“Everything is fabulous,” Mom volunteers. “Do you have our place in the lineup yet?”
“Yes, I do,” Mr. Pett says, flipping a page on his clipboard. Then, smiling at us, he adds hesitantly, “We want you to go on first. Now, I know that isn’t the ideal spot in a showcase, but—”
“But nothing!” Mom encounters, interrupting Mr. Pett with a smile. Then she blurts out, “We’d have better luck facing a firing squad than being forced to warm up a bunch of suits.”
“I know. I know, Mrs. Garibaldi, but in order to provide diversity for the showcase, we’re breaking up the talent by, um, musical genre,” Mr. Pett says, stammering. He sounds like a used-car salesman trying to unload a broken-down hooptie.
“Well, let me break this down for you by, um, ‘growl power’ genre,” Mom says, very politely, so I know she’s mad. “We’re not going on first.”
“Okay, lemme see what I can do,” Mr. Pett says, taking a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Mom picks up the menu and starts looking at it. I know better than to say anything, so I just throw Chuchie a look, then start fiddling with my hair and staring in the vanity mirror.
“Ms. Dorothea, what did you mean by a bunch of ‘suits’?” Aqua asks Mom, breaking the silence. She would ask a question now.
“That’s what you call record industry executives—exactly who will sitting there judging us, if we go out there howling instead of growling,” Mom explains, exasperated. “Let some other poor prey be led to slaughter first!”
“I know that’s right!” Aqua responds.
A few minutes later, a very nervous Mr. Pett knocks on our dressing room door, and announces the new—and improved—lineup.
“Mrs. Garibaldi, I pulled a few strings, and the Cheetah Girls will go on right after the Beehives. That’ll be a nice segue from rock to, um—”
“Global groove,” Mom says, to help Mr. Pett from flexing fowl and calling our music by some wack name.
“Yes, that’s right, ‘global groove,’” he says, breaking into a nervous smile. “Anyway. After the Cheetah Girls, we’ll segue into the country-western genre with the Toads, so it’ll work out perfectly after all.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Pett. That sounds like a purr-fect lineup,” Mom says, to keep Mr. Pett from “cracking face” any further. “Just give us our cue when it’s time to growl!”
That’s my mom. Sometimes, she bosses me around, it’s true. But I’ll tell you what—when it’s time to stick up for your own, there’s nobody like Ms. Dorothea.
Chapter
7
As show time at the Tinkerbell Lounge approaches, we nervously open the door to our dressing room so we can keep our ear to the action, if you know what I’m saying.
Standing in the doorway, with Do’ Re Mi scrunched against me, we catch four girls with supa-powdered faces, black-lipsticked pouts, and the highest “bou bou fon fons” we’ve ever seen, hovering together at the far end of the hallway.
“Those must be the Beehives,” Do’ Re Mi whispers to me.
I nod my head, like “No kidding.” One thing is for sure, the Beehives must be causing quite a buzz in Boston with that look.
It seems a lot of girl groups have four girls—just like Karma’s Children in Houston, where the twins are from, or the Honeydews. I’m glad the Cheetah Girls are “representin’” with five strong, you know what I’m saying?
All of a sudden, the audience starts clapping, which usually means that an announcer has stepped onto the stage. Sure enough, the announcer’s voice booms into the microphone, trying to hype the crowd.
Do’ Re Mi and I tiptoe a little farther out into the hallway, just to hear what he says. Thank gooseness Mom got us out of first place in the frying pan—we woulda sizzled for sure!
As we stand there, just a few feet from the stage, my heart starts to thumpa, thumpa up a storm, and I start getting so nervous I can’t breathe. This is it, I tell myself. Tonight’s the night we get a record contract, and start making beaucoup duckets, or else our faces are cracked.
That would be a total nightmare, I say to myself. My mom would probably have to quit managing us and get busy again in her shop. Dorinda would probably go off and dance with Mo’ Money Monique and leave the group. It would be the beginning of the end for the Cheetah Girls!
No! I can’t let it happen! It’s all up to me, I think. I’ve got to come through this time!
“What’s he saying?” Do’ Re Mi asks quietly.
“I can’t hear,” I respond, but that’s probably because my heart is pounding so loud.
The Beehive girls start shuffling closer to the tinsel curtain divider. Then, on cue, they rush out onto the stage.
We scurry back into the dressing room, because it’s time to do our Cheetah Girls prayer. We do our prayer before every performance. I think it gives us good luck and, more important, reminds all five of us that we’re in this together—forever.
After we finish doing the prayer, we take a few deep breaths. I can feel my hands tingling.
Just clear your mind and concentrate on your breathing, I tell myself. I can hear our vocal coach Drinka Champagne’s voice in my mind, telling us what to do before we “hit that stage.”
We all look at one another and smile. Mom looks up from eating her plate of linguine, and gives me a big smile, too.
The lyrics from the Beehives’ performance waft all the way down the hallway: “Sting me with your love/Or I’ll fly away like a dove….”
I look at Chuchie, and she knows what I’m thinking. “I’ve never heard that song before,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
Whenever we hear singers, we’re always trying to figure out if they’re doing “covers” or singing original songs. It seems like a lot of groups sing other artists’ material. But we’re not going out like that. Mom says I have a gift for writing songs. But I just feel like, why should I put duckets in someone else’s bucket by singing their songs, when I can sing my own, you know what I’m saying?
All of a sudden, Mr. Pett appears at our door, and Mom jumps up. “It’s show time!” she announces, taking the words right out of Mr. Pett’s mouth.
We all hold one another’s hands, and follow her lead into the hallway. Judging by the clapping, there are a lot of peeps in the house.
At this very moment, I’m not worried about anything—not about Stak Chedda, not about duckets, fame, or fortune. Right now, at this second, I don’t even care if we get a record deal. I just can’t believe the Cheetah Girls are in the house—in La La Land! Somebody throw poppy dust on me, pleez!
After the announcer introduces us, Mom throws us a kiss, and pushes us gently from behind the tinsel curtain. I look quickly at the crowd, and breathe a sigh of relief as we line up across the stage and wait for our audio cue.
The crowd is not so scary-looking or anything. They don’t look like our kind of peeps, but at least they look like regular people. I mean they’re not giving off any Darth Vader vibes or anything.
Mom says that the A&R peeps from Def Duck Records are definitely in the house, checking us out. That gives me the shivers again, but thank gooseness, I’m saved by the beat. The bass-heavy tracks we use to sing our song, “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle” crank up loud over the sound system.
Omigod, I hope that doesn’t drown out our vocals! I suddenly think. I start goospitating, but there is no time left for a visit to freak city. We already did an audio check, and the engineer wouldn’t have set the audio level that high if the mike level didn’t match, I tell myself.
Then I start grooving on automatic, doing our dance steps, waiting for the vocal cue, counting to myself, One, two, three:
“Some people walk with a panther
or strike a buffalo stance
that makes you wanna dance
Other people flip the script
on the day of the jackal
that’ll make you cackle.”
By the
time we get to the refrain—“The jiggy jiggy jungle! The jiggy jiggy jungle!”—I can tell the crowd is feeling our global groove. It’s not exactly like it was on Halloween, when we performed at the Cheetah-Rama for our fellow Kats and Kittys, but this crowd is definitely feeling us, too.
When we do our second song, “Shop in the Name of Love,” I throw Chuchie a quick little smile, and from her eyes I can tell we’re on the same “weave length.” I wrote the song just for her, after she got busted running up Auntie Juanita’s charge card. Juanita has not been feeling Chanel lately, but I know Chuchie’s trying real hard to make up for everything, ’cuz she let us all down.
When the intro beat pipes up, we get ready for our “fierce pose”—placing our arms over our heads—which is a fly move Do’ Re Mi thought up. Then we spin around, and break into the lyrics:
“Polo or solo
Gucci or Pucci
Prada or nada
Is the way I wanna live.”
By the time we take our bow, I’m so psyched, I’m not even nervous anymore—I just wish we could sing one more song! But that’s the deal-io, yo, with showcases: you only get a teeny-weeny slice of the performing pie. I can’t wait till we’re serving it piping hot till our spots drop!
Because Mr. Pett told us to leave the stage quickly after we perform, we don’t really get to take in all the applause. Mom is waiting for us behind the tinsel divider, and she hugs me and Do’ Re Mi when we get inside the dressing room.
“Were we dope?” Do’ Re Mi asks, looking up at Mom.
“Better than that,” she says, smiling with pride. “One of you is fierce enough, but five of you? I hope the world is ready for Freddy, okay?”
“What about me, Madrina?” Chuchie whines, moving in to Mom for a hug, too. Mom is Chuchie’s godmother, and sometimes Chanel really milks it for points.
“Prada or nada!” Mom sings, imitating Chuchie, and we really start giggling, because Mom’s singing voice is a cross between the Tin Man’s and Minnie Mouse caught in a tropical rainstorm. Squeak, squeak, squeak!
Finally, I can relax and eat, so I pig out on Mom’s leftover linguine with white clam sauce. “Yum yum for my tum tum,” I hum as I chomp away.
Raven, our waitress, knocks at the door. “Can I get you girls anything else?” she asks.
“Yeah—a record deal!” Chuchie giggles.
“Just some more soda,” Mom pipes up.
“I’ll be right back,” Raven says, smiling. Lifting both arms over her head, she waves them, fluttering her fingers.
Aqua and Angie give each other a look. “Her name is Raven,” Aqua says.
“Yeah, and she just ‘spread her wings,’” Angie adds. “You think High Priestess Abala was right?”
“I sure hope so,” Aqua says.
“Well, I don’t know about any predictions of the future, but I do know I like her costume,” Mom says after Raven leaves. “Which reminds me, girlinas—don’t change from your costumes yet. Mr. Pett says that after the last act has performed in the showcase, Deejay Captain Hook will start spinning records, and we can go back into the performing area and mingle with the executives, and have complimentary cocktails.”
“Complimentary cocktails, that sounds dope!” chuckles Do’ Re Mi.
“Well, some sounds are deceiving, darling, because in your case, cocktails are synonymous with Coca-Cola!” Mom warns her.
“I know,” giggles Do’ Re Mi, “but you know what I’m saying.”
“Yes, darling, and I’m not playing. We’re just gonna go out there to sashay and parlay till it’s payday!”
We all laugh at Mom’s rhyme, then run back into the hallway to hear the Toads perform.
“They sound more like frogs!” Chuchie quips, after we listen for a few minutes.
“When you grow up down South, you learn to love country-western music,” chuckles Aqua.
“Yeah, well I think it sounds too twangy,” I moan. “Like they should be performing in a square dance or something.”
“Yeah, and those country-western acts are twanging all the way to the bank,” Mom quips. “Did you know that, after rap music, country music artists sell the most records?”
I see Mom is taking her job as our manager very seriously. These days, she reads Billboard magazine, and she’s even got bookworm Do’ Re Mi reading the “trades,” as she calls them.
“Well, I know there are a lot of corny people out there, so I’m not surprised that they buy corny records,” Chuchie says, picking at the rhinestones on one of her braids.
“Stop that, Chuchie,” I scold her, moving her hand from her hair.
“Chanel, those rhinestones were sparkling up a storm under the lights,” Mom says, pleased.
“I know, Madrina, but I’m not so sure they come off!”
“Well, we don’t have to find out right now,” I scold her again, as she tries to touch her hair on the sneak-a-roni tip.
Twirling in the vanity chair, I ask wistfully, “Don’t you just love getting Hollywood-ized?”
“Yeah,” Chuchie says. “I can’t wait till we come back out here otra vez.”
“I guess you will, when you have come-back-out-here money for plane tickets,” Mom quips, packing some of our stuff back into her cheetah vanity case.
Man, I hope we get a record deal out of this. For Mom’s sake more than mine, so she can stop working my nerves!
Do’ Re Mi motions for me to come listen at the door. “They’re on.”
I know exactly who she’s talking about. Those “dead president” divettes-in-training are finally dropping a few pennies worth of rhymes onstage. Angie comes running back into the dressing room to tell us, “Those heffas are really throwing money onstage!”
She would be impressed. “Don’t worry, Angie, you know they aren’t real duckets!”
“I know, but maybe we should do something like that,” Angie says sheepishly.
“Yeah, we could throw stuffed cheetahs at the audience,” I say with a smirk. “And with our luck, it would hit the vice president of the record company on the head and give him a concussion.”
“You’re a mess, Galleria,” Angie says, chuckling sweetly.
Sometimes I can’t understand why the twins are so nice, but they just are. “CMG’s definitely got some flava,” I mumble, while listening to the group’s set.
Mom hates their outfits, so she doesn’t even get up to hear their performance. Angie runs back by the tinsel divider, while CMG keep the flow going:
“Yeah, we rool with Lincoln,
What are you thinkin’?
But it’s all about the Benjamins.
Baby, not maybe, just mighty, awrighty!”
Chuchie and I look at each other, like “all right, they got rhymes.” The executives are obviously feeling CMG, too, because the Cash Money Girls get a mad round of applause.
“I’ll bet you they get a record deal,” Do’ Re Mi says seriously. “It seems like record companies are always willing to bank on a few rhymes, yo.”
“I know that’s right,” Aqua pipes up. “Yeah, they’re good, though.”
“Hey, this isn’t a competition, remember,” I remind my crew. “It’s not like, if some other group gets a contract, we don’t—it’s not like the Amateur Hour at the Apollo, where only one group wins.”
From the relieved looks on the faces of my crew, I know I’ve said the right thing. Thank gooseness!
We all hover by the door now, to wait and see CMG come back to their dressing room. When they do pass, we congratulate them.
“Where are you from?” Chuchie asks the girl who calls herself Abrahamma Lincoln.
“We’re from Oakland,” Abrahamma says, smiling at Chuchie.
“Where’s that?” Chuchie says giggling.
“It’s up north,” Abrahamma responds, amused.
“North where?” Chuchie asks again, with no shame in her game.
“Oh, y’all ain’t from around here. It’s up in northern California,” Abrahamma sa
ys, chuckling.
“Chanel falls asleep in geography class,” I offer, because I’m so embarrassed for her. Even I know where Oakland is!
“How old are y’all?” Abrahamma asks me, because it’s obvious we’re still in school. They look like they’re probably twenty-two or something.
“We’re freshmen in high school,” I say, flossing.
“Oh, well, y’all are real cute. I love your costumes! Did you make them?” Benjamina Franklin pipes up.
“No, my—um, our manager made them,” I say quietly, changing my mind about saying “my mom.”
The announcer introduces Stak Chedda, so we all get quiet and listen. “How is it they always get to go on last?” I hiss to Chuchie.
“Oh, do you know them?” Benjamina Franklin asks me surprised.
“No,” I say, because I’m definitely not telling them we got dis-missed at the Apollo Amateur Contest, and they won instead. “We, um, performed with them once before.”
“Word. Where?” Benjamina asks me. Cheez whiz, she’s like a dog with a bone, she just won’t leave it alone.
“We performed with them at the Apollo Thee-ayter,” Aqua volunteers. Now I’m back to hating the goody two-shoe twins again.
“Word. Y’all performed at the Apollo?” Abrahamma asks, like she’s impressed, but not quite.
Now I really want to do an “abracadabra.”
“We just performed in the Amateur Hour Contest,” I say, my voice squeaking because I feel embarrassed now.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, we was talking to the taller one earlier—Stak Jackson—and he told us they won the Amateur Hour Contest,” Abrahamma says, a flicker of recognition on her face.
Suddenly, the tinsel dividers fling open, and my worst nightmare starts walking our way, with their hands in the air like they just don’t care. “Ayiight!” Stak Jackson says, slapping his brother, Chedda, a high five, like they definitely rocked it to the doggy bone.
I guess they did, but I’m not feeling the bumbling bozos, after the way they dissed us at the Apollo. I don’t care how nice Stak’s trying to be to me now.
Woof, There It Is Page 6