“Oh, that’s la dopa! They’re broadcasting the show live on the radio,” Chanel says, jumping up and down.
Suddenly, I get the squigglies in my stomach again. Wow—this is really it! I grab Chanel’s hand. Please don’t let us lose, I pray. Not at the Apollo. Not again. Not live on the air!
“We’ve got prizes for you people!” P.J. Powers screams into the microphone, hyping the crowd. “So keep those ticket stubs. Because at some point during the show, we’re going to be calling out winning numbers, to give back what you give me every day on HOT 99—the flava, baybee!”
The crowd is cheering wildly.
“How many of y’all want to win a trip to the Bahamas, courtesy of HOT 99? That’s right, you know what they say—it’s betta in the Bahamas! So you’d better stay in your seats, or you might miss out—you know what I’m saying?—’cuz P.J. Powers ain’t playing!”
The curtain backstage is too thick to let us get a peek at anybody in the audience. “That’s just as well,” Angie offers as consolation. “The less we know the better.”
“I just wonder who the judges are,” I whisper.
Angie is wiping her forehead with a tissue. The twins sweat when they get nervous. They are deathly afraid of heights, and you should see them sweat whenever they ride an elevator above the tenth floor!
The first divette to perform is called Witch Hazel. What a name! I can’t see her through the curtain, but I’ll bet she comes onstage with a broom or something. I hear her drop an R & B song, which was originally sung by Diamonds in the Ruf. It’s called “Bewitched.”
I hate when acts perform covers of other artist’s songs. It’s like, “Can’t you write your own music?”
We just look at each other and smile, and I know what we’re all thinking: Witch Hazel better be putting a spell on the audience, because the hardest spot in a showcase is the first.
“Better her than us,” Angie whispers in my ear. Witch Hazel gets a nice round of applause. That makes us feel a whole lot better—knowing that the audience will probably be all warmed up by the time we perform.
The next few singers also sing R & B tunes, but they aren’t that good—except for the Butta Cups. They have a nice three-part harmony.
“I think the Cheetah Girls have got this one in the bag, baby,” Galleria says, crossing her fingers because it’s getting closer to our turn.
P.J. Powers announces Fakie Quakie, and two short girls in black vinyl miniskirts go running onto the stage. They start singing a song that sounds sorta gospel-ish. “’Since you left me/My heart’s so achy. I’m not fakin’ that I’m just quakin’… .’”
Aqua and Angie start bouncing around, because they love gospel music. And I’ve gotta admit these Fakie Quakie girls have nice soprano range. Better than mine, that’s for sure. If I go too high up, my voice gets squeaky. It’s better if I stay in the middle—that’s what Drinka Champagne says.
It’s time to do our Cheetah Girls prayer, so we gather in a circle and join hands. At the end of each prayer, we always end with our Cheetah Girls oath:
“We’re the Cheetah Girls and we number five.
What we do is more than live.
We’ll stay together through the thin and the thick.
Whoever tries to leave, gets hit with a chopstick.
Whatever makes us clever—forever!!!”
P.J. Powers finally announces us. We take a deep breath together, and run onstage. When we get there, the cheering drowns out everything else.
I try not to look for the video camera that is taping the competition, but I can’t help sneaking a peek as we wait for our taped track to kick in. I don’t see the camera, though—that must mean it’s far in back of the house.
I notice that the klieg lights are really bright this time. I liked the way they did the lighting for us at the New Talent Showcase in L.A. This is definitely way too bright. Oh, well, part of performing is just acting like everything is supa-dupa chili, so that’s what I do as we dive into the song.
Is it me, or is the tape-recorded track louder than usual? There must be an echo in this place, or maybe it’s haunted. I try to remember if I noticed that the last time we performed here, but I can’t remember.
As we sing, I notice that it’s taking us a while to really get into our flow, you know what I’m saying? Maybe it’s the lights being so bright, or the track being so loud—or maybe it’s just that we’re goin’ out live on the radio. Anyway, by the time we get to the third verse, we’ve got it all together, and we’re rockin’ the house:
“Some people move like snakes in the grass
or gorillas in the mist
who wanna get dissed.
Some people dance with the wolves
or trot with the fox
right out of the box.”
When the five of us hold hands and take our bow, I feel how clammy Chanel’s hand is. Or maybe it’s my hand! I’m sweating a lot, and I didn’t even notice it till now.
Right before we exit the stage, we cup our hands like cheetahs to make our “growl power” sign, then scrunch up our faces like we’re gonna pounce. I hear a few people laughing in the audience, and the applause gets louder. Everybody loves that “growl power” thing—it’s kinda cute, I guess.
Backstage, as we wait for the winners to be announced, the tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. After all, this is it: do-or-die time. As far as I’m concerned, it’s first place or nothing—I mean, who wants to be a runner-up every time, you know what I’m saying?
Chanel is clutching my hand really hard.
“All right y’all,” P.J. Powers announces. “This is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. It’s time to do battle! Which one of these divettes is gonna make it to the finals?” The audience whoops and shouts, calling out the names of different groups—including ours.
“Let me tell you something, I know those divettes are backstage quaking in their weaves,” P.J. continues. “You know why? Well, lemme tell you in case you don’t know. One very, very lucky and plucky divette act—that’s unsigned talent, y’all, in case you don’t know—is gonna make The Grade and compete on MTV!”
The crowd lets out another hoot.
“That’s right, y’all. MTV will finance and air a professionally produced video of the grand prize winner! Now that winner could be one of these fierce divettes you just saw perform. Now what else we got?”
“What?” yells someone in the audience.
“We got two other hot spots—that’s right, y’all, two other lucky, lucky, lucky divettes are gonna be our first and second runner-ups. Now they’re not going to get to go to the finals—”
“Awwww,” moans the audience.
“I know—life in the fast lane can be a pain, baby, but the first runner-up receives a cash prize! That’s right—who doesn’t like a little loot? Lemme hear ya if you would say no to a Benjamin knocking on your door! Lemme hear ya!”
There is one second of silence.
“That’s what I thought,” P.J. Powers continues, which wins a raucous laugh from the crowd. “The first runner-up will win a five-hundred-dollar cash prize—that’s enough money for a new weave, right? Am I right, ladies?”
More laughter. Chanel is holding my hand so tight it’s cutting off my circulation. I yank my hand away from her, and she giggles, then quickly covers her mouth when Galleria shoots her a look.
“The second runner-up? Well, we can’t dis the second runner-up, can we? They’re gonna get a guest deejay spot on my show—that’s right, hanging on ‘The Power Hour’ with the P.J. till payday! And, they will receive two backstage passes to MTV’s ‘The Hookup,’ to hang with today’s hottest groups in the green room! Now that’s the way I like to eat ribs, what about y’all?”
The crowd is cheering again. Galleria shoots me a look like, “Would she shut her trap, pleez, or we’re gonna sneeze!”
“Okay, by the way, y’all, have you met our illustrious panel of judges? In the house with us tonigh
t is everybody’s favorite gossip diva—Miss Clucky!”
After the round of applause, P.J. introduces eight more judges, including “Miss Lela Lopez from Sistarella magazine, and Destiny Davenport, Corporate Sponsorship Executive from S.N.A.P.S. Cosmetics.”
I look at my crew. I guess we know where the name of that wack lipstick “Destiny” came from!
The squigglies start in my stomach again. If the Cheetah Girls weren’t already quaking in our boots, we sure are now that we know who the judges are!
“Now for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Miss Clucky, the envelope, please,” P.J. Powers says, her voice tingling with excitement.
All five of us grab each other’s hands as a drum roll sounds.
“Our second runner-up is—the Butta Cups! Give them a hand, people!”
We breath a sigh of relief. At least we aren’t second runners-up!
When the Butta Cups hit the stage, P.J. Powers asks the audience, “Aren’t they dainty little divettes? I love those cute little gloves. Do you eat ribs with them on?”
“No,” says one of them into the microphone.
“Well, you girls have to tell me all about yourselves when you come on my show—so be ready for these dainty flowers on ‘The Power Hour!’” P.J. chuckles at her little joke.
“Now for the first runner-up. Ms. Davenport, may I have that envelope, please? I’m loving that new shade of lipstick—Destiny—was it named after you?”
Obviously, the S.N.A.P.S. lady must’ve shaken her head yes, because P.J. continues, “Y’all, run out and treat yourself to S.N.A.P.S. lipsticks—see, mine is still on, and I’ve been running my mouth all day—and you know I don’t play! Oh, where was I?”
The audience chuckles again.
“That’s right—I’d better open this envelope before one of those divettes backstage starts fainting. Our first runner-up is—the Cheetah Girls! Oh, they were too cute—growl power in the house tonight, y’all!”
We look at each other, and I see that Chanel has little tears in her eyes. Ms. Dorothea throws us all a look like, “Never let them see you sweat.”
Running onto the stage, I feel so embarrassed. I hate losing, even though I know we didn’t exactly lose. First runner-up isn’t so bad, really—and a hundred dollars each is sure better than nothing, especially when you count in all the other free stuff we got—and our first time on the radio, too.
We stand next to P.J. Powers on the stage, and wait until the applause dies down. “I just wanna know, where did you girls get these cute outfits? Aren’t they cute?” P.J. turns to the audience, and under the bright lights I can see she has too much makeup on. She is glowing like it’s Halloween.
“Um, my mother is our designer,” Galleria says proudly, and I can tell she is being more shy than usual.
“Yours even has a little tail on it—turn around so we can see that,” P.J. says, pointing to me.
I’m so embarrassed, but I turn my booty to the audience—and they start laughing, then clapping. I feel like I just wanna do an abracadabra right on the spot and disappear!
“Now, people, I want y’all to know that all the divettes who performed in this competition are fierce—or they’d still be singing with their hairbrushes in the mirror! Am I right? That’s right! So just because these girls didn’t win first prize—a chance to compete in the finals—doesn’t mean they aren’t fierce. Honey, who knows? They could be the ones that go on and get the record deal!”
At least we still have a shot with Def Duck Records, I think gratefully. They’re still willing to give us a chance. We are ushered off the stage, and wait with everyone else to hear who the winner is.
“Okay, y’all, I’m gonna get to it. Miss Lopez, would you hand me the envelope, please? You know I love your magazine. Where else can I read about ‘How to Find a Man’? And Lord knows, I need one!”
Ms. Dorothea puts her arms around me and Galleria as we wait. “The winner is—Fakie Quakie!”
The two short girls let out a squeal like Miss Piggy, and jump up and down. I can’t blame them. They must feel on top of the world.
“The battle is over!” P.J. says as the girls hit the stage. “Fakie Quakie, how do you two feel, now that you know you have a shot at appearing on MTV?”
“I’m not quaking anymore!” giggles the one who calls herself Quakie.
“Where are you girls from?”
“Mamaroneck,” one of them says, and they both start giggling.
“Mamaroneck is in the house, y’all! The Boogie-down Bronx can’t get all the props—am I right?” P.J. squeals.
I can feel the stabbing pain in my chest again. Five hundred dollars—that is a dope prize, but it’s not first prize, you know what I’m saying? Oh, well, at least my family wasn’t here to see us come up short. Except now, I’m gonna have to find a way to tell them all about it. I am not lookin’ forward to that.
After we change and head for the exit, Aqua says, “I’m not performing here anymore. This place is bad luck—with or without the Sandman.”
“At least you girls won five hundred dollars—that’s nothing to moan and groan about,” Ms. Dorothea says sympathetically.
“We know, Mom,” Galleria says, looking sad.
“Madrina, can we just leave?” Chanel asks, whining. “I don’t want the people to see us crying.”
“Now, if we don’t find your mother outside, she will have a soap opera fit off the air, Chanel. You know that,” Ms. Dorothea says, putting her arms around her. “If you girls don’t want that five hundred dollars, I’ll be very happy to take it and spend it for you.”
What I’m thinking is, Ms. Dorothea deserves it more than we do. But I guess we don’t have enough duckets in the bucket to be turning up our noses at any cash they want to give us.
“Are we gonna be on television?” Angie asks. “They were videotaping the show, weren’t they?”
“The release didn’t say the contest was going to air anywhere,” Ms. Dorothea explains. “It’s just a videotape for the production company’s purposes—Looking Good Productions. They’re the promoters of this competition, not MTV.”
All of a sudden, I hear a squealing sound that’s familiar. “Dorinda!” I look over and see—Tiffany! What is she doing here?
“Who’s that?” Galleria asks curiously.
I freeze in my tracks, and don’t say a word. Tiffany comes running over with this blond lady in a fur coat and a bald man wearing glasses. They must be her parents, I realize! Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car, I secretly pray I could do an abracadabra.
“You were dope!” Tiffany says, running up and giving me a hug.
I stand there, still frozen to the spot. “Hi,” I tell her—but my eyes are saying, “Why did you come here?”
“Hi, we’re Tiffany’s parents—I’m Brenda Twitty,” the blond lady coos to me, “and this is my husband, Fred.” Her hair is like a bou bou fon fon—it’s piled really high and looks like it’s hiding under a can of hair spray.
All of a sudden, you can feel the tension on the sidewalk. All of us seem really uncomfortable. Leave it to the twins to break the ice.
“Hi, I’m Aquanette Walker, and this is my twin sister, Anginette.”
“I’m Tiffany—I’m Dorinda’s sister,” Tiffany says proudly. My crew just kinda looks at her, then at me. They’ve been over to my house, so they know Tiffany is not one of my foster sisters. Nobody says anything, though.
I feel so guilty and ashamed! Why did they have to come? We didn’t even win the stupid competition!
“We’ve heard so much about you,” Mrs. Twitty says warmly, putting a hand on my arm.
I guess I’m just staring at the ground, because Ms. Dorothea takes over, and chats with Tiffany and her parents about the show.
“You didn’t tell us you invited your sister,” Galleria says, like she’s waiting for me to give her the lowdown.
“I didn’t know she was coming,” I say in a low voice.
Tiffa
ny overhears us and pipes up, “Mrs. Bosco told me about the competition when I phoned—so I thought I would surprise Dorinda.”
I can’t believe Mrs. Bosco would do this to me! She knows how uncomfortable I am about people seeing me perform. I haven’t even invited her yet!
“I hope you don’t mind—I just wanted to surprise you,” Tiffany says, her blue eyes twinkling. Then she turns to Chanel and says, “I wanna be a singer, too.”
“Oh,” Chanel says. “Do you sing?”
“Well, um, not like you all do—but I want to.” The next thing I know, Chanel and Tiffany are deep in conversation—talking about which groups they like and who they think is cute! It’s like they’re already friends!
“Blanco from the Nastee Boys is really hot,” Tiffany says, giggling.
“I have un coco on Krusher!” Chanel says, breaking into a fit of hysterics. “I’m saving my first kiss for him!”
Galleria puts her arm around me and says, “Don’t worry about it, Do’—just go with the flow.”
I look at Galleria, and I just want to cry. She sees the tears in my eyes. I know I have a lot of explaining to do to my crew. But the main thing is, they’ve accepted Tiffany as my sister—just like that! Not one of them blinked twice at the fact that she was white.
What was I thinking? That my crew would be prejudiced? I see now how crazy that was—I mean, Galleria’s half white herself, Ms. Dorothea married an Italian man, and Chuchie’s got all kinds of mixed-up genes in her. They do look kind of surprised, of course—and I can tell I’m gonna have a lot of explaining to do later on. But the worst is over. Suddenly, I’m glad Tiffany showed up. It saved me having to break the news to my crew.
After what seems like forever, Tiffany and the Twittys say good night. “You wanna go to the park again?” Tiffany asks me, really sweetly.
“Okay,” I say, and this time I really mean it. “It’s gonna be nice to have a real sister—someone who’s got some of the same genes as me.”
“And you’re gonna tell me about genes, too—promise?” Tiffany begs.
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