
Chuchie looks at me, puzzled. “What happened?”
“She means, releases at Christmas.”
I notice that Backstabba’s hair is way longer than I remember it. She’s definitely working extensions. “Hair extensions are career extensions. …” I hum to myself. Oh, that is so coolio!
I fight off the urge to pull my Kitty Kat notebook out of my cheetah backpack and scribble my idea down quickly, like I always do when I think of a song lyric. But I realize now is not the time. Instead, I repeat the words to myself a few more times, so I won’t forget them, and make a mental note to write them down later.
Right now, it’s all about the beat, I start clapping, then Dorinda, Chanel, and the twins pick it up with me.
Backstabba steps from behind the cape, in a cutout jumpsuit with rhinestones. Wow! Everybody is digging the “glitter-glam, thank you, ma’am” trip. The cape drops to the floor, and she starts singing the group’s new song:
“Mr. Dream, why don’t you come clean
and take the clouds you left behind
because you’ re so mean
Mr. Dream, why don’t you float away
no one will complain
just come back another day
and stop playing your games.”
All of sudden, a guy wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat stands up in front of Dorinda, and she can’t see a thing! Everybody looks at me, like I’m supposed to be the spokesperson for our crew—which I usually am. But there is no way I’m lassoing that cowboy!
Thank gooseness Mrs. Walker comes to our defense. She taps the guy on his elbow, ’cuz even she can’t reach his shoulder! I don’t hear what she says, but the guy crouches down a bit.
Dorinda still can’t see, so I trade places with her. If you ask me, I
say they should make tall people stand in the back, so we shorties don’t get a complex.
Grooving to the music, I get caught up in my fantasies—all the wishes I hope come true for the Cheetah Girls. I can just see us, wooing the crowd like Karma’s Children does. They seem to have the flavor that everybody savors—especially in Houston—but one day, I know we will be the flavor of the century (or at least the year!).
After a one-hour set, Backstabba steps up to the mike to say good night to the city she so obviously loves. The crowd is not having it: “More, more, more!!” they chant.
“Good night, Houston. We love you—and we will always come back home!” Backstabba chuckles breathlessly into the mike. She beams a supa-karat smile—almost brighter than the necklace dangling around her neck.
“I heard Jiggie Jim gave her that necklace,” Chuchie says knowingly, like she is Miss Clucky, the gossip columnist.
“I’ll bet you’d like to get a munch on those karats,” I tease Chuchie.
“That’s right, mamacita, I would,” Chuchie shoots back.
I look over at Dorinda, and I can see her eyes glistening with tears. I give her a hug, and she hugs me back, hard. “We’re gonna do it, Do’ Re Mi—don’t you worry,” I say.
Chanel hugs Dorinda from the other side. The twins and their mother are looking on, beaming. Meanwhile, we’re all trying not to get pushed around by the millions of people who are stampeding the joint like wild cattle.
“I guess we’d better get moving before we get stomped!” I say.
Chanel gives me a look, like, “What’s the plan, Spam?”
I motion for everyone to follow me, as we try to plow our way down to Karma’s Children’s dressing room.
“Maybe we should use a smoke machine for our show,” Chanel coos right behind me.
“Yeah—if it’s good enough for the goose, it’s good enough for the gander—and the Cheetahs!” I second. Sure, it’s stealing some of their flavor, but I figure special effects, like smoke machines, are fair game. It’s not like we’re stealing their songs or anything!
“I felt like I was floating to paradise, listening to them,” Dorinda chimes in.
“Yeah—we’re doing fine on cloud nine!” I start humming, as we form a choo-choo train to make our move.
“You really think we should try to get in?” Dorinda asks in her squeaky voice.
“Why not? The most they can do is send us into the kitchen to wash the dishes, right?” I reply, getting up my courage. “We’re not leaving until we get an intro, so act like you know, girlitas!”
The twins give me that look, like they know I’m not going to give up until we accomplish our mission.
The Mighty Man security guard has other intentions, however, ’cuz he stops us right in our cheetah tracks. “You can’t go that way, ladies. Exit stage right.”
Well, I’m not going to let this not-so-jolly giant stand in the way of my dig-able idea! Thinking fast, I moan, “We are the Cheetah Girls, and we left our wallets in the holding area.”
“You can go to the holding area, but you have to go that way,” he says, pointing to a path that short-circuits the one I want.
My face drops like a broken platter.
“Keep going,” Mighty Man insists, pointing his hand in the undesired direction. I hear some noise on his walkie-talkie, and I give ground. I don’t want to cause any static with the man, know what I’m sayin’?
“Let’s go,” Mrs. Walker says softly. I can feel the back of my neck burning with anger and embarrassment.
“I wish my mom was here,” I mutter to Chanel as we head to the back exit. “She’d put Mr. Mighty Man in his place—with a can of Mace!” I feel like we just got nipped at the heels by a stupid hyena with pointy fangs.
We’re all quiet as we hit the fresh air and head for the parking lot, on our way to Mrs. Walker’s car. “Let me take a picture of you girls together,” Mrs. Walker says chirpily. I guess she’s trying to make us feel better, but I don’t feel like being a nice Cheetah Girl right now—I mean, I’m mad as a hatter!
Chanel pulls me by the arm, and we stop in front of Mrs. Walker’s car and strike a pose for a photo.
“Smile!” Mrs. Walker instructs us as she snaps the picture. Even though I don’t feel like smiling, I do. “One more,” Mrs. Walker pleads as I start to walk away.
She takes one more shot of us, then holds out the instant picture. I don’t reach for it, but Dorinda does. “I’ll take it,” she says.
All of a sudden, this guy with hair so red it looks like it’s on fire walks toward our car. “Aquanette, how you doin’?” he mumbles so low that at first, Aquanette doesn’t hear him. Besides, she is too busy goggling at the picture. You’d think she’d never seen herself in her cheetah costume before. Well, I guess we should take pictures more often.
I poke her in the side to turn around. “Omigod, it’s Beethead!” she coos.
Beethead just blushes, and looks down at his shoes, stifling a laugh.
“How are you doin’?” Aqua asks him, all coo-ey gooey. Then, remembering her manners, she introduces Beethead to us. ”This is Major Knowles—he’s the reason I have seven stitches in my left knee!” she says, guffawing. Aqua is in fine form tonight—and I can tell by the way she looks at “Beethead” that she likes him.
Major is getting supa distressed. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt or anything.”
“I know,” Aqua says, patting his back. Then she tells us the story. They were playing on swings, it seems, and he threw a rock to see if he could reach her head. She fell off the swing, and hit her knee on a sharp rock. “That’s what I get for showing off—” she starts to say.
All of a sudden, we hear a bunch of girls screaming, “Angie! Aqua!”
Aqua turns and says to her mom, “Who’s that? Omigod!” In a matter of seconds, a whole group of kids is swarming around the twins, as if Aqua and Angie are Karma’s Children or something. They start hugging the twins, jumping up and down.
“Clarissa, girl, you look so good! I’m so glad you got rid of those bangs,” Aqua exclaims. Then she turns to us excitedly. “These girls belong to Kats and Kittys, too!”
“Oh, that’s la dopa!” Chanel coos back.
Aqua tells them all about our group, and how we’re members of Kats and Kittys Klub’s New York chapter, but I’m not really listening. I feel like I have sort of floated out of my body.
All this attention the twins are getting is making me homesick for New York, for the first time since I’ve been down here. I wish we were back home, where we know people from school who would come backstage to congratulate us, like at the Kats and Kittys Halloween Bash last month. Looking into that crowd when we performed, and seeing some of the kids I went to junior high school with—that was a feeling I’ll never forget. So I know how the twins feel right about now—and I’m a little jealous, I guess.
“I can’t believe you went to New York and got in a group,” the girl called Clarissa exclaims.
“Jasmine, when did you cut your hair?” Angie asks another girl, touching her short ‘do.
“I guess after y’all left. Look at your hair—and those costumes!” Jasmine says loudly.
Clarissa senses that I’m not feeling it, so she smiles at me and says, “Y’all were great.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking a deep sigh, like our vocal coach, Drinka Champagne, taught us to do whenever we get ready to sing—or whenever we’re upset. I can hear her voice in my head, saying: “Clear those vocal cords.”
We were great tonight, all right—but not great enough to get into Karma’s Children’s dressing room and hang. That’s the real deal-io.
After we say good night to the bunch of “groupies” who are ogling the twins, we finally pile into Mrs. Walker’s car. The twins are beaming as bright as the moonlight.
Beethead says he has to head off, too. “Say hi to your guinea pigs for me!” he chuckles.
“We will!” Aqua says, giggling as she gets into the ca
r. Angie and Aqua brought those guinea pigs—Porgy and Bess—all the way from New York, just so they wouldn’t be left alone with Mr. Walker and his crazy girlfriend, High Priestess Abala Shaballa. I guess they were afraid the High Priestess would use Porgy and Bess for one of her magic potions—cook them up in her steaming pot of who-knows-what. Anyhow, those two guinea pigs have been tearing up Grandma Selby’s garden patch all week long!
“Omigod, can you believe how short Jasmine cut her hair?” Aqua asks Angie. “If I had hair like hers, I would never cut it.” The two of them sort of ignore us for a while, and gab on about their friends from Houston.
Finally, Dorinda pipes up, “Wow, Backstabba really looked dope. Is her hair longer than it was before?”
“I beweave it is,” I say, chuckling. Then, suddenly, I remember the hook I came up with before. “Hair extensions are career extensions… !”
“Oh, that’s so dope!” Dorinda gasps.
Taking my Kitty Kat notebook out of my backpack, I scribble madly. Then I start thinking. “I’m gonna add this to that Cheetah Girls Credo I’m working on for us.”
“That’s right, mamacita,” Chanel coos. “Keep writing down stuff for us, ’cuz talent and skills will pay our bills!”
The twins chuckle. “That’s right, Miss Chanel. You know that’s right.”
“That’s it!” I exclaim loudly. “We just flipped some new flam!” I scribble some more. “Hair extensions may be career extensions, but talent and skills will pay my bills!”
“I like that!” Dorinda says approvingly.
I heave a deep sigh. Weaving words anyhoo I pleez always makes me feel better. Things may not be going our way, and nobody may be growlin’ for more of the Cheetah Girls yet. But you just wait—one day, people will be trying to get into our dressing room, and know our every thought—and even what we had for breakfast.
Meanwhile, they can’t take away our dreams!
Chapter
3
What started as a coolio adventure is turning into a real “turkey fest.” The first bad vibe was last night, when Diamonds in the Ruff dissed us. Then that grumpy Mighty Man security guard prevented us from stepping into paradise (Karma’s Children’s dressing room, that is)—and now, my mom is acting wicky-wacky on the phone! I feel like I’m being beaten over the head with a drumstick. I don’t have to be back to school until Monday, but Mom is determined that I come home before then.
Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Page 2
