Well … that’s not exactly why I’m going, actually. I’m going to Princess Pamela’s because I love her, and because she makes me feel happy about everything that I’m trying to do with the Cheetah Girls.
“Chanel!” Princess Pamela coos when I come in the door. That is what I love about my dad’s girlfriend—she always makes me feel like she has won the lottery when she sees my face.
“Come, sit. I brought just for you the best caviar I can find,” Princess Pamela coos in her syrupy, heavy Romanian accent, which I love. She shoves a little silver spoon filled with little black alien eggs at my face. “Come, try, pleez.”
I put the teeny-weeny alien goofballs on my tongue. Caviar tastes really different, kinda like cold bacalao—salted Spanish codfish—but not exactly.
“Dahling, you like?” Princess Pamela asks, her big brown eyes opening wide.
“Yeah,” I say, giggling. “Salty.”
“Pleez, eat some polenta, too,” she commands me. “What I could get for this food on the Romanian black market, I cannot tell you! But, ah, those were the days.”
“What do you mean?” I ask curiously, sopping up some of the Romanian potato bread, which Princess Pamela says she makes just like her mother. I love when Princess Pamela tells me stories about “the old country,” which in her case is Transylvania, Romania—home of Count Dracula.
“When my country was Communist, we had such a black market—you could make a k-e-e-l-i-n-g if you had the right items to sell. Now, we have no Communism, no democracy, and everyone is very confused. Ah, beeneh, very well,” Princess Pamela says wistfully.
I sit in the beauty parlor chair, and listen to the Romanian gypsy music wafting in the background. I try to relax, even though I feel really tense.
“What is troubling you, my booti-ful Chanel?” Princess Pamela asks me, as she takes out my braids with her nimble fingers.
I tell her the whole pygmy hedgehog story, hoping that she will have a solution for me. After all, Princess Pamela is a psychic, and she knows how to tell if your dreams will come true.
“I don’t see the furry creature with the—how do you say—” she says, scrunching up her face so I can understand what she’s trying to say.
“Whiskers?” I ask, giggling.
“Riight, beeneh, good. I don’t see the furry creature with the whiskers coming under your pillow while you sleep—but, ah, thiz is good, becuz, some of the furrrry creee-tures make you frightened, no?”
She smiles at me, and I try to smile back—even though I’m crushed that she doesn’t see any cute little pygmy hedgehogs in my future.
“Beeneh, good, but, something better is coming for you. You don’t have to worry, Chanel,” Princess Pamela says, her eyes twinkling the way they always do when she knows a secret.
I remember she told me once to watch out for the animals—and sure enough, Mr. “Jackal” Johnson, our so-called manager at the time, turned out to be a predator in a pinstriped suit, está bien?
“How is your mother, anyway?” Princess Pamela asks, while she twists my hair in sections.
“Well, I guess it’s raining tycoons,” I giggle.
“It’s raining tycoons—what does that mean, Chanel?” Princess Pamela asks, amused.
“I don’t know—I guess everything is okay with Mr. Tycoon, alrighty, alrooty.”
“Ah, beeneh, I see,” Princess Pamela says. Then she starts humming to the music.
“I hope you’re right, though, Princess Pamela. I hope something good is coming, because we haven’t heard anything yet from the record company,” I say with a sigh.
Then I look in the mirror at my new hairdo. My hair is all wavy and loose now—it kinda looks like Bubbles’s, but not as wild. “I like it,” I coo to Princess Pamela, then hug her good-bye.
“La revedere, cara,” she says. “You will hear something verrry soon, I promise.”
If Princess Pamela’s predictions are anywhere near as good as her hairdos, then I won’t be searching “somewhere over the rainbow” much longer. I practically float all the way home, daydreaming about us, the Cheetah girls, singing—and furry creatures with little whiskers.
When I lie down on my pillow that night, I drift into a dream. I see lots of money falling, falling from the sky. Bubbles is in the dream, too. She has an umbrella, and we are trying to grab all the money that is falling from the sky.
Then we start fighting over the money. Bubbles is trying to grab it from me, because, she screams, “You don’t deserve it!”
Suddenly it starts raining, and we’re both crying because we’re getting all wet. The money is getting wet, too—and Bubbles starts screaming that our dreams are ruined, and how it’s all my fault!
It starts raining so hard that we both give up grabbing for the falling money. We struggle to get under the same umbrella, to keep from getting wet. All of a sudden, the umbrella starts lifting us up off the ground, and we’re flying through the air! I start getting scared, but Bubbles says, “Just hang on real tight, and we won’t have anything to be afraid of anymore.”
Then there is this beeping noise … and it won’t stop beeping….
I sit up in bed, and I realize that the beeping sound is coming from my beeper on the night-stand. I reach over and flash the light on the beeper screen. I see the 411 code after Bubbles’s number. That’s our secret signal. It means that Bubbles has something to tell me.
Sometimes Bubbles does that just to bother me. I mean, I’ll get on the Internet to talk to her in the Phat Planet chat room, and she’ll start talking about things that are muy idiota! You never know with Bubbles.
I look over at my clock, and I see that it is midnight. Quietly, I get up and go to my computer, and log on to the chat room to see what Bubbles wants.
I shake my head and rub my eyes. Qué fantasía. What a dream that was! Maybe I’d better carry an umbrella to school tomorrow, because after a dream like that, I know it’s going to rain,
“We’re in the house with the Mouse!” Bubbles types on the screen.
“Shouldn’t Mickey be sleeping with Toto?” I type back. I’m going to get Bubbles good for this. Getting me out of bed for another one of her little jokes, qué bromacita! I’ll bet you she’s trying to tell me that the twins found another mouse in their closet—or maybe it’s something to do with Abala Shaballa, that troublemaking witch.
“Not unless Toto is going to cut a demo with us, baby!!!” Bubbles types on the screen in response.
What is Bubbles talking about? I’m not in the mood for jokes. “Toto needs to be checking to see if you aren’t going cuckoo,” I type back, yawning.
“Mouse Almighty is the name of the producer Def Duck Records is hooking us up with—to cut a demo!” Bubbles types back.
Suddenly I’m wide awake. “What happened?” I type excitedly.
“That’s right, mamacita. They’re gonna let us cut a few songs for a possible demo tape!”
“Ay, Dios mío—my goodness—Bubbles, why didn’t you just say so?!” I type, gasping now for air. “Does that mean we got a record deal?”
“No, but it means they’re willing to spend some development money to put us in the studio, and see what kind of chops we’ve got! We have to meet Mouse Almighty and Freddy Fudge—the A & R executive from Def Duck—at the record label office on Friday at four o’clock. What do you think about that, mamacita?!”
“I can’t believe this is true!” I type on the screen. Then I tell Bubbles all about Princess Pamela’s prediction—and about the dream I had.
“It’s definitely gonna start raining Benjamins now, mamacita!” Bubbles replies.
“‘It’s Raining Benjamins.’ That would make a great song title, no, Bubbles?” I type excitedly.
“That is so dope, Chuchie! I’m gonna start writing it right now! Powder to the People!”
I sign off, too, and drop back down on the bed, smiling happily. And then I start thinking….
“Why does Bubbles always have to write the songs?�
�� I ask myself. “How come she never lets me help write them? I wanna write the song ‘It’s Raining Benjamins.’ After all, it was my idea. I’m going to tell Bubbles, that’s what I’m gonna do.”
I start getting so nervous about talking to Bubbles—because I already know that we are going to fight. Tomorrow night, we’re all going to the Times Square Tabernacle Church to see Derek in the “Mad Millennium” Fashion Show. (Bubbles agreed to go, to make up for what happened with the chokers. And then she made us all promise to come with her for support!)
I’ll tell her then, I promise myself. On the other hand, maybe I shouldn’t tell her…. Well, I’m sure not gonna tell her at school.
I toss and turn, praying that I have another dream, and float away on a magical umbrella. But nothing like that happens. Why did I have to come up with that song idea, anyway? Now I can’t even be happy about the demo, because I’m so busy being upset—me with my boca grande!
Chapter
7
The next day at six o’clock, the five of us meet at Times Square Tabernacle Church on West Forty-third Street, to go see Derek Ulysses Hambone in the “Mad Millennium” Fashion Show.
Madrina gave us the money to pay for our tickets because she feels so bad about our “boo-boo” chokers venture. Once again, we’re wearing our Cheetah Girls chokers—but, as Bubbles jokes, “Let’s pray we don’t drop alphabets in the good house of the Lord!”
We’re all in a good mood, because of the great news about Def Duck Records. Even me. I’m still kinda nervous about talking to Bubbles about writing a new song with her. But I made a promise to myself last night, when I was lying awake in bed, that I am not going to do el pollito, and chicken out. I swear I’m going to pounce at the right moment!
I haven’t even spoken to Dorinda about this, since she just automatically sides with Bubbles when it comes to things about the group. That’s because she thinks Bubbles knows everything—which she doesn’t!
Tonight, the twins especially are in seventh heaven about the news. But for a moment at least, when I first see them, my new hairdo distracts them.
“Hey, Miss Chanel,” Aqua exclaims. “Your hair looks real nice! Can I touch it? Ain’t her hair pretty, Angie?”
“It sure is. It’s so looong, Chanel!” Angie says, surprised.
“What did you think, I was wearing a weave under my braids or something?” I tease the twins.
“No, but I guess we didn’t realize how looooong your hair really is.”
As soon as she’s through checking out my new ’do, Aqua tries to milk Bubbles for every poco detail about the phone call between Def Duck Records and Madrina. “What did they say about us?”
“They said we wuz off the hook, Snook!” Bubbles says. (She loves being the one to tell us everything.) Aqua waits for more details, but Bubbles just looks at her and says, “That’s it, really. They thought the showcase went really well, and now they want to put us in the studio to cut a demo—with a producer named Mouse Almighty. They said we should record three to five songs. Then they’ll decide if they want to give us a record deal.”
“Who is this Mouse Almighty?” Angie asks.
“They told Mom he’s worked with a few other girl groups, so that’s why they picked him to work with us. Let’s see … he’s worked with Karma’s Children, the Lollipops, the Honey Dews, and In the Dark.”
“In the Dark—who’s that?” Dorinda wonders.
“You know—that little girl with the rhinestone-studded black eye patch, and the three other girls who prance around on stage with those monkey-head walking sticks, like they’re all that,” Aqua blurts out. “They went on tour once with Jiggie Jim and the Moonpies. Um, what’s that song—oh … oh … ‘Struck with Your Love and Now I See!’ That’s it!”
“Oh, them. I don’t like them,” Angie says, making a face.
“Well, the other groups he’s worked with are dope, right?” Dorinda points out. “And he’s got his own recording studio. That means he’s got mad skills.”
“Are we going to be able to record your songs?” I ask Bubbles.
“I don’t know, Chuchie,” Bubbles says, kinda humble. Then she breaks out a fresh wad of bubble gum. “He’s the producer, so I guess we’ve gotta do whatever he tells us—’cuz Def Duck Records is paying for everything.”
“Oh,” I say. I can’t get the nerve up to say anything about writing with Bubbles. Besides, I guess this isn’t the right time. I don’t want to talk about it in front of everybody.
“I’m telling y’all, this is the one,” Aqua says, looking all satisfied with herself. “This is what we’ve been waiting for! I’m telling you, I know—because me and Angie have prayed enough about it!”
We go inside the church. Well, it’s not exactly a church. It’s more of an auditorium where they hold services. But I guess the twins are really happy just to be in any kind of church. They love going to church, and singing in the junior choir and everything.
Lady ushers with white gloves are standing at the entrance of the auditorium. “Good evening, sisters.” Aqua and Angie greet them, all bubbly with excitement.
The ushers take our tickets and tear them in half. “Just go on inside and take a seat wherever you like, girls,” they tell us.
“I hope the money is going to a good cause,” heckles Bubbles as we go inside.
Dorinda has been reading the program intensively. Now she blurts out, “It says here, all the proceeds are going to the New York City Chapter for Homeless Women.”
“That’s good. That’s real good,” Aqua says, nodding her head in approval. (Their dad was the one who forked over the twenty dollars to pay for their two tickets, and I guess they feel better knowing it’s all for a good cause.) Still, some things are more important than others, especially to the twins. “I hope they have good food here,” Angie says, looking around.
“Amen to that,” Aqua agrees. The only thing the twins love more than going to church or singing is eating.
“They do have food—afterward,” Bubbles tells them, rolling her eyes at the twins’ incredible appetite.
A look of relief washes over Angie’s face. “I’ve never been to a church service in an auditorium. What kind of church is this?” she asks us.
“I believe it’s a ‘nondenominational’ church, but you know how they roll in New York. We can’t have big, fancy churches like they have down South,” Bubbles says, shrugging her shoulders.
(I’ll bet church services in Houston must be in big, beautiful churches, está bien?)
“Look—it says here that the clothes are designed by students at Fashion Institute of Technology,” Dorinda says, pointing to the program again.
“Oh, I get it. ‘Up-and-coming’ designers,” Aqua volunteers.
“Yeah, let’s just hope they have somewhere to ‘go’ if their clothes are wack,” Dorinda says with a chuckle.
“I wonder if Derek is here yet?” Bubbles asks, looking around for him.
Well, looky, cooky. Now that Derek is acting so mean to Bubbles, I think she kinda likes him. I’m not kidding. I know “goo-goo” eyes when I see them!
We take our seats, and wait for the fashion show to begin. Bubbles whips out her Kitty Kat notebook, and gets busy doing more work on her latest song, “Woof, There It Is!”
I try not to look, and luckily, the fashion show commentator comes on the stage. It’s none other than Miss Clucky, the famous gossip columnist from television!
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Miss Clucky, and feeling lucky to be here with all of you! We’re here to raise some money, and have some fun!”
Looking around at the audience, she lets out a big sigh. “Mmmm. Mmmm. I see we have some fine-looking young things in the audience tonight! You look gooood, y’all,” she moans. Then she starts prancing back and forth in her red sequined gown, twirling to show off the draping cape thing attached to it. “I look gooood, too—don’t I, y’all? Don’t be shy, you can tell me!”
“Yeah!” the audience
shouts in unison. Personally, I think she looks like one of the ladies on the Goya float in the Dominican Day Parade—like she’s full of beans!
“Hallelujah!” somebody shouts out.
Suddenly, la luz grande—the big lightbulb—goes off in my head. That’s it! Hallelujah! I can put it in the chorus of my first song—“It’s raining Benjamins … Hallelujah! It’s raining Benjamins … Hallelujah!”
I get so excited that I almost reach over to tell Bubbles, but Miss Clucky is still talking, so I keep my boca shut.
“Well, let’s give some praise to fashion tonight, y’all!” Miss Clucky says, then puts on some funny-looking spectacles and begins to read from the index cards she has in her hands.
The show begins, and the models start coming out onstage to the beat of the music. Miss Clucky describes all the clothes they’re wearing—some of which are definitely wack, but a few of which are definitely la dopa!
When Derek comes out on the stage modeling clothes, I poke Bubbles. “He looks gooood!” I whisper, imitating Miss Clucky.
We’re sitting too far in the back of the auditorium for Derek to see us, but we wave anyway, giggling our heads off. Derek is wearing this zebra-looking, long, flowing caftan, that kinda looks like the clothes Madrina designs for Toto in New York.
“That woulda looked more dope with one of our chokers,” Bubbles whispers to me. I can see she feels bad, like we missed out on something.
After the fashion show, we head downstairs to eat the buffet dinner. Dorinda is really excited about all the clothes we saw, and she starts babbling about the outfits she’s gonna design for our shows when we go on tour to promote our first album.
Bubbles stops her with a sharp comment. “If you ask me, those designers tonight could definitely have used some Cheetah Girl flava.”
Dorinda eyes the spread, and smirks. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”
We crowd around the buffet table, and put heaps of potato salad, corn on the cob, fried chicken, and baked beans on our plates. The church ladies serving us say chirpily, “Aren’t y’all the cutest girls!”
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