Dorinda's Secret

by Deborah Gregory

  “Come on, I’ll show you,” he says, dragging me into his bedroom, which is inhabited by a tribe of Whacky Babies stuffed animals, who look like they’re ready to pounce off the shelves!

  “There he is!” Pucci says, pointing to the cage in the corner of his room, where I see the African pygmy hedgehog I helped Chanel pick out at the exotic pet store for Pucci’s birthday.

  I bend down to check out Mr. Cuckoo. “Wow, Pucci, you hooked him up—Cuckoo is definitely chillin’ in his new crib!”

  Pucci grins. I see a book peeking out from under the bedspread on his bed. Dragging it on the floor, I read the title: Harry Henpecker’s Guide to Geography. It’s the book Pucci’s father gave him for his birthday. I flip through the pages and look at all the places around the world I wanna see.

  “You can have it if you want it,” Pucci offers.

  “No, that’s all right,” I respond. I feel bad for him. I know what it’s like to get presents you don’t want. When I first got to Mrs. Bosco’s, Mrs. Parkay sent me a present on Christmas. It was some stupid stuffed giraffe, and I threw it in the corner behind the Christmas tree, because I didn’t want anything from her. Besides, what I really wanted was a doll wearing pretty clothes.

  The doorbell rings, and I hear Aqua’s and Angie’s voices cackling away. “I gotta go, Pucci, we have rehearsal now.”

  “You gonna go to the Apollo again, right?” Pucci asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “How come they let you back in there, if you already lost?” he asks, his eyes opening wide. I chuckle, realizing he doesn’t understand.

  “That was the Amateur Hour contest we lost, Pucci,” I say. “Now we’re gonna perform in the ‘Battle of the Divettes’ competition. It just happens to be at the same place, but it has nothing to do with the Apollo—you understand?”

  “Oh,” Pucci says, fiddling with his computer. “You gonna have Cheetah Boys now? Can I be in the group?” Pucci flashes his mischievous grin so I know he’s angling for a dangle—a cheesing skill he learned from his older sister, no doubt.

  That’s all we need. Pucci in the group, with Tiffany, too—and throw in Twinkie for good measure. “Who knows?” I joke to Pucci. “Maybe Cuckoo will come onstage and perform with us, too—you know what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, right,” Pucci says, smirking.

  “I’m not playing, you know what I’m saying?”

  I hear Chanel calling me, so I run to the exercise studio, where we usually rehearse.

  “Hi, Aqua. Hi, Angie,” I say, hugging the twins. I don’t get to see them as much as I see Chanel and Galleria, since we don’t go to the same school. They’re all wrapped up in talking about going home to Houston for Thanksgiving. I can definitely tell they’re excited about it.

  “I wish Daddy was coming with us, though,” Angie says, kinda sad. “We’re scared to leave him here with that High Priestess girlfriend of his.”

  “I know that’s right,” I chime in. I met their father’s girlfriend, High Priestess Abala Shaballa, and she does seem to be tripping in another galaxy, if you know what I’m saying.

  “There’s plenty of time to worry about looking good in the ’hood, Miz Aquanette,” Galleria says cheerfully, tapping her foot like she’s ready to get down to the business at hand. “‘There’s always a new day in the jiggy jungle,’” she starts singing, “’so let’s not bungle our chance to rise for the prize, and show you who we are, in the jiggy jiggy jungle—’”

  We all sing along, since that’s what we’re here for—rehearsing our act, you know what I’m saying?

  I’m so tired by the time I get home from Chanel’s house that I head straight to my bedroom. Today’s rehearsal was exhausting—not only running through all our songs and dance routines, but having to keep my mind off everything that’s happening in my personal life. I’ll tell you, if I didn’t have Saturday’s competition to think about, I’d be going loony right about now.

  Just as I flop down on my bed, I hear Mrs. Bosco calling my name from her bedroom. “I’ll be right there,” I yell. Getting back up, I poke my head into Mrs. Bosco’s bedroom.

  “Dorinda—that child called again while you were out.”

  “Tiffany?” I ask, sighing, but what I’m really thinking is, Doesn’t she have anything better to do than bother me?

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, hoping she’ll squash this conversation, but I shoulda known better.

  “We had a nice long talk, you know,” Mrs. Bosco continues. She is propped up on the bed eating a bowl of rice pudding. “I think that child needs someone to talk to.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding my head.

  “She says her parents want to meet you ’cuz she can’t stop talking about you,” Mrs. Bosco says, beaming.

  Oh, swelly, just what I need. Not just a new sister, but her parents, too!

  “Maybe it’s something important she needs to talk to you about,” Mrs. Bosco suggests. “I think you better call her.”

  “After we do the competition,” I say quickly. What I really mean is, after I’ve had time to break the news to my crew. “Then I’ll go see Tiffany and her family,” I offer, and quickly move on, changing the subject. “We had a great rehearsal tonight.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I think we could really win this competition,” I say—and for a change, I really mean it. I hope Mrs. Bosco doesn’t ask to come to the competition, though, because I’m not ready to perform in front of her. I don’t really want any of my family around until I feel ready for the big time, know what I’m sayin’?

  “Good night,” I say, stifling a yawn. Mrs. Bosco doesn’t like to kiss or anything—I guess she doesn’t want to get too close to us, in case we get taken away someday—so I just smile and walk out of her bedroom and back to my own.

  Lying on my pillow, I wonder what Mrs. Bosco and Tiffany talked about. Tiffany Twitty sure gets chatty with everybody. I mean, she really runs her mouth faster than the Road Runner clocks miles.

  I wonder if she looks like our mother …?

  Chapter 9

  No matter how many times the Cheetah Girls perform, I always get a case of the spookies beforehand. Okay, so we haven’t performed that much, but I’ll bet it never goes away. Today is no exception. Even Aqua and Angie are faking that they’re not quaking.

  “Where’s the Sandman?” Aqua asks, popping her eyes as she nervously looks around for him. Not that he booted us off the stage at the Amateur Hour contest—we came in second—but still, he’s a scary somebody to think about when you’re about to perform at the Apollo Theatre!

  We are instructed to head backstage and see the competition coordinator. On our way down the aisle, I check out the big sparkly banner that is spanning the stage: HOT 99 PRESENTS ‘THE BATTLE OF THE DIVETTES’ COMPETITION.

  Ms. Dorothea, who as our manager goes everywhere with us, is wearing a cheetah-spotted bustier, and her chest is covered with glitter. She looks like a movie star or something. One of the stagehands is goo-gahhing and peering down at Ms. Dorothea from the top of his ladder.

  “If he paid as much attention to his job as he does to me, this place wouldn’t be falling apart!” she humphs as she herds us around her.

  The other stagehands are busy putting up banners. It seems like there are lots of companies sponsoring the competition.

  “Ooh, looky, cooky, S.N.A.P.S. Cosmetics is one of the sponsors,” Galleria tells us, pointing to a banner.

  A pretty girl with a Dr. Seuss–type hat and a clipboard is talking into a walkie-talkie. Then, spotting Ms. Dorothea, she calls out our group’s name and walks over to us. “Well, I guess I had no trouble figuring out who you are,” the Dr. Seuss lady says to Ms. Dorothea.

  Ms. Dorothea beams, then says, “I’m Dorothea Garibaldi, the manager of the Cheetah Girls.”

  “Omigosh, I thought you were part of the group!” the Dr. Seuss lady exclaims. “Well, you look fabulous—I love that bustier. Where did you get it?”

  Ms. Dorothea goe
s on to tell the Dr. Seuss lady all about her boutique, Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes. I can tell the Dr. Seuss lady is supa-dupa impressed.

  “Oh, too bad I’m not big enough to shop there,” she whines, like she really means it.

  “Size is just an attitude, darling,” Ms. Dorothea quips. “You’re welcome to stop in any time.”

  “Thank you!” the lady gushes. Then she gets down to the business at hand—trying to organize the lineup of struggling divettes. “I’m Candy Kane, the Talent Panel Coordinator, and I’ll tell you how everything works. Let’s see …” she goes on, peering down at her clipboard. “The Cheetah Girls are number seven in the lineup.”

  “Sounds sweet to me, Miss Candy Kane,” Ms. Dorothea responds. “How many groups are performing?”

  “Um, let’s see—seven.”

  “Oh, so we’re last!” Ms. Dorothea says, her eyes brightening.

  “Yes, I guess so,” Candy Kane giggles.

  “Are all the groups from New York?” Galleria asks nervously.

  “I believe they are—since this is a regional contest.”

  “How many contests are there?” Ms. Dorothea asks.

  “There are quite a few, but the finals are going to be held in New York City, you’ll be happy to know.”

  Candy Kane winks at Galleria. I can tell she likes our groove. “Now here are the rules: You may wait in your dressing room if you like, or you may wait backstage. It’s your responsibility to be backstage and standing under the green light in time for your performance.”

  Pointing upward to the green light, Candy continues, “You are not allowed to take pictures or use recording devices backstage. You are also not allowed to drink, eat, or smoke. After you finish your performance, you should exit the stage quickly, then wait back here for the announcer to give you your return cue—that is, if you become one of the finalists.”

  “Return cue—is that when the audience picks the winners?” Ms. Dorothea asks.

  “No, Mrs. Garibaldi, the panel of judges seated in the first row is solely responsible for picking the finalists. The announcer will be handed three envelopes, and read the winners for the first and second runner-ups, as well as the regional winner. Only if your name is announced should you come back onstage. Do you understand everything?”

  “Yes!” we say in unison.

  Handing Ms. Dorothea some papers, Candy Kane explains, “Now here are the releases for you to sign. It’s a standard release—stating that you’re aware this event is being videotaped, and that you’ve not been promised any monetary compensation from Looking Good Productions for participating in the ‘Battle of the Divettes’ competition.”

  Ms. Dorothea puts on her cheetah glasses and scans the forms.

  “When you’re done, you can hand the forms to any of the production assistants backstage—oh, and here are your gift bag tickets. I’ll give you six—one for you, too, Mrs. Garibaldi. Just give them to Gator, the guy in the blue baseball cap standing right over there.”

  “I see him. And thank you!” Ms. Dorothea says, spotting the guy.

  “He’ll give you your gift bag, girls—you’re gonna love all the goodies from our sponsors. And good luck!” Candy Kane whisks off to do her supa-spiel with the next divette-in-waiting, leaving us all hyped about this whole thing.

  “The peeps doing this competition are definitely more chili than the Amateur Hour people,” Galleria says, impressed. Then she turns to Chanel. “You sure perked up as soon as you heard there were free goodies,” Galleria chides her.

  Chanel breaks out in a mischievous grin. I love her so much—she makes everybody feel better with her señorita energy. For the moment, I’ve forgotten all my troubles—even my nerves are gone!

  We hightail it over to Gator to get our gift bags. “See you later, Gator,” Galleria says sweetly, as he hands us our last bag.

  “Ooh, it’s heavy,” Chanel says excitedly, as she swings her red canvas McDonald’s bag back and forth.

  “They wouldn’t put food in this thing, would they?” Aqua asks hopefully, as she gingerly puts her hand inside.

  “No, silly, willy! McDonald’s is obviously just one of the sponsors,” Galleria mumbles. “Oh—S.N.A.P.S.!” she exclaims, taking a free lipstick sample out of her bag.

  “Ooh, what color is it?” I ask, waiting for Galleria to take the top off and swivel up the lipstick. It turns out to be a red shade.

  Galleria looks at the bottom of the tube to check out the name of the color. “‘Desire.’”

  Chanel has taken hers out, and giggles, “Mine is ‘Destiny’—but I don’t like the color.” I have to agree with her—it is a wack shade of yellow.

  The twins have dug the tubes of lipstick out of their gift bags—naturally, they get the same color. “‘Lust’?” Aqua moans when she reads the label. “We better not even take this home, or Daddy won’t let us out of the house again!”

  The twins’ father, Mr. Walker, is kinda strict, so I decide to help them out. “I’ll switch with you,” I say. “I got a tube of ‘Destiny,’ too.”

  “I don’t want that—our lips are big enough without looking like banana peels!” Aqua moans.

  “Well, Aqua, you can either meet your ‘Destiny’ by getting shipped back to your Grandma’s in Houston, or you can wear it,” I chuckle, like a game show host. “The choice is yours.”

  “Awright,” she mumbles, swiping my tube, and handing over hers. I can’t believe how many goodies are stuffed in these bags! Little bottles of shampoo, pencils, an ugly paperweight, a Sistarella magazine, Miss Wiggy glitter lip gloss, and sheets of butterfly stickers.

  “Ooo, I can give these to my sister Twinkie!” I exclaim.

  “Hey, Do’ Re Mi—how come you never invite your family to come see you perform?” Chanel asks me sweetly.

  My breath catches in my throat. Suddenly, my nerves are all back, and I can feel my stomach jumping. “I’m just not ready,” I mumble, looking away.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I sure wish Mom wasn’t coming tonight,” Chanel laments. “And guess what else—she’s bringing her boyfriend with her—Mr. Tycoon himself! I’m not feeling in the mood for him, está bien?”

  I feel so relieved that none of my “family” will be in the house, because I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. Performing is scary enough without more drama. I’m afraid that if anybody I knew was out there in the audience, I’d just freeze up totally right there onstage.

  I look up, wondering if Chanel has sensed how scared I am. But no, I have nothing to worry about—her greedy little paws are already digging into her bag, looking for treasures.

  A little while later, after we’ve finished switching our Astrology bottles of cologne (inside of my bag is a bottle of “Virgo,” so I give it to the twins, since that’s their astrological sign), we decide it’s time to check out the talent. Galleria, Chanel, and I don’t recognize any of the other girls hanging out in the backstage area with us. But the twins do.

  “There’s that girl JuJu from school,” Angie winces to Aqua.

  “Her name is JuJu ‘Beans’ Gonzalez,” Angie explains to the rest of us, sucking her teeth. “She’s a singing and drama major—with emphasis on the drama, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah—and her middle name describes her exactly, ’cuz she iz ‘full of beans!’” Aqua adds, poking out her juicy lips for extra measure.

  By this time, JuJu “Beans” Gonzalez has gotten the drift that all eyes are on her. She looks over in our direction, then turns away as if she doesn’t see us.

  “I wonder how she got in this competition, ’cuz I didn’t see any notice at school,” Aqua ponders.

  “The world of divettes is very small,” Galleria offers in explanation. “Everything that’s going down sure gets passed around.”

  “Yeah, well the world sure ain’t big enough for us and JuJu!” Aqua laments, sucking on her lollipop. “She looks like one of those beauty pageant contestants back home in that outfit. Ain
’t that right, Angie?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angie agrees. “And we sure got a lot of girls who look like her back home.”

  I take in JuJu’s red sequin gown, and the fake red gardenia flowers pinned in her upswept “do,” and decide “I think she looks like the runner-up for Miss Botanical Gardens!”

  We all giggle, which helps us forget how nervous we are.

  A woman in a red sweat suit and baseball cap is walking around introducing herself to all the contestants. Now she comes up to us.

  “Hi, I’m P.J. Powers from HOT 99,” she says in a bubble-licious way, extending her hand to Galleria.

  We all get instantly excited because we have just met P.J. Powers—the radio deejay on “The Power Hour,” which plays the most flava-fied songs in heavy rotation. After she’s shaken all our hands, she moves on to greet the next group.

  Ms. Dorothea, meanwhile, has signed all the papers. “I guess it’s time to pounce, girls. Let’s go on up to the dressing room, so you can put on your costumes.” She herds us toward the back stairway, which we remember from the Amateur Hour.

  “Now we gotta go climb those creaky stairs into the tower of the haunted house,” jokes Aqua. “I sure hope this horror show has a happy ending!”

  Chapter 10

  We decide to wait backstage rather than in our dressing room, because it’s seven o’clock—and that means, “Show time at the Apollo!” Sometimes shows don’t start on time, but you never know—and half the fun of performing with competing acts is hearing them do their thing, you know what I’m saying?

  “Should we leave our gift bags in the dressing room?” Aqua asks Ms. Dorothea.

  “No way, darling,” she replies. “Why should one of these desperate divettes get their grubby little paws on our products?” Ms. Dorothea huffs then gathers up all six of the gift bags and puts them in her big cheetah carryall. She always has a lot of papers and folders to carry, so she carries these really big bags.

  All of a sudden the chatter in the audience dies down. Then they begin to clap loudly, which means the announcer has hit the stage. “How y’all doing tonight, Big Apple?!” P.J. Powers bellows into her microphone. Then she lets out a raucous chant: “Y’all are on HOT 99—so it’s your dime!”