See, the Cheetah Girls performed in the Apollo Amateur Hour contest and we lost, to a pair of wanna-be rappers called Stak Chedda—and believe me, they weren’t “betta.” I think we’re still hurting from that disaster.
As usual, though, Galleria is hyping us up. “You know what they say—lightning never strikes twice in the same place.”
“Yeah, that’s true—but it don’t say nothing about losing!” Aqua blurts out.
“Don’t be radikkio. It’s a new day and a new situation, so let’s just go with the flow and act like we know,” Galleria says, whipping out her Kitty Kat notebook and scribbling down all the information.
“But, mamacita, the contest is next Saturday!” Chanel says. “How are we gonna get a videotape made in time to send it in and meet the deadline—by calling 1-800-ALADDIN?” She twirls her hair anxiously. Chanel always twirls her hair when she gets nervous.
“No, Chuchie, we’re gonna ask Mom to help us,” Galleria says, whipping out her Miss Wiggy StarWac cell phone. I wish I had a cell phone—it’s so cool to be able to flex and floss on the move, you know what I’m saying?
“I’m hungry—what time is it?” Aqua asks, licking her juicy lips.
Looking at my watch, I almost shriek—“It’s one-thirty!”
“Do’ Re Mi, qué pasa, mamacita?” Chanel asks, concerned.
“I’ve gotta be home,” I say, getting embarrassed. Why should I tell them I have to go home because a stupid caseworker is coming over to my house? I hate that. All of a sudden, I feel like Cinderella or something.
Chanel gives me a look with her big, goo-goo brown eyes, like, “why won’t you tell me?”
“Um, my caseworker, Mrs. Tattle, is coming over today,” I say, feeling my face get warm. I keep on talking, because I’m getting more and more embarrassed. “I don’t know why she’s coming over on a Saturday, but I’ve got to be there.”
Chanel puts her arm around me. “I hope Mrs. Tattle’s got a boca grande. With that name, she’d better be talking and sticking up for you, está bien?”
“I guess so,” I say, looking over at Galleria; but I’m relieved when I see that she isn’t really listening to us, because she’s on the phone, sorta fighting with her mom, Ms. Dorothea. At least I feel off the hook… .
“I hope Mrs. Tattle doesn’t stay long, you know what I’m saying?” I confide to my crew.
“I know that’s right,” Aqua says, looking at me with real concern. The twins come from a close family—and I understand that they watch each other’s back. They probably think my situation is so strange.
Little do they know about the ways of the Big Apple. There are a lot of foster kids here—something like forty thousand—so I’m not alone, you know what I’m saying? Sometimes they have articles in the newspaper about foster kids like me.
“Can’t the caseworkers leave you alone, now that Mrs. Bosco adopted you?” Aqua asks, hesitating. Suddenly, I realize that I haven’t told my crew about the adoption mix-up yet. Omigod, what should I do? Now I feel like Chanel—always opening my boca grande for nada—for nothing!
I take a deep breath, and fiddle with the straps on my cheetah backpack. Even though it’s emptier than usual, all of a sudden my backpack feels like a “magilla gorilla” on my back.
I’m so tired of all the fib-eronis I’ve been telling my crew. I know it’s gonna catch up to me one day—and I guess today is the day, okay?
“Mrs. Bosco thought the adoption went through, but it didn’t,” I say, hemming and hawing. I’m not going to tell them that she can’t read or write. No way, José.
“Really?” Chanel asks me, like I’m joking, her big brown eyes opening wide like she doesn’t believe me.
“Really, Chanel. I wouldn’t joke about something like that,” I say, trying to figure out how I can explain Mrs. Bosco’s mistake to them. It wasn’t all her fault. “They couldn’t find my mother to get her to sign over her parental rights, or something like that. I don’t know!”
Now Aqua hugs me. Galleria is off the phone, and she catches a whiff of my so-called adoption drama. “So you’re not legally adopted?” she asks, surprised.
“No, I’m not adopted, okay?” I huff, but Galleria is like a dog with a bone—she just won’t leave it alone.
“But Mrs. Bosco is not gonna give you up or anything, is she?”
I don’t even want to think about that. She said she wouldn’t, but what do I know? “I don’t know, Galleria.”
They get really quiet, which makes me mad uncomfortable, so I change the subject. “So what did your mom say?”
“Um, she wanted to know why we were just finding out about the contest,” Galleria says slowly. “I told her that’s how this whole show-biz thing flows, you know? It moves on a dime and our time.”
“It does say a ‘home-made video,’ though,” Angie says, trying to be helpful.
“Yeah, that’s what I told her—so we’ve just gotta hook up the lights-camera-action situation on the Q.T.,” Galleria says, like she’s not stressing it. “Mom thinks my dad may have a video camera. He’s over at one of the contractors’ right now.” Galleria’s parents own a clothing factory and boutique called Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes. I guess the contractors are their suppliers or something.
“See, I know Granddaddy Walker has a video camera,” Aqua says, thinking out loud. Granddaddy Walker owns a funeral parlor in Houston.
“He’s not videotaping those dead people in the coffins, is he, mamacita?” Chanel asks, getting the spookies.
“Yes, Chanel—he especially loves the part after he puts the embalming fluid in the body, and the dead corpse jumps up on the table when the rigor mortis sets in!”
I start chuckling, because I feel so much better that we aren’t talking about my home situation.
“That’s what really happens!” Aqua claims, bugging her eyes.
“It’s true—we saw it one time when we were little,” Angie adds, giggling. No wonder the twins love horror movies so much!
We all are in a good mood now. “Well, let’s get rolling on ‘Operation Videotape!’” Bubbles commands. “We’re on a roll now, girlitas!”
Chapter 4
Mrs. Tattle is waiting in my living room when I get home. She looks kinda tired, and her clothes are all wrinkled. She even has a run in her stocking, and a spot on her pink blouse (it looks like tomato sauce), but I guess I’d better not say anything. She is pretty nice as caseworkers go, and I don’t want to embarrass her. Besides, caseworkers write up recommendations about whether you get to stay in your foster home or not—so they have a lot of power over kids like me, and the last thing you want to do is make a bad impression.
“Sit down, Dorinda—take a load off,” Mrs. Bosco says, stroking the hair on her wig in the front. I’m so glad she is wearing her special wig. See, Princess Pamela (the girlfriend of Chanel’s dad) styled Mrs. Bosco’s wig for my so-called adoption party. Princess Pamela is a dope hairdresser, and a psychic, too! Now, Mrs. Bosco keeps the wig in a net in her wig drawer, and only takes it out for special occasions. I wish she would wear it all the time, because the other ones look, well, kinda fake, if you know what I’m saying.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Bosco asks Mrs. Tattle, but I know she will probably say, “No, thank you.” She always does. Mrs. Tattle is usually in a hurry. Mrs. Bosco says the caseworkers who work for the city—as opposed to private foster care agencies—always have too big a caseload, and they don’t get paid enough to deal with all the headaches that come with the territory. Mrs. Bosco must be right, ’cuz Mrs. Tattle has bags under her eyes that look more like suitcases!
“How are you today, Dorinda?” Mrs. Tattle asks me, reaching over to open her briefcase, which is right next to her on the floor.
I’m trying not to stare at the railroad run in her panty hose. I wonder how high up her leg it goes? When I’m older, I’m going to carry a briefcase like Mrs. Tattle, so I can look important, too.
Mrs. T
attle seems kinda uptight. The way she is sitting so straight on the couch, you’d think she was in the Oval Office in the White House or something. The couch in our living room is covered with faded yellow-flowered tapestry, and the seat cushions are well worn. I think more people have sat on our couch than in the Oval Office, if you know what I’m saying.
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling and showing off my dimples, so Mrs. Tattle will feel more comfortable. I want her to think everything is “hunky chunky.” I’m also anxious to find out why she’s visiting us on a Saturday.
“Mrs. Bosco told me the good news about your record deal,” Mrs. Tattle says, trying to sound cheerful.
“Well, it’s not exactly a record deal, but we’re going to get to cut a few songs for a demo tape for the record company,” I explain carefully. I’m always trying to be honest about the Cheetah Girls situation—like I said earlier, we may have “growl power,” but so far, we are still a bunch of wanna-be stars in the jiggy jungle.
“Well, it must have been exciting for you to go to Los Angeles,” Mrs. Tattle says, trying to make everything seem really hunky chunky, too.
“It was the dopest dope experience I ever had in my life!” I say, because I don’t want to let Mrs. Tattle down. It was pretty dope—but there were ups and downs, if you want to know the honest truth.
“Well, now that’s more like the Dorinda I know!” she says, her voice screeching because she is talking too high. (Now that I’m taking vocal lessons, I notice everything about people’s voices. It’s really kinda strange.)
Mrs. Tattle keeps smiling at me and Mrs. Bosco. Twinkie is smiling at Mrs. Tattle, and sitting in the armchair with her hand under her chin. “And how are you, Rita?” Mrs. Tattle asks, her face brightening up. Twinkie makes everybody smile.
“I’m okay,” Twinkie responds, without moving her hand from her chin. Kenya just sits on the couch looking down at her shoes. I’m proud of Twinkie, because at least she got Kenya to wear matching socks. Topwe, Chantelle, Khalil, and Nestor look nice, too.
“Dorinda, can you sing something for me?” Mrs. Tattle asks, catching me off guard.
“Not right now,” I say, getting embarrassed. None of the other caseworkers have ever asked me to sing for them before.
Kenya throws me a look, like, “Why don’t you just do what Mrs. Tattle wants?” For someone who whines so much, Kenya gets awfully quiet when the caseworker visits.
I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to sing for Mrs. Tattle. Maybe she thinks I’m just making the whole thing up about being in a singing group called the Cheetah Girls. I’m sure she must have put that in her reports. She’s always writing things down when she visits.
“Um, okay, lemme see,” I say, trying to be nice to Mrs. Tattle. “I’ll sing you the song that Bubbles wrote.”
“Bubbles?” Mrs. Tattle asks, like she’s kinda curious.
“Oh, she’s the leader of our group—that’s her nickname. Her real name is Galleria Garibaldi.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Tattle says, nodding her head. “That’s an interesting name.”
“Um, yeah, her mother is a fashion designer, and she named Bubbles, um, Galleria, after the mall in Houston,” I say. I start giggling, warming up to Mrs. Tattle because I see her eyes sparkling a little. “Her father is Italian—from Italy—so that’s where she got her last name.”
“Yes—Garibaldi was a popular hero in Italy,” Mrs. Tattle says.
I just keep smiling, because I’m not sure about Italian history. I’d better ask Bubbles before I go blabbing my mouth, so I decide I’d better sing and get it over with. “Um, okay, here’s the song that Bubbles wrote. It’s called, ‘Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle.’”
“Oh, that’s cute!” Mrs. Tattle says, scribbing stuff down in a folder—which I know is my case file.
I smile at Twinkie. She loves to join in on the chorus of this song. I clear my throat and start singing the first verse:
“Some people walk with a panther
or strike a buffalo stance
that makes you wanna dance.
Other people flip the script
on the day of the jackal
that’ll make you cackle.
But peeps like me
got the Cheetah Girl groove
that makes your body move
like wanna-be stars in the jiggy jungle.
The jiggy jiggy jungle!
The jiggy jiggy jungle!”
Sure enough, Twinkie and Topwe join in for the chorus and the B verse, making a whole lot of noise—but at least it’s fun:
“So don’t make me bungle
my chance to rise for the prize
and show you who we are
in the jiggy jiggy jungle!
The jiggy jiggy jungle!”
Mrs. Tattle starts clapping enthusiastically. I’m so glad that I made her feel better. That’s what I love most about singing—seeing how happy it makes people.
“Where is the jiggy jungle?” Mrs. Tattle asks me. I can tell she really is interested now.
“Bubbles says it’s this magical, cheetah-licious place inside of every dangerous, scary, crowded city, where dreams come true—oh, and where every cheetah has its day.” I get embarrassed, because I suddenly realize maybe Mrs. Tattle thinks the whole thing is kinda cuckoo.
But instead, she looks at me with tiny tears forming in her eyes. “I’m so glad you found a friend like Bubbles,” Mrs. Tattle says softly. Then she adds hesitantly, “I remember reading in the reports that you had trouble connecting with other kids.”
That makes me embarrassed. I didn’t know one of the caseworkers put that in their report! They are so nosy!
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Bosco nodding her head. “Yes, that’s right. Dorinda has really changed a lot, now that she is in this group with the Cheetah Girls.”
“This is really great, Dorinda,” Mrs. Tattle exclaims.
I guess it’s true. I never did have a lot of friends before, except when I was younger and I used to skateboard with Sugar Bear. Otherwise I kept to myself, hiding in my books or helping with the other kids at home.
Mrs. Tattle shifts her body on the couch. “Um, Dorinda, I came here today especially to see you. I wanted to talk to you about something before I go on vacation.”
I notice Mrs. Tattle looking over at Mrs. Bosco like they’ve already talked about something.
“Um, Mrs. Bosco—would it be okay if you and I and Dorinda talked in private?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Bosco says, smiling. “Y’all can go to your rooms,” she tells the other kids. “Rita, baby, can you take Arba into the bedroom and show her how to draw those butterflies?”
“Did you draw some new ones, Rita?” Mrs. Tattle asks Twinkie.
“Yup—big, fat butterflies with purple eyes!” Twinkie says proudly.
“Would you show them to me later?” Mrs. Tattle asks Twinkie.
“Uh-huh.”
Now I feel nervous again. Singing made me forget about everything for a while. Mrs. Tattle shuffles some papers, then looks at me.
“Um, Dorinda, did you know that you have a sister?” Mrs. Tattle asks me hesitantly.
“Um, yeah—Jazmine. She lives with my first foster mother, Mrs. Parkay,” I respond.
I wonder why Mrs. Tattle looks so puzzled. She rifles through some of her papers again. Mrs. Bosco and I just sit quietly, waiting for her to finish.
“Oh, I see. Yes. Jazmine Jones. She was a foster child in the first home you were in,” Mrs. Tattle says, reading from a paper. Then, she looks up at me, and her voice gets very quiet. “But actually … she wasn’t, um, your biological sister,” she says.
“I didn’t know that!” I gasp. What a stupid thing to say, but it’s all I can think of. I mean, all this time, I thought Jazmine was my real sister—and that mean Mrs. Parkay gave me away and kept Jazmine, separating us forever.
Obviously, I know more about the other kids’ records than my own. I wonder what else is in that file Mrs. Tatt
le is holding… .
“How come she, um, Jazmine, got to stay with Mrs. Parkay?” I ask, my cheeks burning.
“Um, I don’t know, Dorinda,” Mrs. Tattle says. Embarrassed, she starts shuffling her papers some more. “Perhaps because Jazmine was younger than you … or maybe Mrs. Parkay only wanted one child. I’ll have to look it up in the files and get back to you on that. But at any rate, you and Jazmine are not biological sisters.”
I can tell Mrs. Tattle is trying not to hurt my feelings. She probably knows why Mrs. Parkay gave me away, but she isn’t saying anything. “Oh, that’s okay. I was just asking,” I say, getting defensive. “It’s not important or anything.”
I guess Mrs. Parkay just didn’t love me enough—same as with my birth mother. Mr. and Mrs. Bosco are the only ones who really love me. That’s why, in my heart, they’re my real parents—whether I ever get adopted by them or not.
But now I’m really curious as to why Mrs. Tattle’s here.
“Dorinda,” she says, clearing her throat. “Um, Dorinda, what I started to say before was, you do have a biological sister. Well—half sister, actually. According to the records, you and Tiffany were born to the same mother, but you have different fathers.”
Tiffany. I sit there, hearing the sound of it repeat and repeat inside my head. I have a half sister—a real one—and her name is Tiffany.
I look at Mrs. Bosco. I wonder if she knew about this before now—but I can’t tell by the look on her face if she did or not.
“Her name’s Tiffany?”
“Yes, Tiffany Twitty. She was adopted by the Twittys when she was a baby, and they changed her name.”
“What was her name before that?” I ask curiously, and I’m thinking any name’s gotta be better than one that sounds like a cuckoo bird.
“Oh, I’ll have to look that up,” Mrs. Tattle says, and now she sounds like a caseworker, instead of nice like before.
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Eleven. One year younger than you,” Mrs. Tattle says with a blank face. “Well, Dorinda …” She clears her throat again, and I know there’s more to come. “The reason why I’m telling you all this is—because Tiffany wants to meet you.”
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