Showdown at the Okie-Dokie

by Deborah Gregory

  “Yeah—that’s Beethead,” Aqua says, beaming.

  “You like him!” I taunt her. “Wait till I go back to New York and tell your father!”

  “You do that, Miss Galleria, and I’m gonna tell High Priestess Abala Shaballa that you just love her ‘health shakes,’ okay?” But I can tell that Aqua is too busy goospitating at Beethead to care what her father thinks about boys. (He won’t let them date until they’re “older,” and he won’t say how much older!)

  The other boys hanging with Beethead are just standing there, gaping at us like they’re monkeys in a tree looking down at a bunch of bananas. If they keep it up, I’m gonna make sure one of them slips on a peel.

  “Hey, Beethead,” Aqua says, then nervously adjusts the strings on her hat.

  “Where y’all going?” he asks, obviously amused by our Cheetah gear.

  “Nowhere—we’ve just gotta buy something for our show, then meet up with my mother,” Aqua explains. I can tell she is nervous.

  “What show?” Beethead asks.

  “Oh, we’re gonna perform at the Okie-Dokie,” Aqua says, flossing a little. I’m not used to seeing Miss Humble passing up her pie like this, so I just chill and take in the sight.

  “We heard that’s gonna be wack,” Beethead announces, then looks at his boys.

  “What, are y’all gonna ride in the rodeo or something?” a boy with buck teeth blurts out.

  “No, we’re singers,” I hiss back.

  “Our group is called the Cheetah Girls,” Aqua says. “I told you that before.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Beethead says, like he’s embarrassed for his friend, who’s like a dog with a bone, ’cuz he just won’t leave it alone.

  “I like your jacket,” Buck Teeth says to me. “Can I touch it?” he asks, feeling my lapel. “Wow, what kind of fabric is this?”

  “It’s pony,” I shoot back at him. “Give me a dollar, I’ll let you ride it!”

  Now Beethead is laughing at his crew, not ours. “Oh, snaps, that’s ill!”

  “Come on, we’ve got a show to get ready for,” I say, pulling Do’ Re Mi and Chuchie by the arms. Aqua and Angie can stand there holding court with the monkey boys if they’d like to. “We’d better get some Benjies for our show before the fake bank closes!”

  The three of us skip past all the beautiful stores in the Galleria, like we’re following the yellow brick road. We break into a cowboy song, adding a few laced lyrics of our own:

  “Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam

  Where the deer and the antelope play,

  Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,

  And the skies are not cloudy all day—

  ’cuz it’s a payday!!”

  Chapter

  6

  Why, oh, why, did Mrs. Walker have to tell Chuchie about the Thanksgiving Day Dinosaur Dash? If she’d only known what a Road Runner accident-waiting-to-happen Chuchie is, she’d have squashed that suggestion.

  Just think—we could be at Big Momma’s right now—licking our lips on juicy drum-sticks, instead of standing out here on Houston Hill, waiting for the wacky races to begin. The Dinosaur Dash consists of two races—one for kids, one for teens—and it’s an annual event in Houston. Actually, the twins’ cousins—Egyptian and India—were the real instigators behind this Dino Dash madness. When we returned from the mall yesterday, they called us and gave us a blow-by-blow of their handmade green costumes for the race. Actually, their costumes are cuter than Chuchie’s: they made little green skirts with fringed hems and matching vests of felt. Chuchie’s paper costume looks more like a “thesaurus” than a “tyrannosaurus,” if you get my drift.

  Aside from Chuchie, the only one of us who’s digging all this dinosaur stuff is Do’ Re Mi: she’s checking out all the contestants’ costumes. “That one is dope,” she says excitedly. “It’s a velociraptor—they have ferocious fangs.”

  “He looks like a cross between a praying mantis and Tricky Martian, if you ask me,” I snarl, looking at the fake green antennae he’s wearing on top of his green, paper-covered helmet.

  “Yeah, well, he could do some serious damage with that eight-foot tail, if you ask me,” Aqua moans, trying to stay out of his way as he runs by, wagging it in our direction.

  “What do you get if you win this race? A dozen dinosaur eggs?” I ask the twins.

  “No, I think they make a donation to the Museum of Natural Science in your name, that’s all—it’s just for a good cause,” Aqua replies, waving at Egyptian and India like she’s a Homecoming Queen on a Houston float. “Ooh, look how cute Egyptian and India look!” she beams as her two cousins scurry up the hill, their green-fringed paper skirts flapping in the wind.

  When the teen division Dinosaur Dash begins, I find myself rooting for Chuchie anyway. “Go, Chuchie! Go, Chuchie!” I’ve got to give it to my señorita, she will run a race for any reason—even if the prize is a box of Gobblers.

  Chuchie is a really good runner, because she has really long legs and all that energy. “Go, Chuchie!” I scream again—until this boy with red hair gains on her, and makes a mad dash for the finish line.

  “Dag on!” Aqua groans. “Chanel almost won!”

  “Ain’t that Beethead?” Angie asks.

  “I can’t tell with that green bandana on his forehead—wait a minute, that is Beethead!” Aqua exclaims.

  After the race, we all head over to the “Dino Bash” at the museum, and wait for Chuchie, Egyptian, and India. “If you ask me, this music is a little ‘prehistoric,’” I moan, listening to the corny grooves blasting from the speakers.

  “It’s early rock ‘n’ roll—Chubby Checker,” Mrs. Walker explains as she starts twisting her hips.

  “Oh,” I say, embarrassed. Mom has us schooled on the ‘70s music scene, but anything before that, we’re clueless. We all start twisting our hips like Mrs. Walker, and mashing our feet.

  “It’s called ‘The Twist,’” Mrs. Walker explains.

  “That makes sense,” Do’ Re Mi chuckles, twisting her little matchstick butt for all it’s worth.

  “Ooh, that made me sweat,” Aqua exclaims, as we pile over to the table to get some Tastee T-Rex Punch and congratulate Chuchie, Egyptian, and India, who are getting special goody bags for participating in the Dash.

  “I almost won!” India says, jumping up and down.

  “Yes, you did,” I tell her, even though she was so far back in the race I almost didn’t see her.

  “This tastes like Tropical Punch to me,” says Chuchie.

  “Yo, wazzup, Aquanette?” says Beethead, coming from behind the crowd.

  “Hi, Beethead,” Aqua says, acting nervous again. She definitely likes him. “How come when we saw you at the mall, you didn’t tell us you were running in the Dinosaur Dash?”

  “Oh, you know, I was with my crew—they think it’s kinda corny, but I’ve been doing it every year since I was nine,” he chuckles. “I just can’t get into the costume thing.”

  “Well, at least you wore a green bandanna,” Aqua points out, as Beethead shoves it into his pocket.

  Then Aqua says something that causes me to choke on my Tastee T. “You wanna dance, Beethead?” I didn’t know she could be so forward!

  “I’m not dancing to that wack music,” Beethead says, sucking his teeth.

  “Come on—I’m gonna show you how to do ‘the twist’!” Aqua insists, pulling his hand.

  Beethead, however, won’t budge, and Aqua seems disappointed. He just wants to talk. “I’m gonna check y’all out at the Okie-Dokie tomorrow night,” he tells us.

  “I thought you said it was corny,” Aqua responds.

  “Yeah—well, I can eat a few corn fritters and see a stupid all-girl rodeo just to catch your show, you know,” Beethead says, joking.

  “Did you see us at the Turtle Dome?” Do’ Re Mi asks him. I guess she doesn’t remember meeting him afterward in the parking lot.

  “Yeah—y’all were awright. How’d you come up with that s
ong—and throwing the money at the audience?” Beethead asks offhandedly, like he’s trying not to seem too interested in our girl group.

  “I don’t know, that’s just how we flow,” I respond, flossing. No use telling him where we got the idea for the money-throwing …

  Chuchie gives me a Popeye look, then blurts out, “Galleria and I thought the words up together. Está bien?”

  “Well, anyway, my mom said she heard that song—or something like it—before you was singing it,” Beethead says, sipping his punch, like, “What you know about that, huh?”

  I don’t believe him, and I’m starting not to like him, so I challenge the Beet. “Yeah?”

  “She said there was a song called ‘It’s Raining Men,’ or ‘Cats,’ or something like that,” Beethead says, getting confused.

  “I never heard it,” I counter.

  “That’s ’cuz you’re young—I’m talking about when she was younger,” Beethead says, giving me attitude.

  I still don’t believe him, but I’ll ask my mom after Thanksgiving—’cuz I can’t bear the thought of talking to her before I get back home. One thing is for sure, I’ve had enough of Mr. Beethead for a while. Basta pasta, okay?

  Luckily, Mrs. Walker wanders over. “Ooh, I’ve done twisted enough for Chubby Checker and Fats Domino,” she says, grabbing a nakpin from the refreshment table and patting the sweat from her forehead.

  “I wonder why all the singers from the ‘50s had names of fat people,” I say to Aqua, ignoring Beethead.

  “That’s it!” he exclaims, pointing his finger at me. “Two Tons of Fun—that’s the name of the group.”

  “What group?” I ask, annoyed.

  “The group from a long time ago that made that song I told you about—‘It’s Raining Men.’ I think they were called Two Tons of Fun or The Weather Girls or something—that’s what my mom said.”

  “Oh,” Aqua says, like she could care less. “Well, our song is original.”

  “And la dopa!” Chuchie blurts out.

  “I’m ready to bounce from this Popsicle stand,” I whisper to Do’ Re Mi, who is standing with her arms across her chest and tapping her feet.

  “Me, too,” she agrees, chuckling. “Let’s not keep Big Momma waiting—or the candied yams and rice and beans!”

  Chapter

  7

  Cruising to Big Momma’s house in Mrs. Walker’s coolio Katmobile, I can’t get the Chubby Checker song out of my mind. “‘Let’s twist again, like we did last summer—ooh, ooh!’”

  Mrs. Walker joins in, and we bop along. I can tell she had a good time at the race. She was dancing with some guy with a bald head the whole time.

  “Ma, I saw you dancing with that good-looking man,” Aqua says, teasing her mother.

  “What good-looking man? Reecy Weathers from the pharmacy? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mrs. Walker says, waving her hand at Aqua.

  “Well, I don’t think Mr. Chips Carter would like it one bit,” Aqua says, teasing her mother. We all know there’s a little flirting going on between Mr. Chips, of Fish ‘N’ Chips, and Mrs. Walker. And he is a good-looking gobble fester.

  “Well, Mr. Chips Carter ain’t paying no mortgage around here, so I guess I can do as I please,” Mrs. Walker says, adjusting her Gucci shades. Then she gets real quiet.

  Aqua gets quiet too. See, Mr. Chips Carter and Mr. Fred Fish both live in the Montgomery Homeless Shelter, so paying a mortgage would be, well, out of the question.

  “Mrs. Walker, have you ever heard of a song called ‘It’s Raining Men?’” I ask.

  “I think I do remember that one. Why?”

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “It’s just that that guy, Beetjuice, was kinda insinuating that we were biting someone else’s flavor from back in the day.”

  “I’m not exactly sure I follow you,” she says.

  “Have you ever heard our song before? It’s Raining Benjamins’?”

  “I think so,” she says, not sure. “But so many songs sound alike these days.”

  “I wish I could drive this car,” Chuchie says to Mrs. Walker, oblivious to what’s going on.

  “Ooh, you’re not going to get me arrested!” Mrs. Walker chuckles. “Come back when you’re sixteen, though, and we’ll spin a few wheels.”

  I like the idea of us coming back when we’re sixteen. I hope Mrs. Walker really means it. Suddenly, I get a pang of guilt as I think of my mom sitting at home with my little dog Toto. She’s probably eating a whole tin of Godiva chocolates all by herself. She can’t even pretend that she’s cooking a ten-course meal: Mom only pulls that charade when we have company coming over.

  “Is Skeeter gonna be there?” Aqua asks as we pull into their grandmother’s driveway. “He should be here by now. He spent all morning volunteering at the Montgomery Shelter, serving food.”

  “Oh, that’s good—that’s real good,” Angie says approvingly. Now that Skeeter has hooked up with Fish ‘N’ Chips, he’s been spending a lot of time at the homeless shelter where they live. Today, the homeless population gets a big fat serving of Thanksgiving dinner—so he went over at the crack of dawn to help.

  “Hold this,” Mrs. Walker says to Aqua, handing her a casserole dish. “That’s all Skeeter needs, is to feel like he belongs—just like all of us,” she says, smoothing down her skirt. “I know I’m risking my life bringing over this macaroni and cheese, but I can’t just sit back and watch Big Momma do everything all by herself.”

  Once we step inside Big Momma’s house, we hurry into the living room before she makes a crack. The twins’ grandmother, who is just like her name, doesn’t like people standing on ceremony, if you get my drift. I think it makes her uncomfortable.

  Do’ Re Mi doesn’t get it, though, and she just stands there waiting for an engraved invitation. Sure enough, we hear Big Momma’s booming voice all the way in the living room, “Don’t just stand there, child. Take off your coat, ’cuz the pawnshop’s closed!”

  “Is Skeeter here?” Aqua asks in a concerned voice.

  “No,” Egyptian says hesitantly.

  “He and Big Momma are fighting again,” India pipes up. “She doesn’t like him spending time with his girlfriend.”

  Big Momma waddles into the living room, so we all disperse and head for the dining-room table. “I hope y’all ain’t expecting none of my strawberry rhubarb pie,” she tells the twins, “’cuz those guinea pig critters of yours put an end to that—they ate all my strawberries!”

  “We’ll take them home today, Big Momma,” Aqua assures her.

  “That’s good, ’cuz Bessie and Messy done worn out their welcome in this house!”

  “Big Momma, their names are Porgy and Bess!” Aqua protests.

  “Well, their names are mud in this house until they replant my strawberry patch!” Big Momma says, and I don’t get the feeling she’s joking, either. I sure wouldn’t want her mad at me, that’s all I’m saying.

  “We’ll fix it!” India pipes up, then runs to the bookshelf and comes back with a book on gardening.

  “Bless your little heart—but there ain’t nothing in there on the kind of planting I do,” Big Momma explains. “You follow these instructions and you wouldn’t even grow enough weeds for the mice to eat, child!”

  “When we eating?” Egyptian asks, bored.

  “Right now, baby,” Big Momma coos back.

  “Big Momma made the peach cobbler I like!” India says, smiling.

  “Is there a peach cobbler you don’t like?” Big Momma chuckles.

  “Daddy’s home!” India yells suddenly, dropping the gardening book like it’s a hot biscuit and running to the door.

  A look of relief washes over Aqua’s face, while Big Momma gets up slowly, saying “Lemme get food on the table.”

  I can tell there is definitely some static between her and Skeeter. It must be kinda hard, living at your mother’s house when you’re old enough to drive your own car, you know what I mean, jelly bean? Suddenly, I get a case of the squ
igglies in my stomach. What if the Cheetah Girls don’t make any money for a long time? Dear God, pleez don’t let me live at my mom’s house forever!

  “Well, looky, cooky, we sure got a full house today!” Skeeter says, filing into the dining room with his daughters practically walking in his footsteps.

  “Aqua, why don’t you bless the food,” Big Momma says as we sit down to eat. She hasn’t looked at her son once, I’ve noticed, but that doesn’t stop him from talking up a storm after Aqua says the blessing. Mostly, he can’t seem to brag enough about his nieces—and us, too.

  “You should have seen them singing for Mr. Steer at the Okie-Dokie Corral, Big Momma,” Skeeter starts in, his eyes beaming.

  “Do y’all get to ride the horses, too?” asks India. Obviously, that’s all she cares about.

  “No, but we can go to the rodeo after we perform, if you want to,” Aqua coos.

  “Everything is coming up green, you know what I mean!” Skeeter sings in a really loud voice. Then he lets out a deep guffaw from the bottom of his chest. “I love that song—It’s Raining Benjamins,’ baby!”

  Big Momma gives Skeeter a look, like he’d better shut up and pass the peas.

  “India, could you pass me the hot sauce, please,” Aqua asks nervously Then she pours almost the whole bottle on her collard greens!

  She knows better than that, I huff to myself. “Better watch those precious vocal cords,” I tell her, trying to keep the situation “Lite FM,” if you get my whiff.

  Aqua doesn’t even look up from her plate. She must really be nervous.

  All of a sudden, the earthquake we’ve been waiting for finally erupts. “Skeeter—that woman called here today,” Big Momma announces, “but I told her I don’t have any son that’s single enough to be dating. The only son I got ain’t even legally divorced from his wife yet!”

  “Hmm, Hmm,” Skeeter says, like he’s not even listening. Then he hums the chorus from our song again: “It’s Raining Benjamins for a change and some pork chops! It’s Raining Benjamins …” If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Skeeter has been sippin’ when he was out tippin’, if you catch my drift.