Hey, Ho, Hollywood!

by Deborah Gregory

  The pink lights in the Churl, It’s You! sign are so bright they sparkle like stars. In the window, there are floating brown mannequin heads with pink, blue, yellow, green, and purple wigs!

  “Ooh, Angie—look at the heads!” I say, ogling the window display. “Look at the beautiful sign! We don’t have anything like this in Houston.”

  “A blue Afro?” Angie says, smiling. Blue is our favorite color, but neither of us would have the nerve to wear a wig like that on our head. Galleria and Chanel would, of course. I wish we were more like them. They have so much style—but I have to admit, we all look fierce in our matching Cheetah Girl outfits.

  Of course, Chanel runs to the door first, and we have to hurry to catch up to her. “Wait up, yo!” Dorinda snaps.

  “Chuchie, we have to make an entrance together,” Galleria says, taking the lead.

  When Galleria opens the big glass door, musical chimes go off, and a recording starts playing: “Churl, It’s You! Work the blue! Think pink like I do! Get sheen with green! We love—guess who!”

  “Ooh, that is so dope!” laughs Dorinda.

  “Ay, Dios mío, the whole place is pink. Qué bonita!” exclaims Chanel, looking around the salon like she’s in a candy store. Pink is one of her favorite colors, and her whole bedroom is pink. She even has a pink cheetah bedspread!

  “Wait till Kahlua sees your braids,” I say to Chanel proudly, because she looks like Kahlua, with her braids and pretty eyes and all—she’s just a lighter complexion.

  “Welcome to Churl, It’s You!” says a nice lady wearing a pink dress with an apron over it. Even her shoes are pink—and so is her hair!

  “Hi, darling,”Ms. Dorothea says, extending her hand to the pink lady. “We have an appointment with Pepto B.”

  “Yes, of course. So nice to see you again, Mrs. Garibaldi. Right this way. You must be the Cheetah Girls,” she says, looking at us.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angie says, giving the lady a big smile.

  We look around the salon in wonder as we walk to the back. There are two huge cases with pink cotton candy, pink soda, and bags of pink popcorn! The hair dryer helmets are pink, and so are the chairs—even the sink where you get your hair washed!

  “Oooh, look at the pink jukebox,” I exclaim. The salon we go to doesn’t have a jukebox. It’s boring compared to this. “We have to ask Daddy to let us come here and get our hair done!” I whisper to Angie.

  “It’s even doper than Princess Pamela’s!” Angie whispers back. “But don’t tell Chanel I said so.”

  “I can’t believe we’re gonna meet Kahlua!” I say. We grab each other’s hand and give a quick, tight squeeze, and I know Angie’s thinking the same thing.

  All of a sudden, a brown-skinned man with a short, pink Afro comes running over to us. He kisses Ms. Dorothea on both cheeks. I’ve never seen anyone do that before, except in the movies. He must be French or something. Then he turns real quick, and says to us, ”Pepto B., that’s me!”

  We are just tickled—well, pink, I guess! As we introduce ourselves to Pepto B., I suddenly don’t feel so nervous anymore.

  Pepto B. grabs Ms. Dorothea’s arm and whispers loudly, ”Churl, your timing is purrfect. I just finished putting in Kahlua’s weave. Wait till you see it. Churl, it took two hours to get those braids outta her hair! You woulda thought they were stuck on with Krazy Glue! But you know those Hollywood hairdressers—you need a magician to fix your hair after they get through with you!”

  Pepto B. and Ms. Dorothea dissolve into fits of giggles. Angie and I are just staring at them.

  “Close your mouth, Aqua and Angie!” hisses Galleria. She says we watch people with our mouths open sometimes. I guess we do, but she has to understand—we’re not used to all the ways of the Big Apple, the way she and Chanel are!

  After the two grown-ups finish “cutting up,” as Big Momma calls it, Pepto B. puts his hand on his chest and says, “Churl, you’re killing me. Can you believe Bertha Kitten is coming out of her hermetically sealed coffin to do a movie? Churrrl, believe it!”

  Then he turns to us, and says the words we’ve been waiting to hear—”And now, if you all are ready, it’s time to meet the one and only … Kahlua!”

  Chapter

  7

  When we get to the back of the salon, Kahlua is seated in the beauty parlor chair, reading a magazine. Standing next to her by the counter is a lady in a light-blue sweatsuit. That must be her mother, I figure. I heard she’s managing Kahlua now, and that they even started a production company called “Kahlua’s Korporation.”

  All of a sudden, I feel real nervous again. My stomach starts getting queasy, while my brain is screaming: “It’s really her!”

  Kahlua looks up at us, all curious, and says, “Hi!”

  Oooo, she’s even prettier in person than in her music videos! Staring at Kahlua, I wonder how she keeps her skin so smooth like that. It’s the prettiest chocolate shade I’ve ever seen. She must be about a shade lighter than me and Angie. No, maybe two shades lighter, because she’s got a lotta makeup on.

  “Close your mouth, Angie!” Galleria whispers behind me, and pokes me in the butt.

  Then Kahlua’s mother introduces herself to Ms. Dorothea. “Hi, I’m Aretha Alexander. And who are all these cute girls?” she asks, smiling like a curious cat.

  “We’re the Cheetah Girls!” Galleria bursts out, giggling.

  “Do you sing?” Kahlua asks, smiling now from ear to ear.

  “Yes, churl, they do,” Pepto B. offers, butting in. “And you should let them sing while I finish. I could sure use some entertainment, after fixing this tragedy that was up in yo’ hair!”

  We all giggle—even Kahlua—and she has the cutest dimples when she smiles, just like Dorinda’s.

  “Pepto, you are so wrong—but you are right,” Kahlua says, all bubbly. “After putting up with you for four hours, I could use some entertainment!”

  “Oh, don’t let me take this comb and use it like a forklift on your head, churl!” Pepto B. warns, putting his hands on his hips.

  After we all finish giggling, Ms. Dorothea clears her throat and says, “I guess it’s time for growl power, girls!”

  “Growl Power!’ Oooo, that is so cute!” Kahlua exclaims.

  Ms. Dorothea takes our cheetah backpacks and puts them in the corner. Then the five of us huddle together, right there in the middle of the beauty salon, and sing a capella (that means without our instrumental track) the song we have practiced fifty million times, “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle.”

  I wish Ma could see us now—singing in the beauty parlor again, just like we used to when we were three years old, sitting in the double stroller next to her while she got her hair done.

  Everybody claps when we’re done—even the customers under the hair dryers!

  “You wrote that song yourselves?” Kahlua’s mother asks, and you can tell she is real impressed.

  “She did,” I say excitedly, pointing to Galleria.

  Galleria looks like she’s blushing, and I can tell Chanel feels a little bit jealous. Those two fight like sisters—more than Angie and I do—and we are sisters!

  I think Chanel wants to be the leader of our group, and that’s why she’s jealous. I guess she’s gonna have to learn how to write songs, instead of charging up clothes on her mother’s credit card!

  “Do y’all have another song?” Kahlua asks excitedly.

  “Churl, I hear they got more songs than my jukebox!” Pepto B. says as he teases Kahlua’s hair.

  Ms. Dorothea looks at us, and motions for us to sing again. “We haven’t performed this song before,” Galleria says, then looks at us. “I, um, just finished writing it a few weeks ago.”

  “Go, ahead, we love it!” Ms. Alexander says, egging us on.

  On the count of three, we then sing “More Pounce to the Ounce.” I can feel my hands sweating, because singing a capella is a lot harder than singing with tracks—especially when you have five-part harmonies. See, you
have to make sure everybody sings on the same level, and my and Angie’s voices tend to be a little stronger than theirs are.

  “Snakes in the grass have no class

  but Cheetah Girls have all the swirls.

  To all the competition, what can we say?

  You had your day, so you’d better bounce, y’all,

  While you still got some flounce, y’all,

  ’cuz Cheetah Girls got more pounce to the ounce y’all!!”

  After we finish the song, I look over at Angie. She leaned a little too hard on the chorus, I think—but I’ll tell her that later. I think we still sounded good, though, because Kahlua and her mother are grinning from ear to ear.

  “I love y’all!” Kahlua exclaims. “You got a record deal?”

  We shake our heads “no.”

  I just wanna scream, Get us a deal, please!

  “Momma, let’s talk to Mr. Hitz about them,” Kahlua says to her mother. Mrs. Alexander nods her head in agreement. “He’s the president of the label I’m on—Def Duck Records,” Kahlua explains.

  “That would be groovy like a movie!” Galleria says, jumping up and down, she’s so excited. Then she kisses Kahlua on the cheek, and gives her a big hug.

  “You have so much energy—doesn’t she, Momma?” Kahlua asks, her slanty eyes getting wide. “She reminds me of Backstabba a little, don’t you think so?”

  People have always thought Galleria looks a lot like Backstabba, the lead singer of Karma’s Children. That band comes from our hometown—and Angie and I have decided we’re not going back until we become as big as them!

  “How did y’all become the Cheetah Girls?” Kahlua asks.

  We tell Kahlua all about the jiggy jungle, growl power, and our Cheetah Girls rules and council meetings. She just loves it—especially when Galleria tells her about the dream she’s had since she’s a little girl:

  “We wanna go to Africa and start a Cheetah conservancy. When we get rich, we’re gonna get lots and lots of acres of land, so all the cheetahs in the jungle can live there and just chill, without worrying about anything. Then we’ll travel all over the world, singing to peeps on two legs and four!”

  “You are too much,” Kahlua says, crossing her legs and waving her hand at Galleria. Kahlua has nice nails. I bet you they’re tips, though—like mine.

  I’m looking at the chip on my nail when I hear Galleria blurt out, “We performed at the Apollo Amateur Hour Contest Saturday night—and we lost!”

  How could she say something so dumb? I wonder. Why is she telling Kahlua that?

  But Kahlua’s reaction is the last thing I expected. “Honey, that’s nothing. I lost it, too!” she says. “You know, the record company doesn’t let me talk about it in interviews, but Momma will tell you—I cried like a baby for two weeks after I lost!”

  Kahlua is beside herself laughing now. “You know how many famous recording artists have performed at the Apollo Amateur Hour Contest and lost?”

  “How many?” Dorinda asks, her eyes wide with wonder.

  “Let’s see—Toyz II Boyz, The Moonpies, even Karma’s Children lost!” Kahlua says, nodding her head like she knows things we don’t.

  “What!?” I say, all surprised. “I didn’t know that!”

  “No—no one is gonna tell you about their failures, but you have to stick to your dreams in this business, girls—’cuz people will trample on them like elephants!”

  Kahlua sips her soda, then looks at Galleria’s lips real close. “What color lipstick is that you’re wearing?”

  “Video. It’s dope, right?” Galleria says, beaming.

  “Oooo, I haven’t seen this one yet! Can I try it?”

  “Wait, I’ll get it.” Galleria runs to get her cheetah backpack, to show Kahlua the new shade of S.N.A.P.S. lipstick we’re all wearing.

  “Y’all look so cute in those outfits,” Kahlua says, putting on the lipstick. Then she and Galleria start “ooohing” and “aaahing” up a storm.

  “Tell us about your cheetah-licious movie,” Galleria says, egging Kahlua on, now that they’re like two peas in a pod.

  “It’s such hard work, you can’t believe it! I have to get up at five o’clock in the morning tomorrow to start shooting,” Kahlua says. Then she starts playacting a yawn, and leans on Pepto B.’s shoulders for a hug.

  “How are they going to get that ‘Mummy’ Bertha Kitten to the set on time?” Pepto B. quips. “Churl, she better be grateful she got this gig, ’cuz the only thing she’s been doing for the last thirty years is her nails! She gives you any trouble, we’ll sic these Cheetah Girls on her!”

  We all hug each other good-bye, then do the Cheetah Girls handshake with Kahlua, Pepto B., and Mrs. Alexander—which they all just love. Ms. Dorothea gives Mrs. Alexander her business card, and they hug good-bye.

  “We’ll let you know what happens,” Mrs. Alexander says, “but you don’t have to worry, Dorothea. Your Cheetah Girls have ‘more pounce for the ounce,’ just like they said. The other girl groups won’t stand a chance, once the Cheetahs show up.”

  Mr. Garibaldi is waiting for us outside in his van. “How did it go? Bene?” he asks Galleria as we get in the car. But he already knows the answer, from our big grins. “I knew it. That’s why I made you girls a fresh batch of chocolate cannolis—Aqua’s favorite,” he says, handing us a big box of Italian pastries.

  We all look at Galleria and burst out laughing. I munch on my dee-licious treats, which I shouldn’t be eating, because Daddy doesn’t like us to eat anything two hours before we practice—and I know we have to practice tonight before we go to bed. He let us off the hook last night—but lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place!

  I give Angie a look, and she knows what I’m trying to say—Don’t tell Daddy we ate these! The one thing I love about Angie is, she sure can keep a secret.

  “Darlings, isn’t this place something?” Ms. Dorothea says to me and Angie. She points to a beautiful skyscraper with a tiny, brightly lit tower topped by a steeple.

  “It sure is,” I respond, ogling the tower like it’s a secret place in a castle or something. “You know, Ms. Dorothea, I thought for sure it was all over for us when we lost that contest.”

  “I know,”Ms. Dorothea says with a sigh. “You take one wrong turn on the road to your dreams, and all of a sudden, you’re in hyena territory. Then you stumble upon a right turn, and there it is right before your eyes—”

  “—that magical, cheetah-licious place called the jiggy jungle,” Galleria pipes in. Then, chuckling, she adds, “Your one-way ticket to get-paid paradise!”

  Chapter

  8

  Biology class is my favorite class at school, besides vocal, but I have no interest today in cutting open a frog—and that’s not like me at all. I know we shouldn’t expect anything to come from our meeting with Kahlua, but dag on! We can’t think about anything else!

  We pray to God every night to please give us one itty-bitty sign—anything—even a shoe falling from the sky and hitting us over the head would be good enough!

  It seems like years since “Operation Kahlua,” and now we’re down in the bottom of the crab barrel again, just moping around, trying not to get bit by the other crabs.

  Look at this poor little frog, I think. He is just lying there dead, on his back, waiting to be cut open. “I wonder if you can tell if someone tried to choke it and murder it or something. You know—‘frog autopsy,”’ I chuckle to Paula Pitts. She’s my biology classmate, and we record all our experiments together.

  “The eyeballs are kinda big—it does look like something scared it a little before it—you know—croaked,” Paula says, all sad. “I don’t know what you find so interesting about looking inside of bodies, Aqua. I think it’s creepy.”

  Paula is a drama major, and she wants to be an actress, so she can be a little dramatic at times. “I hardly call opening a frog cadaver The Night of the Living Dead,” I quip back. “Miss Paula, you are acting like the Pitts again.”r />
  I always tease her. She gets so squeamish, and she just doesn’t like biology class or science projects the way I do. She likes to slink around, “like she’s the cat’s meow on Catfish Row,” as Big Momma would say. Opening her big brown eyes wide, Paula asks, “You heard anything from Kahlua yet?”

  She just loves to talk about show business.Everybody at school knows about our meeting with Kahlua—including JuJu Beans Gonzalez, who really cuts her eyes at us now.

  I can’t blame her for being so jealous of us. Angie and I are kinda popular at LaGuardia, I guess, because we’re twins and come from Houston—even though there are kids at our school from all over the country.

  The kids here nicknamed us SWV—Sisters With Voices—because, I guess, we do sing up a storm, if I say so myself. We’re getting real good training here at LaGuardia, too—singing pop and classical music, which is good for our range. When we were younger, we kinda had our hearts set on singing gospel, but like I said, it just seems like pop and R&B music get more attention in the business.

  That’s why we got together with the Cheetah Girls. We thought about it real hard, and talked to Ma, and Big Momma, and everybody else about it before we made up our minds. Now we just don’t know if we made the right decision.

  Letting out a big sigh, I turn to Paula and moan, “This whole thing is like a big roller coaster ride. When you’re on top, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. But when you get ready to roll to the bottom, you’d better strap yourself in and start screaming your head off again, because it feels so scary.”

  “Yeah, you gotta kiss a lot of frogs in show business before you get anywhere,” Paula agrees with a sigh. “That’s how I feel in drama class sometimes, too. I give until it hurts, and it never feels like enough.” Now she’s fiddling around with the knob on the microscope, and her face is pained, like she’s getting ready for her monologue. She is so dramatic.

  “Ooh, look at his little lungs,” I exclaim, finally getting excited by Freddy the frog’s insides.