Oops, Doggy Dog!

by Deborah Gregory

  “No, no, we want to gain custody of one of the puppies from her dog’s litter, because our dog is the father.” Mom is trying hard to maintain her cool, I can tell.

  “I think you’d have better luck filing a petition in Small Claims Court,” the man says. He just wants to get rid of us, but Mom isn’t having it.

  “Young man, I’m not suing for money, but for custody of a living, breathing creature. That’s why I’m filing the petition in Family Court and not Small Claims.”

  “All right, then,” the man says, defeated. “Either way, you’re gonna have to serve the plaintiff with a summons. Fill out this form, get a cashier’s check for twenty-five dollars, then fill out the summons and get both notarized. Then come back. Next in line, please.”

  “What—where is the notary public around here?” Mom asks quickly, before she’s trampled on by the long line of people in back of us breathing down our necks.

  “Across the street, at the County Clerk’s Office in the stationery store. Next in line, please,” the clerk repeats gruffly.

  “No wonder people never file petitions,” Mom huffs. “You’re too exhausted from dealing with the red tape and bureacracy to care if you win the case or not!” She goes to a counter and takes a form. We both look it over, trying to figure it out.

  “What should we put here?” Mom asks, pointing to the line marked REASON FOR FILING.

  I shrug.

  “Because I’m tired of her trying to run us over with her hippopotamus footstools and haughty attitude!” Mom snaps, which makes me chuckle.

  “No, Mom. I don’t think that would get us even one of Buffy’s biscuits.”

  “You’re right, darling. I’d better word this in a way that leaves my personal feelings out of the matter. Do you know, the first few years your father and I lived in the building, Mrs. Brubaker never even spoke to me?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I say, because I’ve heard the story so many times.

  “Okay, let’s see. ‘Upon discovering that my’—no, no—‘our dog, Toto Garibaldi, impregnated our neighbor’s dog, Buffy …’ Should I put her pedigree name, or Esther’s last name?”

  “I think we should put both, like Chuchie does,” I say. Chuchie is Dominican and Puerto Rican, and it’s the custom in Latin culture for a child to use both their maternal and paternal last names—which in Chuchie’s case is Duarte Rodriguez Domingo Simmons.

  “Okay, Buffy Mignon Brubaker. ‘We kindly’—no—‘politely’—Oh, forget it! ‘We asked for’—no—‘We requested custody of one of the puppies from Buffy’s litter, and such request was denied.’ How’s that?”

  “Sounds cool,” I respond, “but how are we gonna serve Mrs. Brubaker a summons? She’s never gonna open the door for us again.”

  “Oh, that’s the easy part. We get Nunzio from the florist shop to deliver flowers to dear old Esther. But inside the card will be a big, fat surprise—the summons!” Mom smiles, proud of herself.

  “That sounds good to go,” I say. “What kind of flowers are you gonna send?”

  “Oh, some nice roses … with some nice thorns on their stems,” Mom chuckles. “Hey, baby—you nervous about going into the studio?”

  “Definitely,” I admit. “I mean, we don’t really know what Mouse Almighty is like, and he’s worked with such Big Willie stars. Maybe he thinks we’re just a bunch of wannabes.”

  “Well, I can assure you, a producer like that doesn’t waste his time nibbling at stale cheese. He wouldn’t even be doing this if he didn’t think there was a big fat ‘chunk’ in it for him.”

  “You’re right,” I say, wrapping my arm through Mom’s. She always has her own way of explaining things. I’m glad she’s our manager, even though we fight sometimes.

  After we go to the Notary Public and get an official seal stamped on our documents, we return to Family Court. Luckily, we have another clerk this time, but he isn’t any friendlier. “If you don’t show up, you forfeit your decision, and the defendant automatically wins the judgment,” grumpy clerk number two explains.

  “I wish I could be there to see Mrs. Brubaker’s face,” I tell Mom as we leave the building.

  “I’m sure her eyes are gonna bug out bigger than the ones on those ghastly frog statues!” Mom says.

  “I just feel so bad for Buffy,” I say wistfully. “I mean, you can tell she really loves Toto.”

  “Imagine that—and they’re not even from the same pedigree class,” Mom laughs. “Never underestimate the power of a bona fide charming personality.”

  “What if Mrs. Brubaker doesn’t show up for the court date?” I ask.

  “All the better. Then we win by default. You heard the clerk, it works both ways. Don’t you worry. The judge will figure out all this nonsense.”

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll see you later,” I say, kissing her on the forehead.

  “And, please, don’t ask Mr. Walker to take you girls anywhere after the studio session,” Mom says, pulling down my skirt trying to make it longer. “He’s already been informed to bring you straight home.”

  Dance class is the last period of the day, and it’s my favorite, for three important reasons: 1) I get to groove, 2) It’s the only class I take with Chuchie and Dorinda, and 3) Our teacher, Ms. Pigeonfeat, has some ultraslick moves of her own. The one thing I don’t like is that I always sweat so much, which really messes up my hair, and today we have to race to the locker room to shower and get ready for our big studio session with Mouse Almighty.

  “Ay, Dios mío, this place is smelling ultrafunky today,” Chuchie moans, spritzing her Yves Saint Bernard cologne in the locker room.

  “Yeah, it sure could use a few stick-ups,” I moan. “Let’s hurry up and beat our faces,” I command my crew, “because we have to get to Mouse’s studio, and I don’t want to be late.”

  “Aqua and Angie will probably be there before we are,” Chuchie says.

  “Well, they should be. Their school is closer to the studio than ours,” I say, without adding another riff on the twins. Right now, I’m definitely not trying to open that can of refried worms.

  “Maybe Aqua and Angie will change their minds about the pink wigs,” Chuchie says, trying to be nice. “Tú sabes, when we do a show.”

  “Sure thing, chicken wing,” I say sarcastically, “but that won’t be anytime soon.”

  Chuchie winces, because she probably thinks I’m blaming her injury for pushing back our Def Duck Records showcase. I guess I am blaming her.

  “God, I look like a bush baby,” I moan, looking in the mirror at my ten-foot fuzzball of a hairdo. “I gotta work some abracadabra today.” I bend over, brushing my hair carefully so I can get busy with the blow-dryer, which I had stuffed into my cheetah backpack this morning, along with a few jars of hair gunk and makeup.

  After blowtorching my fuzzy locks for twenty minutes, I’m finally ready to beat my face. Then I look over at Chuchie’s face, and gasp in disbelief. “Holy cannoli! I didn’t know Santa was looking for a new helper!” I’ve been so busy obsessing about my fuzzy locks that I didn’t notice how much makeup she was putting on.

  “Where did you get this?” I ask, picking up the bottle of Glamorama foundation.

  “It’s Mami’s,” Chuchie says, getting defensive.

  “But Auntie Juanita is darker than you.”

  Chuchie ignores me and flicks her powder brush—now she’s depositing too much blush on her cheeks!

  “Chuchie, if you put on another coat of makeup, you’ll be dressed for winter!” I’m annoyed now, because I’m worried we’re gonna be late. Still, we can’t show up with Chuchie looking like this! “We’re not leaving here until you wash your face and start from scratch.”

  “What happened? I’m not washing my face!” she protests.

  “Yes you are, because we’re not going to the circus today. We’re going to a recording studio.”

  Dorinda gives us a look, like, “Here we go again, round number three.” By now, she’s used to us fighting, so I don’t fee
l bad. Besides, if Dorinda doesn’t want to say anything about Chuchie’s finger-painting escapades, that’s her prerogative, but I’m not gonna zip my lip, not when it comes to Cheetah Girls’ business, okay?

  After Chuchie wipes her face and puts on some of Dorinda’s foundation—they are both the same honey-caramel-cocoa shade—I whip out my hot-pink eye shadow, and hold up the applicator to her face. “Give me your eye,” I command.

  “I wish I could,” Chuchie giggles.

  By three-thirty we’re on the move, tearing up Eighth Avenue like a bunch of roadrunners, rushing to get to Mouse’s studio on 52nd and Ninth.

  “Coming through,” I mutter to the lollygaggers in front of us. Sometimes the streets of New York are so crowded, you gotta work your moves like a snail. All of a sudden, I feel a hand grab my backside!

  I turn and see this scary-looking guy with big teeth. Seeing the cheetah fire in my eyes, he turns and starts making tracks like greased lightning. “You’d better run!” I scream loudly after him.

  “What happened?” Chuchie asks, scared.

  “He grabbed my behind, that’s what happened!” I say, choking back tears because I’m so angry. “He’s lucky he ran. If I ever see that Big Bad Wolf again, I’m gonna spray him with my Miss Wiggy Mace.”

  “Are you all right?” asks a lady carrying a briefcase.

  I’m too embarrassed to look at her in the face, so I just shake my head.

  “What a bozo,” Dorinda says, grabbing me by the arm so we can keep walking. I’m so upset, I just wanna run after that guy until I find him, and beat him down hard! With my mouth poking out like a platter, I let my crew lead me on until we get to the lobby of Mouse Almighty’s studio.

  “You awright, mamacita?” Chuchie asks, concerned.

  I try to shake off the whole thing and act like I’m okay. “Thank gooseness there is a mirror here,” I say. Looking in the mirror intently, I wipe the mascara smear from under my lashes with a tissue. “You still wish you had a nice round butt like mine?” I tease Dorinda, who’s always moaning about when she’s gonna “develop.”

  Do’ Re Mi gets a sheepish look on her face, then shrugs her tiny shoulders and shivers with disgust. “No, I guess not,” she says.

  Chapter

  7

  Chuchie was right. Aqua and Angie are already upstairs at Mouse’s studio waiting for us. They’re wearing the pink cheetah tops I told them to wear, but with navy pleated skirts and matching tights! If you ask me, they look like twin cheerleaders instead of cheetahs. All they need are some oversized pom-poms to shake, and they’d be good to go. I know Aqua and Angie aren’t into fashion like we are, but sometimes I wonder if they dress in the dark, okay? I mean, who wears pink and navy together?

  “Wazzup, buttercups?” I say, trying to act like everything is chill between us. But Aqua isn’t putting on the same charade. She throws me a look that’s far from Southern comfort.

  Angie picks up the vibe and starts to shrink against the wall. “Do we look okay?” she asks me.

  “Yeah.” I turn quickly to the receptionist and open my mouth to introduce myself. “We’re—”

  “I know who you are!” The receptionist cuts me off, chuckling, then points to the sprawling black leather beanbag couch. “Now that you’re all together, have a seat. Mouse is in a meeting. He’ll be finished soon.”

  We all sit on the big leather couch, and now I’m starting to feel nervous. Chuchie looks over at me and grimaces, which means she’s got a bad case of the squigglies, too. My heart is beating so loud, I think it’s gonna jump out of my chest! I look around at the studio walls. There are tons of posters, certified gold and platinum CDs, and bottles of hot sauce on shelves.

  “Wow, somebody likes it hot!” Angie chuckles.

  “Oh, yeah, one of the engineers, Son Seven, likes to collect them,” the receptionist explains. “He gets them from all different places.”

  “You mean, like, different countries?” Dorinda asks.

  “Yeah, he travels quite a bit.” The receptionist grabs a ringing phone and answers it. “Studio.”

  I don’t want to seem like I’m listening to her conversation, so I stare at the framed CDs and posters.

  “Look,” Chuchie says, motioning to an autographed picture of the LoveBabiez, the group that opened up for Mariah Carey at the Garden. “I didn’t know he worked with them.”

  I get up to read the inscription. “‘Mouse, you’re the man. We owe everything to you. One love, your Babiez.’”

  Wow! Mouse Almighty worked on their debut album, too! Still, I try not to act too impressed. After all, the Cheetah Girls have got what it takes to be up on this wall, too. “They just need to lose the diapers and baby carriage from their act,” I whisper to Chuchie, sitting down on the couch again.

  All of a sudden a door opens, and the sound of men’s voices fills the hallway. “Wazzup, Cheetah Girrrrls!” Mouse greets us. “Come on back.”

  I smile at the “man with a plan,” and notice how short and wiry he is. We’ve only met Mouse once before, at the Def Duck Records office, but he was sitting down at the conference table. He’s got really long dreadlocks and really big white teeth. With him is a guy in jeans, Mecca T-shirt, and baseball cap. I wonder who he is—probably some Big Willie. “This is my man Seth Seidelman,” Mouse says, introducing us to him.

  “We’re the Cheetah Girls,” I tell Seth, my heart pounding in my chest. I can feel Aqua’s eyes on the back of my head. I just hope she squashes our beef jerky, at least until we get out of the studio.

  “I’m doing a demo for them,” Mouse tells Seth. “Maybe they’ll be blowing up like your girls.” Mouse chuckles, then explains that Seth is the executive producer of the new reality television show, So You Wanna Be a Star.

  “We love that show!” I exclaim, wishing Chuchie and I had auditioned last year. There were posters plastered up everywhere, casting female talent for the show’s resident girl group, Eden’s Blush. We didn’t, in the end, because we are a girl group for real, not some manufactured hype.

  But now it turns out Seth’s here looking for songs for Eden’s Blush. After the show finishes its season, they’re gonna go on tour and cut an album. Hearing about it makes me jealous. What are we gonna do, record a wack demo? I mean, with a little help, we could be gettin’ down like that.

  “Did you put these Cheetah Girls together?” Seth asks Mouse.

  “No, this a little something I’m doing for Def Duck, man,” Mouse explains.

  “Chuchie and I have been friends since we were born,” I say, pointing to her. “Then we met Dorinda, Aqua, and Angie.”

  Aqua and Angie smile at Seth. I can tell they’re a little nervous, too.

  “Well, you’re in good hands now,” Seth says, then does the hip-hop handshake with Mouse.

  I hope we are, shrieks a voice inside me.

  “Come on in,” Mouse says, and we all pile into one of the recording rooms. Mouse sits on a swivel stool and gives us the once-over. “Y’all have gotten big.”

  Seeing the shocked look on Chuchie’s face, he chuckles. “No, no, I like it! Look at Missy ‘Misdemeanor’—girls gotta claim their spot, know what I’m saying?”

  Feeling uncomfortable, I start pulling my miniskirt down. I’m starting to think Mom was right. Maybe I should have worn a longer one.

  “Awright, I want you girls to listen to the songs I’ve picked out for you—new licks from some up-and-coming songwriters.” Mouse motions for us to sit.

  My heart sinks. Up and coming? I was kinda hoping that we would get to record songs from a few Big Willie songwriters. I shoulda known better. But if we’re doing stuff by unknowns, then why can’t we just record my songs?

  I know I’d better not say anything, so I just chill and sit down, waiting for the lyrics to flow before I get kaflooied.

  “The first song is ‘Not a Chance,’” Mouse says, cuing the engineer to roll the music.

  I cut a quick glance at Chuchie. “Not a Chance”? I defi
nitely don’t like the title. I mean, it doesn’t have our kind of flavor—you know, growl-licious and different.

  Mouse hands us the sheet music to the song, and we all read the lyrics.

  I saw you hanging with your friends

  From day to dusk to dawn it never ends

  But when you wanna come and fetch me

  There’s never any please

  Just an attitude like I should do the dropping

  If you think you’re gonna play me

  That’s not how you can slay me

  So don’t even try to say to me

  Not a chance, not a chance

  We’ve had our last dance

  And baby I take that stance… .

  I look around at my crew, and they seem to be digging the song. Everybody is smiling and nodding along. After it’s finished, Mouse swivels around on his stool and looks at us, smiling. “You digging that, right?”

  “Yeah!” Aqua and Angie say in unison. The rest of us nod our heads, too. Even me. I mean, the song’s not bad, considering it isn’t mine.

  “The songwriter is Mystik Man. I think it’s got some nice catchy lyrics, tight musical arrangement, and harmony potential for y’all. As a matter of fact, Seth got one of Mystik’s songs for his girls, Eden’s Blush, so you know it’s just a matter of time before he’s gonna blow up.”

  His girls. I’m definitely glad the Cheetah Girls aren’t going out like that.

  As if reading my mind, Mouse quickly adds, “I see you girls as these strong, independent Cheetah Girls, coming up strong, doing your thing, not taking no shorts. Am I right?”

  We nod our heads as Mouse continues his riff. “See, when I got in the studio with Karma’s Children, I thought their vibe was similar to yours—sweet but strong—and they were just about your age when I started working with them.”

  “Really?” Chuchie asks excitedly.

  “Yeah, they were. But Kahlua was a little older, about sixteen, so I decided we could give her a harder sound. You know, she’s got an edge, that street-but-sweet-type thing.”

  “That’s true, she comes at you with the lyrics,” Dorinda chimes in.