“Ooh, look—that’s the thing we’re doing!” Chuchie explains to the guy.
“Good luck, Cheetahs!” he shouts down at us.
“Hey, how’d you know we we’re the Cheetah Girls?” I ask him, suddenly feeling puffed up. Wow, peeps must be talking about us already!
“Well, look at yer outfits—y’all look like cheetahs if I’ve ever seen one.” He cackles like a hyena. “I like your hats!”
“Thank you,” Do’ Re Mi says, peering up at him from under the wide brim of her cheetah-fied Stetson. “I like your hair!”
“Thank you, Cheetah,” he says goofily. “I just took it out of the washing machine this mornin’!”
Chuchie heckles, then whispers, “I knew it was a wig!”
“Ray Charles could see it’s a wig, Chuchie,” I say, dragging her in the direction we’re headed, past the cotton-candy vendor.
“Let’s get some afterward,” Chuchie says, eyeing the pink confection.
“I can’t wait to see the rodeo later,” Do’ Re Mi says, hitching up her pants like she just got off a horse.
Waiters and waitresses in red-checked shirts are still setting up inside the dark Sassy-sparilla Saloon, spreading red-checkered tablecloths on the wooden tables in the center of the room. A boy is putting carnations in little glass vases on the tables of the two rows of booths that line the walls.
I get a squiggly feeling in my stomach: What if nobody comes? Who wants to see a bunch of kids performing, anyway?
“Can I help you, young ladies?” says an older lady, wearing a straw bonnet covered with pretty flowers.
“We’re the Cheetah Girls,” I say proudly, but when that doesn’t get a response, I quickly add, “We’re here to perform in the Miss Sassy contest.”
“Oh, yes, of course—pardon me,” says the cheerful lady. “I shoulda known by your outfits you were performing—you’re the first girls to arrive. The dressing room where you can change—even though y’all look fine just like you are—is right in the back.”
“Thank you,” I say politely.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make sure the rest of our deliveries don’t get ruined. They’ve already broken a whole crate of eggs!”
“Do you mind if I go, and come back right before the show starts?” Mrs. Walker asks the lady.
“No, ma’am, suit yourself. Just come back and grab yourself a table,” the lady says cheerfully. “Just ask for me—Mrs. Owens—if you need anything.”
“Good luck—and I’ll be sitting right in the front, clapping up a storm when y’all come out,” Mrs. Walker says to Aqua and Angie, then kisses us all good-bye.
When I open the door of our so-called dressing room, I’m in shock. “We’re all supposed to fit in here?” I moan in disbelief.
“It’s a good thing Madrina isn’t here to see this,” Chuchie says, referring to my mom, who as our manager would never stand for something like this. Chuchie barges into the tiny room ahead of me.
“She would have a sassy fit!” I moan, grateful that Mom is in New York, cooling her heels for a while.
“I wonder if the Rashad brothers are gonna be here,”1 mutter. Then realize that they probably have more important things to do—like handle the show on the main stage tonight.
“Mr. Steer didn’t say anything about us getting into the concert tonight for free,” Do’ Re Mi says.
“Maybe if we win, they’ll let us go,” Chuchie says.
“Maybe, oh, baby,” I sigh, then reach into my cheetah backpack for the cassette with our tracks on it. After dumping almost everything out, I still can’t find it—and I start to panic. “Omigod, I can’t find our tape!”
“Here, I got it!” Chuchie says, taking it out of her knapsack. “Remember, Bubbles, you told me to hold it?”
“I musta really been scared last night if I did that!” I groan, and Chuchie makes a face. “I’m sorry, Chuchie, but you’re always losing things!”
There is a knock on the door. “Come in!” I say cheerfully. The lady in the bonnet peeks her head in, and I say, “Oh, we forgot to give you the tape for our music.”
“Right,” she says, taking it. “I’ll give it to Mr. Steer. Um, I just wanted to make sure you were decent, because one of the other groups is here.”
“Bring “em in!” Aqua says.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the rhinestone-studded ones, but much to my surprise, in walks CMG—the Cash Money Girls. For a second, I panic, because I’ve completely forgotten their names.
“Wazzup?” I exclaim nervously to the girl with platinum-blond hair piled high on her head. I’m so embarrassed, because my mind is still blinkety-blank. I can’t remember her name!
Ding! I know they were named after dead presidents. Okay, so which ones?
“Ooh, look at y’all,” says the CMG rapper with Miss Piggy eyelashes. Then she registers surprise in her face, those foot-long lashes fluttering. “Oh, hold up, I remember y’all—from New York, right?”
“Well, actually, my sister and I are from right here in Houston,” Aqua says, as if she’s baiting “flutter-lids.” “Where were y’all from again?”
“Well, actually, see … we moved to Oakland a few years ago, but we did grow up here,” says the one with the upswept braids and big hoop earrings.
“Oh,” Aqua says, like she’s not letting them off the hook so easy.
I try to get her attention, to motion for her to chill, but she doesn’t look in my direction. It’s gonna be hard enough as it is, putting up with the attitude of the rhinestone-studded wannabes when they arrive—we sure don’t need more static in the attic, if you get my whiff.
“Y’all never been to Oakland, right?” asks Miss Piggy—lashes.
“No, we haven’t,” I say, trying to be nice.
“See, they’re into this whole hard-core thing—so you gotta go out there and represent if you want to get a rep, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah.”
“They think Houston is corny, okay?” the platinum blonde says, then puts out her hand for a high five from Aqua. “So, until we make it, we gonna cover all our bases!”
Do’ Re Mi and I exchange glances, like, “Yeah, we get your trip, alrighty, alrooty, ’cuz you’re frontin’!”
“What are your names again?” Miss Piggy—lashes asks me.
I introduce us. Then there is a long pause.
“Y’all don’t remember our names? How could you forget them?” Miss Piggy—lashes says, whipping out her chain-link minidress, featuring dollar bills. I try to pretend it isn’t true by just smiling.
“I’m Georgia Washington,” Blondie says, extending her hand.
“Right!” Chuchie says excitedly. “You have the names of the dead presidents!”
The CMG girls laugh, then Abrahamma Lincoln and Benjamina Franklin (not a president, but …) introduce themselves to us again.
There is another knock on the door, but before we can respond, it’s flung open, and we’re faced with those rhinestone-studded wannabes, Diamonds in the Ruff. I can’t wait to see how they’ll react when they see that their playa-hating moves didn’t work on the Cheetah Girls—’cuz we got more pounce to the ounce, baby!
Diamond, who is the taller and skinnier one, prances into the room, trying to pretend that she doesn’t see us—which is next to impossible, since we’re holed in a closet, okay? After she makes a big deal of dropping her duffel bag on the floor, she looks up—and our eyes lock for a split second. Then she looks away, like I was just a fly flitting around or something.
Sparkle, whose stringy weave peeks out from under her white ten-gallon, rhinestone-covered cowboy hat, doesn’t even look at us at all. She just props herself against the wall and pulls out a nail file.
What I’m wondering is, how do they sit down in those suction-cup-tight jeans?
Mr. Steer, the talent coordinator, knocks on the door, and asks if everything is all right. What I wanna say is, “Can we unpack the can of sardines, plee
z? How are we all supposed to fit into this tin can of a room?”
Sensing the tension in the room, Mr. Steer finally pipes up, “I know it’s a little crowded in here, but if it’s any consolation, the house is filling up with folks!”
I sure could use a soda, but since no one has offered us anything to drink, I decide to squash my thirst.
“You know, some of the acts are sitting at the tables, too,” Mr. Steer informs us. “You don’t have to stay in here if you don’t want to.”
Now Miggy and Mo squeeze into the crowded dressing room, but I’m so happy to see them, I don’t even care that I’m being squashed and suffocated.
“Wazzup, Miggy!” I shout excitedly.
“Wow, you got in!” Miggy exclaims. Their mother smiles at us, too. “I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself at the last event, but I’m Mrs. Majors,” she says.
Mo whispers something in her mother’s ear, then beams at me with mischievous eyes.
“Mr. Steer, can the girls get anything to drink?” Mrs. Majors asks.
“You go, Mo!” I wanna shout, but I feel a little sheepish. How come we didn’t get up the nerve to ask for ourselves? I guess we are feeling kinda spooked from last night’s ghost-fest, and now this Diamonds in the Ruff drama.
“Oh, sure! Didn’t Mrs. Owens tell you? You can just go out to the bar and get anything you want. Everything is on the house!” Mr. Steer seems like he’s embarrassed for slipping in the southern hospitality department. Still, peeps sure are a lot nicer down here than they are in the Big Apple!
“Now, I just wanted to let you girls know that we’re gonna be starting in fifteen minutes. Mrs. Owens will announce each of you, so just come on out when you hear your names called,” Mr. Steer tips the brim of his hat as he leaves.
“You’d better keep the door open, then,” Mrs. Majors says to Miggy. “I’m gonna go sit at a table in the front.”
“Say hi to our mother for us!” Aqua says nervously to Mrs. Majors. “Remember, she was with us at the homeless benefit—the lady with the leopard scarf around her neck?”
“Yes, of course, I remember her. I’ll go see if she’s out “there,” Mrs. Majors says. As she leaves, I see her knitting needles sticking straight up out of her purse. I hope she doesn’t poke anybody with those lethal weapons!
“Good luck,” Abrahamma yells to us as they head out the door to sit in the audience. “It’s too hot in here! We’ll be representing for you from the front!”
“Right!” I yell back. I mean, it is a contest, so whoever gets the most applause will be the winner. So why would they be clapping for us?
I try to ignore Diamonds in the Ruff as we pack up our makeup, getting “ready for Freddy and down for anything,” but the glare of rhine-stones is hard to ignore, if you catch my drift.
We do our Cheetah Girls prayer, then our breathing exercises. Now we’re starting to get excited, just like we do before every show. When we release each other’s hands, Aqua yells, “It’s showtime at the Okie-Dokie!”
Chapter
9
I’m so lost in my thoughts, scribbling notes in my Kitty Kat notebook, that I don’t even hear Mrs. Owens begin her introductions. Luckily, Aqua does. “She’s on the stage!” she hisses.
Now I can hear corny country music playing in the background, and it sounds like Mrs. Owens is trying to sing “Home on the Range” on top of it.
“She sounds more like a hyena out on the prairie!” I groan to my crew “What have we gotten ourselves into?”
“Let’s just keep our eye on the prize!” Do’ Re Mi chuckles, then shrugs her shoulders.
“Yippee-yay!” Mrs. Owens finishes her wack rendition. “Now before any of y’all get the wrong idea, I am not one of the Miss Sassy contestants tonight!” The audience claps really loud and does a few catcalls, no doubt relieved by Mrs. Owens’s announcement. “But we’ve got some real sassy talent, waiting to come out here and give you a wild ride on the old frontier!”
“How wack-a-doodle-do can you get?” I grumble to my crew. By now, the five of us are huddled in the hallway, waiting for her to announce us, since we’re the first “victims.”
“These hats are really hot,” I complain to Aqua, lifting up the brim in front so I can pat my forehead with my raggedy tissue. “They’re making us sweat like a bunch of coyotes!”
Finally, Mrs. Owens says the magic words: “Let’s give a hand for our first Sassy contestants—the Cheetah Girls—who I can assure you, sing a whole lot better than I do!”
They should just call this the Miss Corny Festival, I say to myself as I climb the three tiny steps to the stage. The stairs are so creaky, I almost fall backward, but Aqua catches me and pushes me forward again.
Mrs. Owens is standing there on the tiny stage, with the cordless mike posed in her outstretched hand. Where are the mike stands from rehearsal? I wonder, panicking inside till it feels like my heart is pumping pure Kool-Aid.
Chuchie and Do’ Re Mi shoot me puzzled looks as we crowd the stage, but I just shrug my shoulders. By now, I realize that the Sassy-sparilla is definitely a one-horse saloon, if you get my whiff. Thank gooseness we have at least one mike—and if the fairy cowgirls are smiling down on us, maybe it’ll work somehow.
As the tape track starts in, I motion for Do’ Re Mi, Chuchie, Aqua, and Angie to flank me from both sides. Aqua puts up the cheetah umbrella, and we all stand under it until the right beat. Then, I proceed to sing into the mike.
Screech! Screech! Honk! The wack microphone does everything but start oinking! The people seated at the front tables cover their ears—including the Cash Money Girls, who give us a look, like, “Better you than us!”
I pause a minute, to give the audio peeps some time to adjust the sound levels for human noises. Then, clutching the microphone with my clammy hands, I start in again. Meanwhile, the rest of my crew starts clapping, and the audience joins in:
“For the first time in her-story
there’s a weather forecast
that looks like the mighty cash. …”
I happen to look up and catch the facial expressions of CMG—which have gone from amused to horrified in a matter of seconds. I feel my throat starting to constrict, so I try to breathe through my diaphragm, and take shallower breaths, the way Drinka Champagne taught us.
When we start to sing the chorus, I move the microphone closer to the twins, because they have the strongest voices in the group:
“It’s Raining Benjamins
for a change and some coins
It’s raining Benjamins
I heard that, so let’s make some noise
It’s raining Benjamins … again!”
The audience is clapping, but I guess it’s ’cuz they feel sorry for us. I mean, what a master disaster! The five of us throw money into the audience. I try real hard not to look at the faces of CMG, or I’ll faint—’cuz I can’t take any more drama and kaflamma from this wack-a-doodle situation! But no matter how I try, I feel their eyes glaring at us, like mean panthers! What did we ever do to anybody? Why is everybody always trying to block our rainbow, you know?
I can’t run offstage and into the dressing room fast enough. Miggy sees the expression on my face, so she blurts out, “Go get ’em, Cheetahs!”
“No, you go get ’em,” I tell her, gasping to catch my breath, “and watch out for that mike, ’cuz it bites!”
I look up and see Diamond and Sparkle, from Diamonds in the Ruff, still standing in the same spot where we left them—and still throwing us attitude!
“We’ll see you in a minute,” Mo says cheerfully, as they exit the dressing room to go do their song. As they do, the three members of CMG come in and slam the door. Uh-oh—here’s the real reason for my frightquake. What were those ferocious expressions about? I don’t have a clue—but I can tell I’m about to find out!
The five of us start backing up against the wall, while Georgia Washington starts walking toward me—pointing the acrylic tip on her left index
finger like it’s a lethal weapon—which it is!
“I cannot believe that you nickel-and-dime wannabe jungle-snatchers had the nerve to bite our flavor like a couple of hyenas!” she screams, in a booming voice that could wake all the dead presidents lying in cemeteries all across America.
“Georgia, let me handle this,” Abrahamma Lincoln says, stepping in front of her. Pointing her finger in Aqua’s face, she goes on: “Not only did you have the nerve to copy our song, but you have the absolute gall to sing it in our faces! Well, let us break it down for you—we may have grown up here, but we ain’t no corny, country pigeons like you!”
“That’s right,” Georgia adds. “We’re up in Oakland now—and we don’t play that. You got your thing, we got ours—so why you frontin’?”
“Miss Abrahamma, we didn’t mean anything—” Aqua starts to say, but Benjamina Franklin cuts her off.
“Save that drama for your momma! Now, how are we supposed to walk out there and do our song—which you stole from us?”
“And how are we supposed to finish our finale by throwing Benjamins at the audience when you stole that from us, too!” Abrahamma says, spraying spit in our faces.
“You know the only reason we don’t pounce on you like pork chops and leave the bones for the stray dogs?” Georgia Washington asks me menacingly. I keep quiet, knowing she isn’t waiting for an answer. “’Cuz you high school wannabe cubs ain’t gonna win first prize with your tacky hoedown version of our song and our flavor, my neighbor! So you better go home and start dipping your Lorna Doones and sipping your milk now. You dig?”
“We’re gonna finish this later,” Benjamina growls. “If you have any brains left under those tacky cowboy hats, you’d be smart enough to know—you corny cheetahs had better bounce before we come back and pounce!”
As the Cash Money Girls storm out of the dressing room, Chuchie breaks down crying. Diamond and Sparkle stand there like nothing has happened. I catch Diamond sneaking a peek at us, with a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Stop crying, Chuchie!” I yell in frustration.
“I wish Madrina was here!” Chuchie says through her tears.
Showdown at the Okie-Dokie Page 7