“Chuchie—your days of sashay on the pirouette tip are long over. Don’t you think, pink?” Bubbles asks, raising her eyebrow at me.
“No, I don’t,” I reply, holding my ground. “I’m going to try and get into the American Ballet Theatre.” Wincing, I quickly add, “the Junior Ballet Corps Division.” I don’t want Bubbles to think I’ve completely gone cuckoo.
“Are you serious?” Bubbles asks, surprised.
“Sí, mamacita.”
“Well, I hope this crusade is a lot better planned than your songwriting fiasco,” Bubbles says, poking her mouth out.
There. She finally said it. It is all my fault that we wrote a song together called “It’s Raining Benjamins,” and copied some of the words from the Cash Money Girls. If Bubbles was supposed to know so much about songwriting, then how come she didn’t know about copyright infringement?
“Bubbles, I-I didn’t write the song by myself,” I say, stuttering. “You said yourself that I only wrote two lines of it.”
Bubbles shoots me a look, and I realize that I’ve made a big boo-boo. See, Dorinda told me what Bubbles said behind my back, and I guess I shouldn’t have repeated it to Bubbles’s face.
“Dorinda didn’t tell me—I, um, just knew you felt that way,” I say, feeling my face turn deep red.
“If Dorinda didn’t tell you, then how did you know I said that?” Bubbles asks. “I guess you are just the queen of the crystal ball?”
“Um … I guess because … she didn’t tell me anything! Nada,” I say, trying to tell a poco fiberoni about my fiberoni. If I don’t stop, I’m gonna start confusing myself!
“But see, that’s not the point, Chuchie,” Bubbles says, getting so angry at me that she doesn’t care if everyone around us on the cathedral stairs hears. “The point to this joint, is that you wanted to write this song together, when I could have been thinking up an original song.”
“Yeah, but you came up with some of the words, too!” I hiss at Bubbles.
“Yeah, but I’m not the one who had a so-called dream about Benjamins falling from the sky, and you and I grabbing them like a couple of Mary Poppins wannabes!” Bubbles is glaring at me now, and pointing. “The idea for the song came from you.”
“I did have the dream, Bubbles!” I say, tearyeyed. “Te juro. I swear. You and I were standing under an umbrella together—”
“You shoulda known that dream was a fake, because I never stand under an umbrella with you—you always make the umbrella bop up and down and get my hair wet!”
Now I’m really crying. “I’m not going to write any more songs with you!”
“Is that a promise?” Bubbles asks, not backing down. She hates it when I start crying, because it makes her feel like a bully—which she is. Bubbles the bully!
Now the peeps on the steps are staring at us. I turn and see this lady holding a big black cat. The cat starts meowing right in my face. Ay, Dios mío, his teeth look like fangs! That is a bad omen. I can tell something bad is going to happen. I gulp really hard and turn quickly from the black cat. Why does the lady with her stupid cat have to stand in back of me? This is not what I need right now!
All of sudden Bubbles blurts out, “How are you gonna have time for it?”
“Time for what?” I ask, still scared by the black cat and his meowing.
He won’t shut up. Cáyate!
“Time to go to school, work in my mom’s store to pay off what you still owe your mom, rehearse with the Cheetah Girls, and practice ballet?”
“Well, it’s not like we’re doing anything with the Cheetah Girls right now,” I say wincing.
Bubbles shoots me a look, like, “Who says?”
“What happened?”
“That’s what I wanted to tell you,” Bubbles shoots back, sounding like Miss Clucky, the gossip lady on television. “My mom is going to call Def Duck Records, and ask them if we can put on an informal showcase for the New York staff—you know, give them a taste of our flava, so they can get with the program—and maybe the producer they’ve assigned us to—Mouse Almighty—will get excited, alrighty.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say, my eyes opening wide.
“So, you’d better stick around for the cause, whenever it goes down,” Bubbles says, licking her lips.
“Claro que sí, Bubbles! Of course, I will. But I’m still going to try to get into American Ballet Theatre—this is my last chance, last dance.”
Bubbles just eyes me, then blurts out, “I don’t know how you can do it. Remember our ballet teacher, Mrs. Bermudez?”
“Yeah,” I say, chuckling. “She used to tell you, ‘Plié like a swan, Galleria, not like an ugly duckling!’”
Bubbles winces at this memory, which makes me feel like una babosa for even bringing it up. I’m so stupid sometimes!
At last we are inside the cathedral. Carefully, I take Mr. Cuckoo out of my backpack so he can breathe. I cup my palms together, so he has a little place to hang out.
We’re just in time, because the service is about to begin. “Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, may I introduce the Paul Winter Consort jazz group,” says a lady into the microphone. Everyone starts clapping. “They will be doing a special perfomance piece—‘Earth Mass’—for this joyous occasion. And please welcome our featured dancers, from the Omega and Forces of Nature troupes. Today, Reverend Harry Pritchett will officiate over our blessing ceremony, to promote harmony and peace between man, animal, and bug!”
My eyes are glued to the dancers, who prance in the front of the high altar and do a beautiful routine. The ceilings in the cathedral are so high that the sound of meows and barks echoes over the music, making the whole place sound like a haunted castle. I whisper to Bubbles that I want to move closer. I don’t want to miss one movement, one grande battement, from this troupe of dancers.
Suddenly, we hear the sound of the trumpet. Oh, no—the elephant is now being brought to the front of the high altar from the side entrance. He takes up all the room in front of us. I let out a sigh of disappointment. Bubbles shrugs her shoulders, like, “You know the way things flow in the Big Apple.”
Sometimes I just hate everyone—and now, I’m even angry at all the animals. I just want to see the dancers! Mr. Cuckoo starts squiggling around in my palms. I look at him and stroke his head, then remember why I’m here—so he can have a blessed life, and be protected from the evil forces in the world. “St. Cucaracha will look over you, precioso,” I coo to him. I wish he was my pet, not Pucci’s.
Now the lady leading the service is instructing us to stand in line, so that Reverend Pritchett can bless each and every animal. At this rate, we will be here till midnight—especially since Bubbles and I are so far back in the line.
With all this time to spare, I figure it won’t hurt to say a prayer for myself. I put Mr. Cuckoo back in my backpack for a second, then cross myself and close my eyes. Por favor, Dios, I think, please let me get into the American Ballet Theatre. And please protect the Cheetah Girls, and let us become famous, so we can travel all over the world, and sing to all of the creatures that you created. Amen.
When I open my eyes, I see that Bubbles is staring at me. “I hope you said a prayer for me, too, Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina!”
“I did,” I tell Bubbles, and smile at her.
Bubbles giggles. I feel like I can take a deep breath, because someone let the air out of the hot-air balloon. “I like that,” I whisper to her.
“Like what?” Bubbles whispers.
“Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina,” I say, beaming. I know Bubbles doesn’t think I can get into the ballet company, and I know she doesn’t understand why I have to do this, but I do know that she is the only sister I have—even if we aren’t real sisters. Like Bubbles says, we are the dynamic duo, bound till death!
“I just hope you don’t leap into the great beyond and land on your head, like you did in the twins’ bedroom down in Houston,” Bubbles says, bringing up that painful memory again.
“The
area rug slipped,” I protest.
“Don’t get flippy with me, Miss Slippy,” Bubbles retorts.
“I like my other nickname better.” I wince.
Bubbles smirks, and says, “Okay, Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina—pirouette till payday!”
I can’t believe Bubbles read my mind—but why am I surprised? Like I said, we are the dynamic duo, flapping in the wind with or without our capes!
Chapter
5
It is so cold, icicles are hanging off trees. Pursued by a magic troop of leaden soldiers, a handsome prince appears out of the darkness. Recognizing my true love, the Lilac Fairy shows Krusher—who is wearing a black cape and eye patch—a hologramma vision of me sleeping in the enchanted forest. Krusher begs the Lilac Fairy to show him where the real me lies. He smiles, and serenades the Lilac Fairy with an a capella version of his song, “She’s My Girl.”
The Lilac Fairy is captivated, and agrees to guide Krusher through the wicked fairy Carabosse’s magic world—past the rats and the captive fairy children that were stolen from their homeland, to the place where I’m lying, in the new pink tutu Mom just bought me, asleep in a bed of pink flowers. Krusher does his famous double-neck move and supa-dupa split—snowflakes melting off his leather pants in the process—then kisses me gently on the lips….
Which wakes me up. At first, I have sleep in my eyes, and rub them hard, but I recognize Krusher from his new album cover, and gaspitate because I cannot believe my eyes. I think the wicked fairy Carabosse is playing another trick on me. After all, it was she, disguised as a handsome suitor, who put the spell on me in the first place! Krusher smiles, and I recognize his big, beautiful teeth, and know that it is not Carabosse pretending to be him.
I smile back, my heart melting. Krusher whips me into his arms and we dance through the forest. I didn’t know Krusher could dance ballet, but he leaps and pirouettes like the true prince he is. Suddenly, Krusher pulls me up on his shoulders, like I weigh no more than a feather. I hold my head up to the clouds, and extend my legs in a perfect split as he swirls and twirls.
Spinning round and round, I suddenly fall from his arms onto the ground, because Carabosse’s evil spell has not been broken! The animals run from the forest, because there is a loud buzzing noise filling the air, a noise that is louder than my scream….
Suddenly, I realize that the buzzing noise is the sound of my stupid alarm clock going off, and that my beautiful dream has turned into a Nightmare in the Enchanted Forest. I fight off the breathless feeling in my chest. Ay, Dios, another omen—the brujas are trying to tell me something….
I sit on the edge of my bed, frozen, then suddenly it dawns on me. La bruja—the good witch—is trying to guide me out of the forest and away from danger. She’s trying to tell me that I am not Princess Aurora yet, that I’d better go practice so I can become her one day for real!
I turn and look at my alarm clock—the neon-lit numbers are shining bright and steady. It is six o’clock in the morning. I have an hour and a half to practice and get ready for school. I don’t want to practice. Yo quiero dormir más! Sleeping Beauty is calling me.
Coming out of my dream haze, I get frozen with fear. I know in my heart that soon it will be too late for me to pursue my dream. I jump off my bed and quietly slip on my unitard, then tiptoe to the studio and turn on the lights. Yes, I’m yawning the whole time, but doing my ballet warm-up will wake me up out of my trance.
I have to write a letter to Krusher, I think, smiling to my reflection in the mirror as I begin my pliés at the barre, bending my knees as deep as I can while keeping my posture perfect.
What if Krusher doesn’t write me back? I do my stretches, alternating legs and bending over, taking deep sighs.
If I don’t get into the Junior Corps, then I don’t want to live. I won’t even care about meeting Krusher. By the time I get to my frappés—bending the knee and flexing my foot so it’s at a perfect right angle to my leg, I have forgotten about my fears. This is what I love about ballet. It takes me to un otro mundo, another world, in which I am the star—like Giselle, Raymonda, or Princess Aurora—a star whom everybody wants to kiss and love forever.
Now I feel excited, because I’m going to buy new pointe shoes after school today. I also have to go to the American Ballet Theatre, and find out if I get to audition for the Junior Corps Division. Suddenly, I get a squiggle in my stomach again. What am I going to wear? I know I’m only going to see the registrar, but every impression counts.
Red—rojo—my favorite color. That’s what I’ll wear, from head to toe. It always makes me feel my “growl power,” and people always stop to look at me, because red makes everybody feel happy.
Looking down at my nails, I see that they are chipped. I’d better put on a coat of S.N.A.RS. “Maui Wowie” Nail Polish for good measure. It’s a pretty shade of Frosted Lime Green. I love it because it’s not too dark, so it doesn’t draw too much attention to my short, stubby nails.
After I shower and dress, I go to the kitchen to get my breakfast. I hear Mom yelling at Pucci, “No—you eat a bowl of cereal with one English muffin or one Pop Tart, but you are not going to eat both, entiendes?”
Just swell-io. Mom is in a bad mood. But when I walk into the dining room where she and Pucci are sitting eating breakfast, I can see why—her face looks like the girl’s in The Exorcist. It’s covered with little red bumps!
“What are you looking at?” Mom says, teary-eyed.
“What happened? Qué pasó?” I ask, staring at the pimply pobrecita who used to be my beautiful mom.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to sue those charlatans who manufacture that Vivre de Glamour vibrating contraption!” Mom says, her voice squeaking.
I feel so bad for Mom that I don’t even ask for my lunch money. I’m not going to eat lunch today anyway. Gotta lose some more weight before my big audition—if I get it.
“What’s that on your nails, Chanel? You look like you have ten green thumbs!” Mom snaps at me.
“Um, it’s a shade called ‘Maui Wowie,’ Mamí,” I stammer.
“Mamí, can I ride my scooter to school?” Pucci asks, interrupting us.
“No! You walk to school just like everybody else!” Mom yells.
“Moham’s mother lets him take his to school,” Pucci blurts out.
“Moham’s mother is a—” Mom says, then stops herself.
Knowing Mom, she was gonna say something nasty, and bigmouthed Pucci would go to school and blurt it out to Moham, who would get hurt feelings. Ever since Daddy moved out, Pucci doesn’t care about anybody else’s feelings but his own, and his boca grande—big mouth—has gotten even bigger.
He sits there sulking, then says to me, “Mr. Cuckoo doesn’t seem any different.”
“Why should he?” I respond without thinking.
“You took him to get a stupid blessing, that’s why,” Pucci moans.
Mom grabs Pucci’s arm hard, and the cereal box he’s holding drops, scattering Cheerios everywhere. “Don’t you ever blaspheme the church!”
I wonder what blaspheme means. I’ll ask the twins, because they are very religious, but I think it has something to do with saying bad things about the church or something.
Thinking of the twins puts me in mind of the Cheetah Girls. Now that we’ve spent Thanksgiving together in Houston, it just seems like all five of us should be together all the time. Suddenly, a lightbulb goes off in my head. American Ballet Theatre is in Lincoln Center, right near the twins’ school, the Performing Arts Annex at LaGuardia. Maybe next year, the three of us—me, Dorinda and Bubbles—could transfer to the Performing Arts Annex. That way, we’d get to be together all the time—and I’d get to be close to the ballet company and school.
I feel squiggly in my stomach again. What if I don’t get accepted? I pick up the Cheerios and put them back in the box, but Mom screams at Pucci, “Pick up the cereal—and next time, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap!”
I say good-bye to Mom (I
don’t think she hears me anyway), then grab my backpack and run out the door.
When I meet Bubbles and Dorinda before first period, I tell them what happened to Mom.
“I guess Auntie Juanita had to learn the hard way,” Bubbles says. “There is a sham in every city, from Paris to Pittsburgh—and that’s not pillow talk either!”
“Maybe she didn’t use it right?” Dorinda offers.
“Maybe,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. It must be hard having a boyfriend, and having to look pretty all the time. Especially a stuffy boyfriend like Mr. Tycoon, who’s always dressed like he’s going to a Billionaires’ Ball or something. Mom is probably afraid she’ll turn into a pumpkin after midnight, or lose her slipper—and lose him. Suddenly, I remember the question I wanted to ask Dorinda, about what Mom saw in the Moose d’ Horses museum, or whatever it was called.
“Dorinda, what is a bust—I mean, the kind you see in a museum—it’s not like ours, is it?”
Dorinda chuckles. “Chanel—it’s sculpture—like, just the upper part,” she explains, motioning at her throat. “You know, from there up.”
“Why would anybody want to look at heads without bodies—unless it’s a spooky museum or something?” I wonder out loud.
“’Cuz it’s like, art, that’s all. Bronze statues take a lot of work,” Dorinda says, then her eyes light up, like she remembers something. Dorinda opens her cheetah backpack, and whips out the cheetah photo album that she bought in Houston. “Look at our scrapbook!” she says proudly.
On the cover, she has glued the letters The Cheetah Girls, and inside are all the pictures of us that we’ve taken together. Under each picture, she has written a caption using a pink pen. “Ooo,” I exclaim, as I touch the picture of us in the parking lot after we performed at the Okie-Dokie Corral in Houston. The caption reads, “The Cheetah Girls Get Sassy at the Sassy-sparilla Saloon!”
“Do’ Re Mi, I can’t believe you did this!” I coo.
“Quiet as it’s kept, you really are the brains behind the horse-and-pony show we call the Cheetah Girls!” Bubbles quips. “You’ve just been designated the official keeper of our memories, Do’ Re Mi.”
Cuchifrita, Ballerina Page 4