“No, we don’t—it was just how I was breaking it down,” Bubbles explains. “We’re only performing one number because it’s not our show, está bien? We’re gonna perform ‘Wannabe Stars’ because that’s a crowd-pleaser and Pepto B. got me thinking—you know where we do our growl power sign and dip in the chorus, we could add a twist and a bend-over shake-a-tail feather routine like we saw in the Ike and Tina Turner video, remember?”
“Well, let’s see it all together,” Aqua says, unsure. Bubbles just smiles and does the routine, step by step. I guess she’s used to the fact that it always takes a little more—un poco mas—to herd the twins into the corral like cheetah cattle.
“Wow, I’m digging that,” Dorinda says, excited. She jumps up and does the routine and she looks so adorable doing it.
“Chuchie?” Bubbles asks, turning toward me. “You down for the twirl. Or are you still thinking about lyrics for Bow-wow-Wow?”
Dorinda winces like, “Ding, ding, ding. Round’s over.”
But I just ignore Bubbles and ask, “Where does Toto come in?”
“Don’t’worry about that,” Bubbles says, annoyed. “Let’s just do a run-through first and when we hit the music, we’ll let him come on in.
“Está bien,” I say, sighing. I realize that nothing I say can stop Bubbles from turning the Cheetah Girls into a circus act.
But I should have known that there was nothing Toto can do to make me mad. As soon as we do our run-through for “Wannabe Stars in the Jiggy Jungle,” Toto runs toward us and starts twirling around on his two legs. Bubbles sees the look on my face and can’t resist rubbing it in. “I told you he’ll bring the house down. Hearts will melt and deals will be made. Trust me.”
I burst out giggling because Toto looks so funny dancing.
“Go, Toto. Go, Toto. Go, Toto!” we start chanting in unison.
“You must have bribed him with sausauges or something to get him to do that twirl,” Aqua says, shaking her head. “I know you, Miss Galleria, you will stop at nothing to get your way.”
“Let’s just say Snausages did enter the picture,” Galleria says, hugging Toto while he is still standing on his two legs. “But I knew my little brother would do his part to help us wiggle our way to the top, top, top!”
Chapter
8
Speaking of little brothers, Pucci is home and talking really loud to Mamí in the kitchen. The aroma of Spanish food is also filling up the loft, which means Mamí is cooking tonight, probably to show off for the Cheetah Girls. Or maybe she is trying to make up for me having to pick up Pucci from karate classes yesterday.
“Has Auntie Juanita said anything yet about that move to Paris?” Bubbles whispers even though Mamí can’t hear us in the exercise studio.
“No, not yet,” I moan back.
“Um, we’re finished rehearsing, right?” Aqua asks, smacking her lips because she is hungry. (I can hear her stomach grumbling. Or maybe it’s mine!)
“Um, yeah, it’s a done deal-io,” Bubbles says, like she’s the boss. Toto must know rehearsal is over too because he runs to the kitchen. “Go get yours, boo!”
“Mamí won’t mind if you stay for dinner,” I tell the Cheetah Girls. I want them to stay.
“No, Daddy told us to be at the dinner table on time,” Angie explains nervously. Their dad, Mr. Walker, is a really good cook and he likes for them to eat dinner together as a family. (Their mother still lives in Houston.)
“Believe you me, nothing I would like better than to sample your mother’s food,” Aqua says, smacking her juicy lips again, “but, um, Galleria, should we, um, you know?”
I feel my heart racing again. What is Bubbles up to now?
Sure enough, Bubbles turns to me and say, “Chuchie, we’re performing on Saturday—”
“What happened?” I stammer before Bubbles even finishes her sentence.
“Don’t you notice anything?” Bubbles asks me, getting annoyed.
“You got your braces off?” I answer, but now I am squirming.
“No, not my braces, but the fact that you’re turning into a pumpkin—and I’m not talking about Cinderella, okay?” Bubbles blurts out. “What is going on with you?”
“It’s from the carrots,” I blurt out because I know Dorinda is going to spill the refried beans anyway to Bubbles.
“How many carrots are you eating?” Aqua asks, concerned.
“It’s not how many—it’s how little she is eating of anything else,” Bubbles says, figuring out my secret like Pet Detective Snausage. “Am I right?”
“Um, no, um, yeah,” I say, bowing my head. “I have to lose weight. That’s why I didn’t tell you, because you wouldn’t understand!”
“Chuchie, you’re skinny—what’s wrong with you?” Bubbles asks me adamantly.
“I just need to lose a few pounds—my tummy is big,” I stutter.
“Look on the color wheel, Chuchie—orange is not your hue,” Bubbles spurts out. “And you’re stomach is cute. You’re hallucinating, okay.”
I look at Dorinda, my eyes pleading for her to help me, but she won’t look at me. I am so-o-o embarrassed that I walk out of the studio and into the kitchen, plopping into a chair at the table. I’m not going to eat anything, but I’ll show them.
Pucci slams his G.I. Joe on the table.
“Pucci—put away your doll,” I hiss at him.
“It’s not a doll. It’s an action figure!” he hisses back.
“Parate. Stop it, you two,” Mamí says, putting arroz con polio on a plate. “Is everyone staying for dinner?”
I don’t answer. Bubbles and the rest of the Cheetah Girls stand by the counter outside the kitchen.
“Hi, Auntie Juanita,” Bubbles says, smiling. “We can’t stay for dinner, but I just wanted to say hi and we’ll see you on Saturday?”
“Yes, I’ll be there—and so will Luc,” Mamí says proudly. My face burns. Mamí didn’t tell me she was bringing Mr. Tycoon to the competition. He makes me so nervous. I don’t think he likes me at all. And now he is trying to drag us to Paris. I hate him!
Mamí dishes up another serving of arroz con-polio and puts it in front of Pucci. “Pobre Pucci, you had to sit in that hair salon with all those girls.”
“That’s okay. I know how to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse,” Pucci says, patting his pockets, then snapping his fingers. I know he is imitating Pepto B. and so does Mamí because she laughs like he’s so clever. I just stare back at Pucci and keep my mouth shut. I wish I could turn him into a pig purse; then I could drop him down a sewer!
“How is the book coming?” Bubbles asks Mamí spotting the big pile of papers on the counter.
“It’s coming—with or without me,” Mamí says, shaking her head.
“Bubbles, what happened when the skunk wrote a book?” Pucci asks, smirking.
“I don’t know, Pooch—it turned out to be a stin-keroo?” Bubbles asks giggling.
“Ha-ha-ha!” Pucci says, then trumps her. “No. It became a best smeller!”
“Pooch, your jokes are always so, well, appetizing,” Bubbles says, watching me to see if I’m going to eat anything. “Okay, we gotta bounce.” I wave at Bubbles, like, “Bye, Bye,” then just move the food around on my plate. I knew Bubbles wouldn’t say anything in front of Mamí because she’d be too afraid Mamí wouldn’t let me perform on Saturday and ruin everything for the Cheetah Girls. Tee-hee-hee. I know that Bubbles wants that Girlie Show Boutique gift certificate so bad her paws are itching. I sit tensely in my chair, waiting for Mamí to say something about Paris, but she doesn’t. Mamí is too busy reading the papers in front of her to notice if I’m eating or not. But all of a sudden, Mamí looks up at me and blurts out, “Are you wearing my makeup again?”
“No, Mamí, I’m not! No, I haven’t. I’m not,” I exclaimed, praying she doesn’t keep snooping on me.
“How come you look so orange. For qué?”
“Bubbles got this new bronzing lotion, so I was trying it,” I s
ay, telling a fib-eroni.
“I told you you look like a scarecrow,” Pucci says, laughing.
I stare at Pucci real hard, wishing he would disappear.
“You two eat, then study,” Mamí says, getting distracted. “Luc is taking me to the opera, but I will be checking up on you at intermission. Ay, Dios mío, Chanel—even your fingers are orange!”
“Oh, that—we were doing a project in school,” I blurt out, putting my hands in my lap.
“You still finger painting?” Pucci grunts, then shoves some rice and beans in his big mouth. “Even I don’t do that in school anymore!”
“Okay, I have to get dressed,” Mamí says.
I stare at Pucci really hard, then whisper, “Don’t even think about bothering me tonight, para nada, está bien?”
“I’m calling Daddy, anyway. I don’t have time to be bothered with you, loco Coco!” Pucci says, jumping up from the table without putting his plate in the sink.
I run after Pucci and grab him by the collar. “All right, get off me!” he grunts, then jabs me in the stomach. “But you’re washing the dishes.”
“I know that,” I whine. Pucci only has to wash the dishes once a week, usually on Saturdays while I have to do everything else. Pucci runs out of the kitchen and into the den. I quickly take my plate and throw the food in the garbage can before I’m tempted to eat it. Then I put Saran wrap on all the leftovers and stick them in the refrigerator. Ay, Dios, the yellow rice and beans look sooo good. I stand there staring at it through the Saran wrap, fantasizing about putting my face in the bowl and eating it like a pig in a trough. Pucci’s loud laughter snaps me back to reality. He is on the phone. I walk on my tiptoes by the study so I can sneak a listen, but Pucci slams the door shut as soon as he sees me. Maybe Pucci has a girlfriend. No way, José. Who would like him? I’m sure the girls at school think he is just as annoying as I do. Walking to the bathroom, I start to think about Mackerel. I wish he wasn’t mad at me. I feel so bad that I made him wait for me at Papaya King while I was picking up stupid Pucci at the Tae Kwon do Center. If only Mamí knew how she messed things up for me. Now that nobody is around to bother me, I want to see what my face looks like in the mirror. I close the bathroom door behind me and stand there for a few seconds before I turn on the light. Ay, Dios mío! Bubbles was right. I do look like a pumpkin. A big fat pumpkin, I shriek to myself while pinching a bulge around my tummy. I start to feel dizzy and light-headed again, so I decide to go lie down on my bed until I feel better. But only for a little while I tell myself, because I have so much homework to do for math class. I pull off my clothes and throw them on my Mono monkey footstool because I am too tired to hang them up. I take my pink cheetah pajamas out of the bureau drawer and quickly put them on. Leaving the light on, I close my bedroom door and make sure it’s locked so Pucci can’t bother me anymore. Then I plop down on my canopy bed like a lazy rag doll. As I start drifting off to sleep, I fantasize about my favorite daydream. The Cheetah Girls are finally performing in Madison Square Garden. The fans are screaming, “We love you Cheetah Girls. Growl Power Forever and Forever!!” Then thousands of fans all dressed in cheetah outfits, start throwing stuffed cheetahs onto the stage until the whole stage is covered with small furry stuffed animals….
I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but I feel something itching my face. I slowly wake up and go to scratch my face when I feel something furry nestled in my hair. My heart freezes as I look up and see a mouse staring straight at me.
“Aiyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” I scream at the top of my lungs and jump up straight in my bed like a vampire in his coffin. “Pucci! Pucci, come here!”
The mouse runs into a corner and I can’t see it anymore and I start sobbing uncontrollably. Pucci is jiggling the doorknob and knocking loudly on my door. I hear him screaming, “What’s wrong?”
“Open the door, Pucci!” I yell, slobbering all over myself. I am too scared to move from my bed. “Pucci, open the door.” Suddenly I remember that I had locked the door, and I wrap the duvet around my body because I feel naked and I don’t want anything to jump out and bite me. I’m so scared, I walk like a mummy toward the door.
“Chanel! Chanel!” Pucci screams through the door.
I reach the door and open it. Pucci just stares at me like I have finally become loco Coco for real.
“Did you see a ghost?” Pucci asks, his eyes widening.
“A mouse tried to eat me!” I scream, crying again.
“Where is it?” Pucci asks, pushing me out of the way and coming into my room.
“I don’t know—he didn’t tell me where he was going!” I shout, slobbering.
Pucci gets on his hands and knees and starts looking for the mouse. I walk as fast as I can in my mummy outfit out of my bedroom and go sit on the island counter. I don’t want my feet touching the ground anymore. I start rocking back and forth, frightened to death. Suddenly, I realize that I still feel dizzy like I did before I took a nap. I stop rocking and sit still.
Pucci runs out of my bedroom and stops in front of me, trying to catch his breath. I can tell that he has something really bad to tell me.
“Chanel, there is more than one mouse in your room,” he says. I can tell for once that Pucci is not playing with me.
“They are having a party in your room—I swear—there are three of them hopping around in your closet!” Pucci says, still trying to catch his breath.
I start crying again.
“Don’t worry, Chanel—they ran when they saw me.”
“Oh, that really makes me feel a lot better, Pucci!” I scream, spitting on my brother by mistake.
“Please stop the weather report,” Pucci moans. “I know what to do.”
“What?” I scream.
Pucci doesn’t answer me and runs into the kitchen. He opens the cupboard and takes out the big jar of Jif peanut butter.
“Are you crazy, Pucci?” I scream louder. “What are you going to do—give them food for their party, baboso! Huh?”
“No, I’m making mousetraps,” Pucci explains.
I am sooo scared, I can’t move. I watch while Pucci cuts up pieces of plastic, then puts his model craft glue on it and peanut butter in the middle.
“This is gonna work, I’m telling you,” Pucci says.
“I’m not moving,” I say, wrapping my duvet tighter around myself. I’m sleeping here on the counter. I lay down on my side and try to make a pillow out of part of my duvet.
“Don’t worry, Chanel,” Pucci says. “This is gonna work.”
Suddenly, I realize that maybe we should call Mamí on her cell phone. “Call Mamí,” I yell at Pucci.
“No,” Pucci says. “I’m gonna put the traps down.”
I am too tired to argue with Pucci. I lay my head down on the counter and listen as Pucci patters around the loft, putting down his homemade mousetraps all over the loft. I feel my heart pounding loudly, What if the mice come back and bring their friends once they smell the peanut butter?
When I hear the elevator door open, I realize it is the first time in a long time that I am glad that Mamí is home. I was so scared that I couldn’t fall asleep. Pucci runs to Mamí and tells her everything. “You wait until I call that construction company tomorrow!” Mamí yells. “I was worried about this—there are always a lot of mice around when there’s major construction and buildings being torn down.”
I wonder why Mamí didn’t tell us that before we had uninvited guests with whiskers throwing a party in our house. “Chanel, go to bed. We’ll take care of this tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” I moan.
“You can sleep in my bed,” Pucci says.
I am so tired, I don’t even care if I have to sleep in Pucci’s bed. I am not sleeping in mine, that is for sure.
Pucci runs to his room and takes his blanket and pillow, and plops on the couch. I lie down on his bed and try to drift into sleep. Suddenly, I hear a scratching sound and I jump up screaming. Pucci runs into the room. “It’s ok
ay, Chanel. It’s just Cuckoo Cougar!”
I forgot all about poor little Cuckoo, the African pygmy hedgehog that I bought Pucci for his birthday. He is tucked away in a cage under the desk. I start crying again and pull the blanket over my head.
“Don’t worry, Chanel,” Pucci says. “That mouse will be singing its last lullaby in peanut butter heaven.” Pucci runs out of his room and I can’t help but laugh to myself. I forgot how funny Pucci is. When we were younger, I used to laugh at him all the time. Now I know why he calls me “loco Coco,” because I really do act like a cuckoo bird sometimes.
Chapter
9
When I tell Bubbles about my unexpected visit from the mouse and his family (even though I didn’t see the relatives, I believe Pucci for once), she feels sorry for me. “Auntie Juanita is right. They probably were living in pickle jars in the basement of that store for years before they had to run for cover,” she says, chuckling, then puts her arms around me. “I guess Princess Pamela was right too—you finally met the furry creature who is trying to paw its way into your life.”
“I almost got bit by a mouse and you say something mean to me?” I say, my mouth trembling.
“Chanel, mice don’t bite—for real,” Dorinda says, stroking my shoulder.
“What am I going to do about my math homework?” I ask, suddenly realizing that I’ll be stuffed in a pickle jar if I miss any more math assignments.
“We’ll do it at lunchtime together,” Bubbles says quickly, then looks at Dorinda to back her up.
“Yup, we got you covered,” Dorinda says, nodding.
I look at both of them, surprised that they would give up lunch for me.
If things couldn’t be any worse, Derek and Mackerel see me crying and come right over, but Bubbles puts up her hand and blurts out, “Put it on pause, please.”
“Ayiight, but Daisy D. told us you put out a cheetah distress signal. We wuz just looking out,” Mackerel says with an attitude, looking at me. I try to wipe away my tears, but everybody at school knows I’ve been crying.
Bow-wow Wow! Page 8
