Woof, There It Is

by Deborah Gregory

  “Yes,” Angie pipes up, “and she says that that’s the sign we were looking for, and that it means the record deal is ours!”

  “Don’t you think that’s going a little far, Aqua?” Do’ Re Mi snips. “I mean, all Raven did was serve us some linguine and Cokes and that’s no joke!” Do’ Re Mi is definitely the only one in our crew with her feet planted firmly on the ground.

  “You know, I could definitely use some of High Priestess Abala’s Vampire Brew right about now, yo,” I say, smirking. “I still cannot believe we were sitting up there in your living room that time, sipping witches’ brew with a coven of psychos, just because Abala told us it would bring us good luck at the Apollo!”

  “I know you’re right. You remember that noise me and Angie heard in our bedroom closet before we left for Hollywooood?” Aqua says, using her drawl to do a vowel stretch.

  “Yeah. Did you catch Mr. Teddy-Poodly doing the tango while eating a mango?” I riff. High Priestess Abala had given us all shoe boxes filled with teddy bear eyes and noses, poodle tails, and rabbit whiskers. She said we were supposed to put them in our closets, and not open them, if we wanted to rock the house at the Apollo. Wack advice, if you ask me.

  “No, Galleria, the only thing we caught in that closet was a mouse—that’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Aqua says, bursting out laughing.

  “Hold up,” I say wincing. “You mean to tell us that all that shaking and baking you said was going on in the closet had nothing to do with the shoe boxes? It was a mouse in the house?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s right,” Angie says, nodding.

  We all give each other a look like we’re gonna have to keep this Abala situation on the down low, ’cuz something is definitely not right.

  “Were you scared?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “Well—” Aqua hems and haws.

  “Stop faking that you’re not quaking, Aqua!” I blurt out.

  “All right, Galleria. We wuz scared to death! You happy now. I didn’t sleep but forty winks, ain’t that right, Angie?”

  “That’s right,” Angie says, nodding, and eating her sandwich from a cellophane bag. “Even Porgy and Bess wuz scared!” Porgy and Bess are the twins’ pet guinea pigs.

  We crack up all the way to Poly and Esther Fabrics, on Fortieth Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues—that’s where Mom says they sell the cheapest cheetah suede prints this side of the jiggy jungle.

  Of course, I’m in charge of bargaining and negotiations. “I’m getting really good at this,” I humph, as I approach the counter. “I don’t stop till the price drops!”

  Well, I guess I’ve met my match today, because Mr. Poly isn’t having any eyelash fluttering today. “Miss, you either pay the twenty-two dollars a yard, or you take your business somewhere else!”

  “Okay, okay,” I say, giving in, and reluctantly taking the exact sum out of my cheetah wallet. We’re chipping in ten duckets each to float our Cheetah Girls choker escapades, so the rest of my crew is paying for the other accoutrements.

  “Next time, I’d better negotiate with his better half—Mrs. Esther,” I mumble as we leave the store, on our way to buy the silver and gold metal letters.

  “Have any of your rhinestones come out of your braids yet?” I turn and ask Chuchie.

  “No, Mamacita. Not one,” Chuchie says, touching her braids and showing me how stuck they are. “I bet you they stay in until I get my braids taken out next week.”

  “I can’t believe you’re taking your braids out, just ’cuz Kahlua did, Chuchie,” I mutter. “You’re such a copycat.”

  “What happened?” Chuchie stutters, then changes the subject, which is her favorite escape tactic. “If the Wacky Glue lasted this long on our hair, the metal letters will really stick to the suede fabric.”

  “You sure, Chuchie?” I ask casually.

  “Sí. Estoy seguro.”

  “Okay, then let’s roll with it,” I say. In the sewing-supplies store, we get busy, grabbing a big bottle of the supa-gluey stuff, two bags of metal letters, and a bag of snap closures to secure the chokers.

  “Did you get enough letter G’s?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “Enough to start a Growl Power war!” I heckle back. Then I dial my Dad at the Toto in New York factory, to tell him we’re on our way.

  “Ciao, Daddy,” I say, throwing him a kiss over the phone before I hang up. “We’re lucky duckies he’s gonna let us use the equipment at the factory,” I tell my crew, “’cuz I really didn’t want to ask Mom to help us.” I’m definitely satisfied with our escapade so far. “Mom’s gonna be so psyched when she sees the chokers.”

  “How come she doesn’t make Toto in New York accessories for the store?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “She only makes cheetah backpacks and stuff like that. She says it’s easier to buy bags and jewelry than make them, ’cuz it’s less manufacturing headaches,” I explain. “But we’re in this for more than headaches, girlitas. I have a feeling we’re gonna be churning these chokers out by the baker’s dozen!”

  Dad supervises a staff of five at the Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes factory, where all the clothes for Mom’s store are cut and sewn, then dropped off to the très trendy boutique in Soho that my parents own.

  “Cava, cara, and cara!” Dad says, kissing Do’ Re Mi, Chuchie, and me on both cheeks. That’s an Italian thing, you know what I’m saying? When Angie and Aqua come out of the bathroom, dad does the same thing to them. The twins really like my Dad, ’cuz he’s so much cooler than their stuffy pops. Cool as a fan, that’s my dad.

  Dad sets us up at the drafting table, where we lay out the suede fabric to cut it into strips for the chokers. “Posso ayudarte?” Dad asks me in Italian, our private language, but I don’t want his help. I want to make these chokers with my crew.

  “Dad—go do your work. We’re chillin’, va bene?” I say, mixing Italian and English together the way I always do when I’m talking to him.

  “Chill then, cara,” Dad says, making fun of me.

  He looks really tired lately, but I don’t say anything about the bags under his eyes. I wish my parents didn’t have to work so hard, and I can’t wait till I can pay for everything, so they can just go to Stromboli, or Giglio, or any one of the cazillion beautiful island resorts in Italy that they love so much. I’m gonna buy them a house there, too, so they can retire when they’re old. I’m gonna show people that I’m not so spoiled as they think.

  Since Do’ Re Mi is the most skilled among us, she gets to cut the strips of suede. Angie, Aqua, Chuchie, and I use the T-square rulers to draw perfect lines for Do’ Re Mi to cut along.

  “How many strips did we get from a yard?” Chuchie asks after we’ve finished cutting up the yard of suede.

  “Thirty-six strips, which we can cut in half to make seventy-two chokers,” Do’ Re Mi explains proudly. “We don’t have to make all of them now, though.”

  “Awright!” I shriek. “We’re in business!”

  Next, we have to sew two suede strips together on Dad’s industrial machine. Gracias, who has been a seamstress at the factory for ten years, sets us up at the machine, which is used for sewing leather, suede, and heavy coating fabrics like fake fur, which Mom uses a lot for fierce Toto in New York designs.

  The gadget that intrigues Do’ Re Mi most, though, is the machine used for applying the snap closures.

  “Ouch!” I wince, as I try to clamp down on a snap I’ve placed over a strip of suede. Dad comes running over, and I get really annoyed at him.

  “Va bene, va bene. Do it yourself,” Dad says, finally letting me have my way and leaving us alone.

  The most fun we have is gluing the metal letters on the chokers.

  I’m anxious to get my grubby little paws on our first “product.” “It’s not dry yet,” protests Do’ Re Mi, as I pick one up to try it on.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, getting impatient. Mom says that I’m too impatient, but I don’t agree with her. If you want things to happen,
you gotta move, you gotta groove, you know what I’m saying?

  “Okay, now groove, Galleria,” Do’ Re Mi says, handing me one of the chokers.

  “This is so dope,” I exclaim, holding the cheetah choker in my hand like it’s a baby or something. “Girlinas, we’re ready for Freddy!”

  Now I’m ready to talk to Dad, and I go running over to show him the chokers that we made all by ourselves, without his help.

  “Que bella, cara!” he exclaims, and I think he really means it, even though Dad is down with whatever I do.

  Dad insists that I wrap the Cheetah Girls chokers in tissue paper, then put them in a cheetah-print Toto in New York shopping bag. “You must always make a bella presentation when you want to sell something,” he explains to me.

  “Va bene, Dad,” I giggle. I guess it won’t kill me to accept the shopping bag and tissue papers.

  We are all so amped by our first business venture that on the way home, I get another fabbie-poo idea. “Let’s give our chokers a ‘test run,’” I suggest to my crew. “Nobody knows us in Brooklyn, right? Why not try to sell a choker to one of the boutiques here?”

  “I’m down,” Do’ Re Mi blurts out.

  “That sounds good,” Aqua seconds.

  Chuchie just shrugs her shoulders and giggles as we walk down the block from Dad’s factory to Fulton Street. The Toto in New York factory is only five blocks from the coolest shopping area in Brooklyn, known as Fort Greene, which is supposed to be like a black Soho or something. Kinda “boho,” you know what I’m saying?

  “How ’bout this one?” I turn and ask Do’ Re Mi. We have stopped in front of a colorful boutique called Kumba, which has all these African caftans and safari-looking stuff in the window.

  “I don’t know. You think they’d go for it?”

  Angie says. “It looks like the kinda stuff High Priestess Abala wears.”

  “For true,” I say, “and she would look so much doper if she was wearing one of these!” I’m so excited by all this, I’m just dying to go in anywhere and see what they say.

  “Está bien. Let’s try it,” Chuchie says, heaving a sigh.

  The first thing I notice when we walk inside of Kumba is a really strong aroma. “What’s that smell?” I whisper to Chuchie, who has the keenest nose for scents.

  “Mija, it’s just incense,” Chuchie says, smiling. We stand looking around, kinda nervous, because everything looks really expensive. A dark man, wearing a turban on his head and a caftan piled with lots of beads, comes from behind a beaded divider.

  “I’m Mr. Kumba. Can I help you?” he asks politely.

  “Yes, sir, um, we’re the Cheetah Girls, and we make chokers that we’d like to show you,” I respond politely.

  “Oh. Show me what you’ve got,” Mr. Kumba says curiously. “What do you mean by ‘Cheetah Girls?’”

  “Oh, we’re a singing group and, um, we do lots of other things,” I try to explain.

  “We go to Fashion Industries High School, too,” Do’ Re Mi says proudly. “I major in Fashion Design.”

  I guess she’s trying to impress Mr. Kumba with the fact that we aren’t just a bunch of kids, probably because everyone thinks she is so much younger than she really is.

  Suddenly nervous, I pull the Cheetah Girls chokers out of the Toto in New York shopping bag, and lay them carefully on the glass display case. Glancing inside the case, I notice all sorts of African-looking beads made into necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Aqua’s right, this is the kind of stuff that High Priestess Abala would wear. Maybe after Mr. Kumba places an order, we can go bragging to her, and she’ll come shopping here!

  “What are these?” Mr. Kumba asks, holding up one of the chokers.

  “They’re, um, chokers,” I explain calmly, but I can feel my face getting warm.

  “They look like dog collars, if you ask me,” Mr. Kumba retorts, then puts on his glasses to read the metal letters on the choker. ‘Growl Power’—that sounds like something for dogs. What is this—a joke? Some kind of novelty item?”

  “No,” I say, even though I don’t know what he means by “novelty item.” I’ll have to ask Mom. Now I’m really starting to get ka-flooeyed, and I can hear my voice squeaking as I say, “They’re chokers for people.”

  Mr. Kumba heaves a deep sigh, then says, “Nobody is gonna wear these. Maybe a bunch of kids, but that’s not my customer.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say stuttering, then put the chokers back into the shopping bag as quick as I can, so we can do an abracadabra before I die of embarrassment.

  “Thank you, for your time,” Chuchie says sweetly, as we all make a mad dash for the door.

  We’re all real quiet on the way home. “I feel like I was just in a hot-air balloon flying over Oz, then someone let out the air,” I mumble to Chuchie. We used to watch The Wizard of Oz together a kazillion times when we were kids.

  “We’re not in Oz, para seguro,” Chuchie moans back, resting her head on my shoulder as we head uptown on the subway. Do’ Re Mi, Aqua, and Angie get up to transfer to the West Side train.

  “What do you call a mouse who eats at Mikki D’s?” I yell to Aqua and Angie as they get off the train.

  “I don’t know, Galleria,” Aqua says, looking kinda sad.

  “Mikki Mouse,” I say, smirking at my feeble joke. “Sleep tight, tonite.”

  “Thanks a lot, Galleria. We will!” Angie pipes up.

  When they get off the train, I go right back to my sad face.

  “What do grown-ups know, anyway?” Chuchie says, as I give her a hug good-bye.

  “For true!” I agree, as she gets off at Prince Street to go home.

  I ride uptown by myself. I reach into the shopping bag, and look at the Cheetah Girl chokers again. Fighting back the tears, I rub the smooth cheetah suede with my fingers.

  I don’t care what Mr. Bumbling Kumba says. These chokers are dope, even if I am at the end of my rope! After all, we can’t all work that back-to-the-motherland look like he does in his store. But, God, please, get us a record deal before we end up homeless, selling broken-down chokers on the street!

  Chapter

  10

  It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and Dad has already left to go to work. Mom is almost ready to go to the store, because there is some drama. See, she designed all the bridal wear for L.A. rapper Tubby Rock’s wedding party, but apparently the bride-to-be spent too much time at Aunt Kizzy’s, eating barbecued baby back ribs!

  “I can’t believe Peta Rock went and gained ten pounds right before the wedding!” Mom says, sulking and spreading butter on her croissant.

  I stand in the kitchen patiently, because I really need to talk to her, even though she’s feeling ka-flooeyed. She was already sleeping when I got home last night. The truth is, I’m still gaspitating by what Mr. Kumba said about the Cheetah Girl chokers, and maybe he’s right—who is gonna buy these things?

  That’s why I have to ask Mom—because I know if nothing else, she will tell me the truth. “What do you think?” I ask her with bated breath, showing off my choker.

  “You look fierce,” Mom says, looking up from the newspaper and glancing at me, then picking up her mochaccino latte and taking a sip.

  I still don’t move from the spot where I’m standing, and when Mom looks up again, I start motioning at my neck so she gets the drift.

  “Darling, what am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Mom, the choker—I, we, made them yesterday,” I insist, getting more nervous.

  “What’s it say? Oh, ‘Growl Power’—ooh, that is too fierce,” she says approvingly.

  “Do you think people will wear them?” I ask her sheepishly.

  “Well, I don’t think grown-ups will wear them—God forbid they should get an original idea. They’d probably think it’s a dog collar or something,” Mom says, giggling.

  She doesn’t realize how crushed I am. Suddenly, I start sobbing, just like I used to do when I was little. I feel so silly willy, but I c
an’t take any more rejection! Or maybe it’s my hormones acting up.

  Mom just sits there, until I tell her what happened at the Kumba boutique in Brooklyn last night. All of a sudden, she starts smiling, and asks, “Do you know why I opened the Toto in New York boutique?”

  I’m not quite sure where she’s going with this, but knowing Mom, she has a point to the joint. “Because you wanted to, right?” I respond.

  “No—not at first. The only dream I had back then was to make diva-size clothes that would make skinny women pant with ‘Gucci Envy.’ So that’s what I did. I designed a whole collection—and when I had about thirty designs or so, I made appointments with buyers at department stores.”

  Mom sips her mochaccino, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, I was so excited. I knew my clothes were fierce, and I thought the buyers would be begging me for orders. Do you know what happened?”

  “No, Mom, what?” I ask, giggling now, because Mom sure knows how to drag out a story.

  “Every single one of those buyers laughed me out of the store,” Mom says, her eyes getting animated. “Not only didn’t they buy one scraggly piece from my collection, but they told me that no ‘large-size’ woman would be caught dead in my clothes!”

  “Really?” I ask, genuinely surprised. Mom never told me that happened to her!

  “I was devastated beyond belief. I almost threw the clothes in the trash can after one appointment with a particularly shady buyer, I remember,” she recalls, chuckling. “But I figured, I knew at least one large-size woman who would wear my clothes.”

  “Who was that?” I ask curiously.

  “Me, of course,” Mom says chuckling. “And if there was one, then there had to be others—they just didn’t know it yet!”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, puzzled.

  “Well, sometimes people don’t even know they want something until it’s right before their eyes,” Mom explains, nodding her head wisely.

  Now I get her drift. It never occurred to me that Mom’s clothes were anything but fierce, and I can’t believe that there were people who didn’t think so back in the day!