“No,” Chuchie giggles.
“I don’t know why the sight of blood never bothers you, Chuchie, when you’re generally such a squeam queen.”
I sigh, then get up and leave the stall. “Let’s go see Hollywood,” I tell Chanel.
When we go back outside, Mom is patiently waiting. “It’s okay now, darling?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I mumble, then sulk. I’m so glad she doesn’t bother me about it.
“Ms. Dorothea, that food was really good,” Aqua says, trying to deflect from my misery, no doubt. That’s one thing I can say about the twins—they’re always looking out.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, ’cuz that’s gonna be the last meal you eat before you ‘sing for your supper!’” Mom quips.
I know she’s teasing. Dorinda doesn’t get it, though, and she looks at Mom like she’s already hungry! I wink at Dorinda, and instant relief floods her adorable little face. That’s what I love about Do’—she can always go with the flow.
“Mom, is the record company paying for everything?” I ask, as we walk to the next destination on our supa-packed itinerary. I feel really uncomfortable with Chuchie’s sweater tied around my waist—and I hate wearing sanitary napkins.
“No, darling. It’s not all paid for. They paid for our airfare, car service to and from the airport in both cities, and hotel suites. The rest comes out of your Cheetah Girl retirement fund!”
I swallow hard. That was not the answer I was hoping to get. It means Mom and Dad are paying for all our little extras—and when the Cheetah Girls get together, those little extras can add up in a hurry!
“I hope we have something to retire from,” Chuchie says wistfully.
“I heard that,” Dorinda retorts, then grabs Mom’s arm. “You don’t think we’re gonna end up on the chitlin’ circuit, or something like that, do you?”
“Not as long as I’m your manager—what you do after you fire me is your business!” Mom says, and laughs out loud.
I grab Do’ Re Mi by the arm, and we start skipping down the street together. Do’ Re Mi doesn’t really understand that the Cheetah Girls are down for the ’do—together, forever, whatever makes us clever.
There’s no reason why she should she settle for being a backup dancer—yet—but I know where she’s coming from, and one day, I hope she realizes where we’re going.
“Hey, Cheetah Girls!”
That voice again! I freeze in my tracks, waving weakly as the brothers from the Big Apple come toward us. “Hey, Stak, hey, Chedda,” I say, trying to smile. But my hands go straight to Chuchie’s sweater, which is wrapped around my bloody dress. If they see me like that, I’ll never get over it, I swear! Why is it Stak Chedda always shows up when tragedy strikes?
“How’s the video comin’?” Stak asks.
“Video?” I repeat dumbly. Then I remember my fib-eroni. “Oh, that—it’s goin’ with the flow,” I say.
“That’s dope,” Chedda says.
“Hey,” Stak adds, “maybe we could be in your video—you know, put in a little cameo appearance or something!”
“Yeah!” Chedda says. “We wouldn’t even charge y’all!”
“Uh, no!” I say, looking at Dorinda for some help.
“Our contract says ‘no other artists,’” she says, pulling one out of the air. “It’s an ‘exclusive.’”
“Exclusive, huh?” Stak says, looking at us suspiciously. “I never heard of that … are you sure y’all just don’t wanna share the spotlight? Afraid we might outshine the Cheetah Girls? Tony the Tiger wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, flossing. “That’ll be the day, when y’all outshine the Cheetah Girls!”
“We did it at the Apollo,” Chedda reminds us with a big grin.
“Now, now, brotha,” Stak says, motioning for him to back off. “Let’s be gentlemen. These ladies got a good groove. Just ’cuz we won, that don’t mean they ain’t got it going on.”
“I hear that,” Chedda says, backing off.
“How’s it going with your uncle Dudley?” I ask, trying to turn the attention away from us. Looking down the street, I see that Mom and Chuchie, along with the Walker twins, are admiring yet another window display. Why don’t they get over here and help us?!
“Uncle Dudley’s just fine, ain’t he, Chedda?” Stak says, poking his brother.
“Uh, yeah—yeah!” Chedda says. “He’s feelin’ much better.”
“Was he sick?” Dorinda says.
“Yeah—didn’t we tell you?” Stak says, stumbling a little. “He’s okay now, though. And he’s gonna back us with some serious loot.”
One thing I can tell is a fib-eroni when I hear one. Trust me. There ain’t no Uncle Dudley, and something is fishy in La La Land.
“Uh, we gotta go,” Stak says, pulling Chedda away from us. “See y’all around, Cheetah Girls!”
Funny how they decided to hightail it out of there, right when we started talking about them, not us. But I don’t have time to worry about Stak Chedda, and what they’re doin’ out here in the City of Angels. Right now, I’d better find out where my “Road Runner” mom is dragging us.
“Where we going next, Momsy-poo?” I ask as she and the rest of my crew catch up to us.
“First, we’re going to Mann’s Chinese Theater.”
“What’s that?” Dorinda asks curiously.
“There’s where they have all those famous footprints in cement,” Mom says.
“Oh. Can we go where they have all the stars on the sidewalk?” Dorinda asks.
“That would be the Hollywood Walk of Fame, which is our next stop right after Mann’s,” Mom answers. “Then we can shoot over to Wilshire Boulevard, and head to the La Brea Tar Pits Museum, to check out some saber-toothed tigers.”
“Real ones?” Aqua asks, her eyes getting wide.
“No, darling, we’re the only real attraction the jiggy jungle has to offer today,” Mom says, chuckling. “These tigers are built around bones of the ones who fell in the tar pits millions of years ago. They’re truly fierce-looking. But if you don’t want to go there, we can skip right to the Grave Line Tours and see the Grim Reaper. I’m sure you’ll dig that!”
“Yeah!” Aqua and Angie scream in unison. “We love you, Ms. Dorothea!”
“Well, okay, I guess Hollywood’s lions, tigers, and bears won’t be graced with our growl power this trip,” Mom says, amused. “Besides, there’s nothing like a creepy cemetery for catching some peace and quiet!”
We snicker our skulls off taking in the sights, and later, the trendy boutiques on Melrose Avenue. Melrose is like the Soho section of Manny-hanny—also known as Manhattan, to the tons of tourists who swarm there every minute. Do’ Re Mi and I don’t mention our little meeting with Stak Chedda to the rest of our crew. No sense worrying them over nothing, right?
“When do we get to go shopping?” Chuchie asks, half-jokingly. “Estoy nervosa. I’m getting the willies about tomorrow night. I need to shop.”
Poor Chuchie. Her shopping days were nipped in the bud when she ran up Auntie Juanita’s charge card. Now she has to work part-time in Mom’s store till she pays off the credit card bill. Mom says Chuchie’s really good at dealing with customers, too. I’m not surprised. Chuchie is really sweet—when she isn’t getting on my nerves, that is.
Right as we’re passing the candy-striped awning for Canine to the Stars Pooch Parlor, we get a good glimpse of how the pampered poochy half lives in La La Land. Dogs with rhinestone collars are perched in chairs, getting their paws done.
“Ooh, look at her bou bou fon fon!” exclaims Chanel, as this lady with a bleached white bouffant strolls to the entrance of the parlor with her poodle in tow.
“Oooh, excuse me, miss, can I pet him?” I ask the lady politely.
“It’s a she,” the lady says snobbily.
“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s her name?”
“Godzilla,” the lady says with a straight face. “If you don’t mind, we’re in a hurry, becau
se she’s late for her paw-dicure.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaim, then watch her go inside. “Wow, did you see how tight her face was?”
“Darling, that’s because she’s had so many face-lifts, she’d scare a mummy out of his tomb!” Mom says.
“Word,” chuckles Do’ Re Mi.
I’m only half listening, because I’m too busy staring into the parlor window, looking at the dope display of poochy collars they’ve got there. “I’m definitely angling to get my paws on that cheetah-studded collar,” I whisper to Chuchie. “Toto will love it!”
Toto is my boo-boo. He’s also like my brother. Mom’s baby. She named the store after him: Toto in New York. And of course, she named him after Toto in The Wizard of Oz.
Mom gives us a look like, “Oh, go on inside.”
That’s all the permission we need. The five of us hightail it into the store, to ogle the pets and stuff.
“That collar you like is thirty dollars!” exclaims Aqua, fingering the price tag.
“So?” I hiss, forking over the exact amount to the saleslady. “I just won’t eat lunch at school for … well, forever.”
“Okay, Miss Galleria,” Angie says, giving me a look, like “We’ll see.”
“My prize pooch is gonna look like a prince,” I announce. Then I turn to Chuchie and say, “I miss Toto so much. Do you think I should get him that turkey costume for Thanksgiving?”
“No—he’ll think it’s a drumstick, and try to eat it,” Chuchie says, fiddling with the new cheetah shades she just bought on the cheap up the block. “Ooh, look at these stick-on rhinestones. I’m gonna buy these!”
“Those are for pooches?” I ask Chuchie.
“Yo no sé, but I’m gonna get them.”
“Do you think this is the right size collar for Toto?” I ask, holding up the cheetah collar.
“It looks kinda big,” Chuchie says, shrugging. “But don’t worry. If it doesn’t fit him, I’ll wear it!”
Leave it to Chuchie. “Yeah, I bet you would!”
I put the boot-i-ful cheetah collar in my cheetah purse, and swing it all the way to our next stop, which turns out to be an unplanned one.
We’re passing by this building, and the sign outside says “Frederick’s of Hollywood Museum.” I look in the windows, and let out a little scream—it’s a bra museum!
“We’ve gotta go in there!” I say, excited. I’ve been wearing bras since I was eleven years old (unlike Chuchie), but these in the window are really dope ones!
“Oh, great, I get to feel flat-chested,” Chuchie moans, as we look at the displays of bras, some of which have cups that look like torpedos ready for takeoff.
“Oh, those are ‘old school’ ones,” I explain to Do’ Re Mi, who is fascinated with them all. She’s so small, she doesn’t have to wear a bra either.
Finally Mom makes us leave, and we go to a thousand more places, looking at stars’ footprints in cement, stars on the pavement, and finally, real stars in the nighttime sky. Finally, we start seeing stars swimming before our eyes, because we’re so tired. Still, we’re happy and excited. We’ve had one of the best days of our lives, tooling around the incredible City of Angels.
We go back to the hotel, eat a fancy room service dinner, and spend the rest of the evening lounging around our boot-i-ful suites.
After our baths, Do’ Re Mi and I flop down on the bed we’re sharing. We lay there in the dark, with Mom snoring in the next bed, but neither of us is sleeping. Not yet. I know we’re both thinking about tomorrow night/nervous and excited at the same time.
“This is all like a dream, isn’t it?” Do’ Re Mi giggles, nuzzling her head into the incredibly soft pillow.
“It sure is,” I say softly. “I just hope I’m not about to wake up and find out this is another Nightmare on Elm Street!”
Chapter
5
Today is our “last chance, last dance” to frolic in the Royal Rooster swimming pool. At three o’clock, we have to go do a sound check at the Tinkerbell Lounge, then come back to the hotel and get dolled up and down for the ’do, which starts at seven o’clock.
A “sound check” is exactly what it sounds like. The stage manager of the venue adjusts the lights and audio to the right levels, to make sure that everything is “on the money” for the real performance.
If the microphone situation isn’t right, you could get onstage and sound like a hyena singing an aria. We’re all kinda nervous about it, because the other performers in the showcase will be at the sound check, too. And we know they’ll be checking us out while we’re checking out the competition, if you know what I’m saying.
My crew and I are hanging out at the deep end of the swimming pool, to stay away from all the noisy kids in the wading area.
Mom is lying on a beach chair, because she doesn’t like to go swimming—lest her wig, she says, “does the float.” Aqua and Angie are playing water volleyball, and doing flips in the water. Do’ Re Mi is ferociously swimming laps, like an Olympic swimmer. Meanwhile, I’m flapping my feet like Flipper, and annoying Chuchie, who is lying nearby on a Royal Rooster inflatable float, preening behind her new cheetah sunglasses and bikini. Chuchie has an “outie” belly button, like I do, and she does look très cute in her bikini, because she has long legs and a flat tummy.
“Párate, Bubbles!” Chuchie moans in Spanish, putting her hands over her face to keep from getting her glasses wet. I know she doesn’t like to get her braids wet, either, because if she doesn’t dry them right, they get a serious case of mildew!
“Do you think there’ll be a lot of peeps at the showcase?” Chuchie asks me. I can tell she’s getting nervous, but I’m just trying to chill.
“Sí, Mamacita,” I say, spurting water from my mouth. “I don’t think they’d fly us out here just to sit with Captain Hook and a snook!”
If fairy tales do come true, then the Tinkerbell Lounge on Sunset Boulevard is the place. We’re half an hour early for the sound check, so we stand outside under the lounge’s silver awning, pressing our faces against the glass window to see inside.
“Everything is silver and shiny—even the big disco balls hanging from the ceiling,” Do’ Re Mi reports, like she’s an interior decorator or something. “Even the couches are sprinkled in Stardust!”
As we wait, I start humming verses from the song I wrote, “Welcome to the Glitter-dome,” because it reminds me of why I have dreams, and how we got here. My crew joins in and sings along just for fun:
“Twinkle-dinkles, near or far,
stop the madness and be a star
Take your seat on the Ferris wheel,
and strap yourself in for the man of steel.
Welcome to the Glitterdome
It’s any place you call home.
Give me props, I’ll give you cash,
then show you where my sparkles are stashed.
Glitter, glitter. Don’t he bitter!
Glitter, glitter. Don’t he bitter!
Glitter, glitter. Don’t he bitter!”
We’re so caught up in our reverie that we don’t notice someone else has arrived at the scene of the rhyme—but I would recognize that voice in a dark alley from the bottom of a Dumpster truck.
“Yo, Cheetah Girls—Tony the Tiger let you out the house again?” It is none other than Stak Jackson, stepping out of a black Town Car and onto the sidewalk, with his brother, Chedda, trailing right behind him.
“It’s like déjá vu,” Chuchie gasps under her breath.
“This isn’t déjá vu, Chuchie,” I hiss, “’cuz this nightmare already happened—and I can’t believe it’s happening again!” How could two rappers—unknown to the world as Stak Chedda—strike twice like lightning? Where is Cheetah Girl justice when you need it?
Bracing myself for a showdown, I put my hand up over my left eye as if I’m shielding myself from the sun. “Yellow satin—it’s a little bright for ‘Sunset’ Boulevard, don’t you think?”
“Not as bright as
you, Cheetah Girl,” Stak Jackson says, grinning from ear to ear. “You in the showcase, too?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, then sigh because my last shred of hope that the bumbling bozos were here as a janitorial team has just been yanked away. “I just made that up about the music video,” I admit.
“Oho!” Stak says, laughing it up. “Afraid Stak Chedda gonna come away with the cheese again?” He and Chedda high-five it, grinning from ear to ear.
“How’s your uncle Dudley?” I ask, smirking, ’cuz I know there ain’t no Uncle Dudley.
“Uh, well,” Stak says sheepishly.
“I thought so!” I floss. “I guess he’s resting in peace!”
Now it’s the Cheetah Girls’ turn to high-five it!
Luckily for all of us, just then a tall man with a lopsided buzz cut steps to the entrance of the Tinkerbell Lounge and asks, “Are you the Cheetah Girls?”
“Yes,” I reply, speaking for the group like I usually do. It’s one of my problems sometimes, but all in all, I’m not sorry I’m that way—a lot of times, it helps to just get it out, know what I’m sayin’?
“I’m Paul Pett, the showcase coordinator,” he says, extending his hand to shake mine. I like his professional groove already.
“Hi, I’m Mrs. Garibaldi,” Mom says, extending her hand now, like it’s a delicate lily waiting to be sniffed for its aromatic qualities. “Remember, we spoke on the phone?”
“And we’re Stak Chedda,” breaks in Chedda Jackson, like someone asked him. “An A and R guy from your label peeped us at Club Twice as Nice in the Bronx, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” says Mr. Pett, trying to be “twice as nice,” I guess.
Aqua gives me that fabulous Walker twins puzzled expression, but Do’ Re Mi steps to the plate with a piece of the puzzle. “What’s an A and R guy?”
“Oh, that’s the record company executive who signs an artist and is responsible for groom-their career, so to speak,” Mr. Pett explains.
“Yeah. It means ‘artist and repertoire,’” Chedda explains, like he’s got it going on in the “knowledge department.”
Woof, There It Is Page 4