“All right,” Mamí says, seeing she can’t win on this one. “You can keep the earrings. But from now on, no more gifts from that bruja, you hear?”
“Yes, Mamí,” I say, grabbing the compromise when I can get it. “Can I still buy the outfit?”
“Of course, baby,” she says, smiling again, although it looks more forced now than it did before. “I want you to look beautiful for your big meeting.”
“But I thought you didn’t even want me to be in the Cheetah Girls!” I point out. Then I want to kick myself for bringing it up. Why couldn’t I just keep my boca grande—my big mouth— shut for once?
Incredibly, it doesn’t seem to bother her. “I think it’s just a phase you’re going through, mi hija,” she says, still smiling. “But since you insist on this singing nonsense, you may as well go all the way with it.” She pushes the card into my hands and squeezes them. “Buy yourself the outfit. And remember who bought it for you—me, not Pamela—está bien?”
“Sí, Mamí,” I say, giving her a big hug and kiss. I’m still mad at her for not believing in me, but at least she’s showing me she loves me.
“Now, you know the rules, Chanel. You only order that one outfit. You give me the card back as soon as you’re done. And don’t you ask ‘that woman’ for anything ever again. Entiendes? You hear?”
Now she is wiping imaginary dust off my altar table right next to the window. My altar table is covered with a pretty white tablecloth. On top of it, there are candles and offerings to the patron saints—fruits, nuts, and little prayer notes.
“I didn’t ask Pamela for anything,” I whine, making the cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die sign across my chest. “She just gave the earrings to me!”
“Well, don’t accept anything else. And if your father asks you anything, don’t tell him what I told you. Entiendes?” Mom asks me— again. Now I’m really getting annoyed.
“Está bien. I won’t. I promise,” I respond. Anything to make her stop being such a policeman. “And thank you sooooo much! Letting me charge a new outfit is the best present anybody ever got me!”
I give her another hug, and that seems to do the trick. She flashes me a big smile, kisses me on the forehead, and heads for the door.
When Mom finally leaves my room, a sudden feeling of total bliss comes over me. The credit card feels sleek and powerful in my hand, and I’m anxious to get my shopping groove on. Prada or nada, baby! Okay, so I am rolling more with the nada than the Prada— but that is all gonna change with one phone call!
As I flip through the catalog, looking at all the dozens of things I’m longing to own, I hum to myself, “Oooh, Oophelia’s! I’m feeling ya!”
Chapter
3
I have never held Mom’s credit card in my hot little hands before. Never. And now, the hologram on its face seems to wink at me, casting a witch’s spell over me. I dial the 800 number and follow the computer instructions, punching in numbers here and there until I get to speak to a real-live person.
Meanwhile, I am thinking about poor Dorinda. She must feel so down about not being able to keep the duckets from our gig. It’s so unfair that she had to give the money to her foster mom. My heart goes out to her. Surely, my mom wouldn’t want us to lose out on making a deal with Mr. Johnson just because Do’ Re Mi came dressed in rags!
I decide then and there to make one tiny little exception to Mom’s rule. After all, she said I couldn’t buy anything else—but that meant for me, didn’t it? When the operator picks up, I order two of the green leopard outfits—one in my size, and one in Dorinda’s. I give the credit card number to the lady on the phone, and as I do, my gaze wanders to the pages of the catalog. So many other great things, things I’ve always wanted, and will never have another chance to get …
What would it hurt to borrow just a little of Mom’s credit to stock up on stuff? When we sign with Mr. Johnson, it will be no time till we’re making big duckets from gigs, maybe even a record deal! I can pay my mom back before she even knows I’ve spent the money!
“Will that be all, ma’am?” the voice asks me.
“Uh … no,” I hear myself say “No … just one or two more things …”
Do’ Re Mi looks so “money” in the new outfit I bought her. And on top of that, Bubbles’s mom, who is my madrina—my godmother— since birth (and the best godmother in the whole world) made her a green leopard pantsuit to match ours for our meeting with Mr. Johnson!
Aqua is wearing a black-and-white-checked blazer with a red shirt and black skirt. Angie has on a denim suit with a hot pink turtleneck.
“At least they don’t look like they’re going to church,” Bubbles giggles to me, sneaking a look in the mirror that covers one whole wall of the Hydrant Restaurant on Fifteenth Street, where we are meeting Mr. Johnson.
When we first tried to tell Angie and Aqua what to wear for the meeting, Aqua got all huffy and said, “We are saving our money to go home to Houston for Thanksgiving!” The twins are headed south for the holidays—in more ways than one!
“I feel so large and in charge, I’m loving it— and you all, too!” Bubbles says. “That was so nice of Auntie Juanita to let you buy Do’ Re Mi a pantsuit, too, Chuchie!”
Okay, so I told Bubbles a little fib-eroni. I didn’t want her to think that I did … well, what I actually did. I’ll have to straighten her out soon, though, before she opens her boca grande—her big mouth—and spills the refried beans to my mom.
The table is covered with a bright red linen tablecloth, and six red linen napkins placed perfectly apart. Right in the middle of the round table is a big glass vase with lots of pink roses, my favorite flores.
“You nervous?” I ask Do’ Re Mi, then I add giggling, “I feel like I’m at a seance and the table is gonna lift up any second!”
Mr. Johnson has gone to check our jackets. Yes, we have it like that. There is a waiter dressed in white, standing near our table. He smiles at me when I look in his direction.
“Somebody pinch me, pleez, so I can wake up!” I giggle, then look around at all the people who are having lunch at the Hydrant. I take the book of matches with the name of the restaurant out of the ashtray, and stick it in my cheetah backpack for a souvenir. All around us are grown-ups, and they are all dressed adobo down. The lady at the table next to us is sitting by herself.
“She must be waiting for El Presidente,” I whisper to Bubbles. The lady is wearing a big hat with a black peacock feather poking her almost in the eye! She looks at us and smiles. Then the peacock lady puts on lipstick without even looking in a mirror! “She definitely has the skills to pay the bills,” Bubbles quips.
Do’ Re Mi looks like she is getting nervous, too, because she is reading the menu like she is studying for a test at school. Then all of a sudden she whispers to me, “What should I order?”
“Just don’t get spaghetti marinara,” I whisper back.
“Do’ Re Mi, try the penne arrabiata—that’s the pasta cut on the slanty tip with red pepperoncino.”
“What’s that?” Do’ Re Mi quizzes Bubbles.
“Those crushed red pepper flakes that Angie loves to put on pizza. You can hang with that!” Bubbles blurts out.
“Here he comes,” whispers Angie.
“Ladies, order to your heart’s delight,” Mr. Johnson commands us, as he sits down and puts the napkin in his lap. We all do the same thing. Do’ Re Mi flaps the napkin really loud when she opens it, like it has wings, but we act like we don’t notice. Mr. Johnson is wearing a yellow tie brighter than a Chiquita banana, and his two front teeth don’t talk to each other. He has a really big gap.
“This place is majordomo dope,” Bubbles exclaims, looking around once more.
“Yeah, and I’ve done some pretty major-domo deals here, as you would say,” chuckles Mr. Johnson, looking at Bubbles. “So you’re the writer of the group, huh?” he asks her.
“Yup,” Bubbles says, smiling. Bubbles isn’t afraid of anything. She just acts like herself.
He obviously just looks to her as if she is the leader. Which is kinda true anyway. We wouldn’t be a group, I think, if it wasn’t for Bubbles. But I don’t want Bubbles to be the only leader, because it was my idea too to be in a group, so that counts for something.
Today Bubbles is wearing her hair really straight and parted down the middle. I put her extensions in myself, so I know they won’t come out even if Hurricane Gloria flies in from Miami!
“Pucci would love this place,” I giggle, looking at the red brick walls. My mom says the Hydrant is a one-star bistro. I don’t know what that means, but now that she has Mr. Tycoon for a boyfriend, she goes to places, she says, where they don’t even have prices on the menu. I guess this one doesn’t count, because it does.
“You know, this place used to be a fire-house,” says Mr. Johnson. “Lotta action coining down that pole.” Mr. Johnson is looking over in the direction of the big metal pole that goes all the way up the ceiling. “Back in the day, there were some pretty bad torch jobs in the city Buildings burning down all the time. It kept firemen pretty busy, but things have gotten better, and they closed the firehouse down two years ago.”
The waiters are sliding down the pole now, bringing food from the kitchen above. “Tourists love that,” Mr. Johnson chuckles.
“I wonder if the waiters get scared,” Aquanette asks, touching her pin curl, which is laid down and fried to the side of her face.
“Well, let’s clear away the okeydokey and talk some bizness, here,” Mr. Johnson chuckles. He definitely has more rhymes than Dr. Seuss. He looks at all five of us and says, “As your manager, I want you to know that I’m going to forego all production costs for a demo, and get you in the studio with some real heavy-hitting producers, arrangers, and engineers.”
“Can we do some of my songs?” Bubbles asks, always looking out for número una.
“Not right away, Galleria. Now, I know your songs are smoking’, ’cuz I heard you girls singing them the night I saw you perform at Cheetah-Rama, but let’s start with the producers’ songs.” Mr. Johnson takes a sip of bubbly water from his glass, then licks his lips. “Pumpmaster Pooch has worked with some really big artists, so he knows how to turn a song into an instant hit,” he says.
I hope the water doesn’t make me burp, I think, as I sip some from my glass, too.
“Who has Pumpmaster Pooch worked with?” Do’ Re Mi asks.
“Well, I don’t want to say right now, because none of the songs have gotten picked up just yet. You girls have to understand. There is a one in a million chance for a record to turn gold, but if you go into the studio with producers who’ve got the Midas touch, you’re likely to turn that song into gold.”
“What happens to the songs after we finish them?” Angie asks.
“We—that means I—have to get your demo to the record companies. It takes a lot of wheeling and dealing, but don’t worry about it, ’cuz it ain’t no thing like a chicken wing.”
We look at each other like we’ve just eaten some Green Eggs and Ham, or something.
Mr. Johnson catches on to our confusion. “What I mean is, I have a serious setup at Hyena Records. Me and the A&R guy—that’s the artist development person, who goes out scouting the country for talent just like you— go way back. And I’ve been doing business with Mr. Hyena, the company president, for years. After he gets a taste of that growl power y’all got going on, he’ll be chomping at the bit to sign some superlistic talent such as yourselves. Just let me handle it.”
I sit there wondering how Mr. Johnson can talk so fast without even taking a breath. I wish Drinka could see him in action.
“Hyena Records. Who do they have on the label?” Do’ Re Mi asks, all curious. When Mr. Johnson turns his head toward her, I motion quickly to Angie with my hand. She has a piece of green something stuck on a tooth in the front, and she is just smiling her head off.
“Now, they’re not what they used to be back in the day,” Mr. Johnson says, his pinky finger dangling to the wind as he sips his water. “But nothing is like it used to be in the music biz.”
“Ooh, this is bubbly,” Aqua says, her eyes popping open as she puts her glass down.
“Bubbles. That’s me,” Galleria says, starting to sway. “The Cheetah Girls are cutting a demo, so take a memo, all you wanna-be stars trying to get a whiff of what it feels like,” Bubbles giggles. She is flossin’ for Mr. Johnson.
“That’s very good, Galleria.” He chuckles. “You do that off the top of your head?”
All of this is going to Bubbles’s head, I think. I wish I knew how to make up songs like her. Then Mr. Johnson would like me, too.
The waiter comes and takes our orders. After he leaves, Mr. Johnson whips a manila envelope out of his pocket and opens it. Inside are five pieces of paper.
“Listen, before our food gets here, I want each of you to give one of these to your parents. Have them look it over, then sign it. You can give it back to me the next time we meet, in the studio.”
“What is it?” Do’ Re Mi asks.
“It’s no big deal—just a temporary agreement—a standard management contract, so we can get started right away on your demo. It’s your time and my dime—so let’s not waste it, Cheetah Girls!” Mr. Johnson quips.
He sure is making moves like a jackal. Just like his name. I guess I’ll have my dad look it over. He is good with business. I wish I could give it to Princess Pamela, too. She is smart like that. But Mom would really go off on me if she found out I did that.
“Enough business for nowm” Mr. Johnson says with a big, gap-toothed smile. “Why don’t you girls tell me all about yourselves?”
And we do … oh, do we ever!
Chapter
4
Things went really well today at our first business lonchando, I think to myself as I’m lying on my bed, clacking the heels of my black patent leather loafers together. I have the keyboard on the bed, and I’m yapping on the Internet with Bubbles, Angie, and Aqua. Dorinda is coming over so we can do our homework together. Meanwhile, I’m trying to get them to help me with this Princess Pamela situation, and end the frustration.
“I just don’t think it’s fair that you can’t see Pamela, and I’m not being square,” Bubbles says.
Angie has an idea: “Dag on, we got so many problems. We better have Cheetah Girls council meetings, so we can give each other advice, instead of rehearsing all the time and talking about being wanna-be stars!”
“It’s a done wheel-a-deal,” Bubbles types back, imitating Mr. Johnson. “Let’s have Cheetah Girls council meetings once a week!”
My bedroom door is open, so I don’t hear when my mom walks right in. “Chuchie,” she says, almost scaring me.
“Oh, hi, Mamí,” I say, hoping she isn’t trying to peep my chat.
“You forgot to give me back my credit card,” she says.
“Oh! Right!” I fall all over myself going to my dresser drawer, and take it out. Handing it to her, I say, “Mamí, that was so generous of you letting me get that outfit.”
She smiles and gives me a kiss. “The meeting was good, huh?” she asks. Then she sits down on my bed.
“Sí, Mamí. Thanks so much.”
She hands me back the management agreement form that Mr. Johnson wanted us to sign. “As long as you do your schoolwork and finish high school, then go to college, you can stay with this little group of yours. Just don’t get any ideas that this is for real, okay?” she says, taking my comb and starting to comb her hair.
“Okay, Mamí,” I growl back.
My mom just won’t get it into her head that I am very serious about being a Cheetah Girl, or that it means everything to me. I know I will do whatever my mom wants me to do, but on the other hand, I have to do what’s right for me.
“You better let your father see that agreement, too, or he’ll have a fit,” Mom adds, while she looks in my mirror and combs out her hair.
That’s how she gets when she talks about my dad. It makes me so sad
that they fight all the time. I’ll tell you one thing, though. She is not going to keep me away from Princess Pamela.
“Yes, Mamí,” I reply.
Deep in my heart, I know what I want. I want to be a Cheetah Girl and travel all over the world. Then I’m going to buy Abuela Florita a house away from Washington Heights and near the ocean so she can dream about the D.R.—the Dominican Republic, where she was born. I’m gonna live near her, so we can see each other more often.
Mom interrupts my gran fantasía. “So. You’re going to the studio tomorrow, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m kinda nervous about making a demo tape,” I explain.
“What’s that?” she asks me, then looks at herself sideways in the mirror.
“It’s a tape of songs that shows how we sing, so a record company will give us a deal. Maybe it’s not a whole tape, but it’s something.”
“Mmm,” Mom says, getting up off the bed. “You and your crazy dreams.”
She leaves my room and goes back to the exercise studio. Lately, she has become an exotic dancing fanatic. She says it’s great exercise, better than jogging. Her tummy is as flat as my chest, so it must be true. She’s looking good, and she’s got a boyfriend with mucho dinero, so why is she so worked up about Princess Pamela?
I ponder the situation. What am I gonna do? I love Princess Pamela, and she is so nice to me, but I know it makes my mom unhappy that I am close to her.
Our Cheetah Girls crew council is a good idea, for starters. Maybe I could ask Bubbles’s mom, Dorothea, my madrina, who is super simpática, what I should do. But, then again, she and Mom are friends since their modeling days, so maybe I can’t trust her with everything.
Then it hits me! I get un huen idea. I can call Princess Pamela’s Psychic Hotline, disguise my voice, and ask her what to do!
I dial the 900-PRINCESS number and hold my breath. I can feel my heart pounding through my chest like a secret agent on a mission. “I like truffles, not R-r-u-ffles,” I hum to myself, rolling my Rs. Everybody at Drinka’s voice and dance studio is so jealous because they can’t roll their Rs like I do.
Shop in the Name of Love Page 3
