Shop in the Name of Love

by Deborah Gregory

  Dorothea, wearing a dalmatian-dotted caftan, has her hands on her hips and is looking at my mom but standing over me, which makes me feel smaller than Dorinda. I know I’m not going to be a Cheetah Girl anymore. I’m so sad, I burst into tears.

  “Now, I don’t think that making you leave the group is going to teach you anything, Chanel, and I know how much this means to Galleria, so we’ve worked out a solution,” Dorothea continues. “You are going to work part-time in my store and pay back every penny you charged up on Juanita’s cards, even if it takes you till you’re a very old Cheetah Girl!”

  Gracias, Dios! I say to myself. Thank goodness! My prayers have been answered! I don’t have to leave the Cheetah Girls after all!

  “Thank you, Dorothea! Thank you, Mamí!” I gush, the tears streaming down my face. “I will pay back all the money, te juro—I swear! And thank you s-o-o-o much for letting me stay in the group!”

  All the other girls let out a shout of sheer relief, and hug me tight. But a word from my madrina makes them quiet down.

  “We’re not finished with you yet, señorita,” Dorothea says, looking at me and getting more serious. “You know, Chanel, we all love to shop. It’s fun, but it is not something you do when you are unhappy, or mad at someone, or looking for love, or for approval from kids in school. Love you get from your family, your friends—your mom—not Oophelia’s catalog. If you are shopping with money you don’t have—whether you are a child or a grownup—then you have a problem, and you’ve got to own up to it, and change your ways.”

  Even though I don’t say anything, I nod my head so Dorothea and my mom know that I understand.

  “Mom, I like that,” Bubbles says all excitedly, then whips out her notebook.

  “Like what, darling?” Dorothea says, not at all amused.

  “What you said about shopping for love. I’m going to write a song about this!”

  “That’s nice, darling, just don’t act like you’re large and in charge with my credit card.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Bubbles says meekly.

  “Mrs. Simmons, I wanna give back the outfit Chanel bought me. Is that okay?” Do’ Re Mi asks quietly.

  “No, Dorinda, you keep that. Chanel is gonna pay for it, so you might as well wear it,” Mom says.

  Nobody is stupider than I am, I think to myself. Why couldn’t I be smart like Bubbles, or Dorinda? “When do I start working?” I ask.

  “There’s no time like the present,” Dorothea quips, then looks at Bubbles and the rest of our crew.

  “I got a Spanish quiz tomorrow, so I’d better study,” Bubbles says, then picks up Toto and gives him a kiss on his nose. “Bye, Boo-boo— you be a good boy, and help Mom chase away all the bozos!”

  “Knowing Toto, I’m surprised he didn’t ask that man for a sip of wine from that bottle he was carrying!” Dorothea says, opening up the cash register.

  Do’ Re Mi picks up her backpack and puts it on her munchkin shoulders, saying, “Guess he’s just tippin’ when he’s not sippin’!” She is making a joke on the Drinka Champagne’s disco song from back in the day. I can see we’re all feeling a lot better—most of all, me! Good old Dorothea—she is the best!

  “It’s gonna be all right,” she tells my mom. “Don’t write Miss Cuchifrita off yet. She isn’t crazy, just lazy, but she’ll learn that duckets don’t drop from the sky. Trust me.”

  They both laugh. It’s the first time I’ve seen Mom smile since we got here. But then, Dorothea could make anybody laugh. She is tan coolio.

  “Come here, baby,” my mom says. I do, and she throws her arms around me. I hug her tight. “You know I love you so much. I’ve just got to be able to trust you, that’s all.”

  “You can, Mamí,” I tell her, meaning it with all my heart. “I’m gonna play it straight with you from now on.” I hug her back, really tight. “And thanks for letting me stay in the Cheetah Girls.”

  “I know how much it means to you, baby,” she tells me, as Dorothea and my crew look on, smiling. “After all, I’ve had dreams, too.”

  She and Dorothea smile at one another, and just for a second, I can imagine them when they were our age. Young, full of dreams, and chasing la gran fantasía.

  “I love you, too, Mamí,” I whisper, smiling and crying at the same time. “And from now on, you can trust me one hundred percent!”

  “That’s my Miss Cuchifrita!” Dorothea says, smiling. And we all share a laugh together.

  Chapter

  8

  Mr. Johnson called us with good news this morning. Not only has he booked us, the Cheetah Girls, for the Amateur Hour contest at the world-famous Apollo Theatre on 125th Street, but he has talked Hal Hyena, the president of Hyena Records, into coming to see us perform!

  “He says he called in a favor—’cuz we got the flava!” Bubbles types to me on the computer screen.

  The Phat Planet chat room on the Internet has become my hangout, because, as Pucci so loudly announces to everybody, “Loco Coco is grounded!” But Aqua’s idea about forming the Cheetah Girls Council and having meetings sure comes in “handy dandy” for a grounded señorita like myself.

  I only get to go out to go to school, to work at Dorothea’s boutique, and take classes at Drinka’s. So, of course, our meetings have to be on-line, but that’s okay. They really help.

  I am not sad anymore about what happened, because I’ve learned a good lesson. I’m only sorry that I caused everybody so much trouble. I like working at the store, of course, because I love Dorothea. And slowly but surely, I’m paying back the money I owe my mom. Of course, at the rate I’m going, it’s gonna take me about a year, but like they say, I made my bed, now I’ve gotta lie down in it.

  “Loco Coco is grounded, Papí!” I can hear Pucci on the phone with my dad in the kitchen, which is way down the hall from my bedroom.

  I’m finally going to see my dad tonight, and I’m going to tell him everything. I know he must have heard the whole story by now, though, and I’m sure I’m going to get yelled at big-time.

  “Do me a flava. Who’s gonna come with me to see my dad?” I type on the screen.

  “I want y’all to hear the lyrics I wrote for this song,” Bubbles types, ignoring my request. “Guess what the title is?”

  “‘You Think You Large ’Cuz You Charge’?” Do’ Re Mi snaps.

  “Cute, but no loot, Do’ Re Mi! Anybody else want to take a crack at my new song attack?”

  I have a title idea, so I type it in: “’Chanel Ain’t So Swell’?”

  “That was true when you broke one of our sacred commandments, but now it isn’t, because you’re working for the ‘Benjamins.’ Give up yet?”

  “What’s the sacred commandment, anyway?” Do’ Re Mi types.

  At least somebody had the nerve to ask.

  “Um, let’s see,” Bubbles types in. I can just see her making up a snap on her feet. “’You can only do so much fibbing to your friends who’ve seen you in your spotted pj’s before you’re so far backed up in a corner, you come out boxing like a cuckoo kangaroo’? How’s that?”

  “Galleria, you’re a mess!!!!” Angie types in. “But that is the truth you’re preaching, because the Lord don’t like lies.”

  “Or flies!” Do’ Re Mi types in.

  Oh, just what I need—for the gospel hour to begin. When Aqua and Angie get started, you never know when it’s going to end.

  Bubbles isn’t having it, though. “Okay, back to name that tune? Y’all give up yet?”

  “Yes!” we all type one by one.

  “It’s called, ‘Shop in the Name of Love,’” Bubbles types.

  Leave it to Bubbles. Nobody is better with words than she is.

  “Come on, Bubbles, let’s see the Cheetah-licious lyrics!”

  “Not now, brown cows. I want Mr. Johnson to hear it first when we go to the studio again. Maybe he and Pumpmaster Pooch will let us record it for our demo tape!”

  “What time do we have to be at the studio?” Do’ Re Mi a
sks. “Mrs. Bosco has got to go down to the agency with Twinkie, another one of her foster kids, so I’m on baby-sitting duty.”

  “We have to be there by ten o’clock,” Angie responds.

  Basta. Enough. I need help here, and nobody’s paying any attention. “Listen, I feel like a holograma because no one is answering me! I have to go my dad’s store tonight—who’s gonna come with me?” I type, hoping Bubbles will take the steak bait. She loves my dad’s Shake-a-Steak sandwich.

  “We’ll go with you,” Angie types.

  “I’ll come, too, but I gotta drop Toto off to Dr. Bowser, the doggie dentist, first,” Bubbles types.

  “Maybe if you didn’t give him so much Double Dutch Rocco Choco ice cream he wouldn’t have to go to the dentist,” I type. I mean, Toto eats too many treats.

  “I’m gonna let you slide the read ride this time, Chuchie, since you are seriously grounded, but we’ll be there to back you up,” says Bubbles.

  “Está bien!” I type back. That’s my crew for you. Always down for the ‘do. And not just hairdos either.

  We are really pouting on the way to my dad’s store. It’s a good thing we’ve still got Amateur Hour at the Apollo Theatre coming up, because our session at the studio did not go well at all. If the song Pumpmaster Pooch and Mr. Johnson had us singing the first time was la wacka, you had to hear the one he gave us the second time around.

  “It was called ‘Can I Get a Burp?’” Bubbles moaned as soon as she read the title. “What are we now, cows? she asked. “I don’t think these guys get our image, and I’m not going out like that. Did you hear how they responded to my ‘Shop in the Name of Love’ lyrics?”

  “Word, I noticed it. When you showed him the song, he looked at you like you were a stray dog or something,” Do’ Re Mi says.

  “Let’s sing some of it together before we go in to Killer Tacos, yo?” Bubbles says, looking at us.

  “We’re always down for the singing swirl, Bubbles!” Do’ Re Mi says, leading us on as we start to sing “Shop in the Name of Love.”

  “Honey may come from bees

  but money don’t grow on trees.

  When you shop in the name of love

  you gotta ask yourself

  What are you dreamin’ of?

  What are you schemin’ of?

  What are you trippin’ on, love?”

  By the time we get to the refrain, we are on 96th Street and Broadway, two steps from my dad’s store. Then we do the cute “call and response” refrain that comes at the end of the song. We’re groovin’ from all the people watching us sing.

  “Polo or solo.

  Say what?

  I want Gucci or Pucci.

  Say what?

  It’s Prada or nada.

  Yeah—you got that?

  Uh-huh, I got that.

  Excuse me, Miss, does that dress come in red or blue?

  Oh, no?

  Well, that’s alright ’cuz the cheetah print will always do!

  The Cheetah Girls are large and in charge

  but that don’t mean that we charge up our cards!

  The Cheetah Girls are large and in charge

  but that don’t mean we charge up our cards!”

  We finish with a big dance flourish, and all of a sudden, people all around us on the street are applauding, whooping it up, and shouting for more!

  “I don’t care how many pound cake remixes Pumpmaster Pooch did for Sista Fudge, nobody writes más coolio songs than my Bubbles,” I exclaim.

  “Yeah, but how are we gonna get in a studio and do the songs we love?” Do’ Re Mi adds, hitching up her backpack.

  “Yeah, ’cuz we sure don’t have songs-we-love money for no studio time,” Bubbles says sadly.

  “Maybe I could ask Princess Pamela,” I say excitedly.

  “Sure, Chuchie, as if you aren’t in enough trouble for two lifetimes!” Bubbles says, then pulls my braids. “Excuse me, does that dress come in red or blue?”

  We are laughing, right up until we see my father standing by the door. He is obviously waiting just for us, and I can tell he is grass-hopping mad.

  “Ay, Dios mío, Chuchie, his eyes are breathing fire hotter than his Dodo Mojo Salsa Picante,” Bubbles says, trying to make a joke. Nobody laughs, though. We all get real quiet.

  “Hi, Papí,” I say, squeaking. I have a little knot in my stomach, even though I want to hug him. I decide not to say one more word. I’m in enough agua caliente—hot water—as it is.

  Then I see the anger go right out of his eyes. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his forehead. “You girls are late. I was getting worried. I don’t like you walking around the city at night, tú entiendes?”

  “Sí,” I say softly.

  He takes us inside, and we sit down in one of the red plastic booths. Both he and Princess Pamela have red chairs in their stores—hers are velvet, though. Dad looks right at me. His eyes look very sad. Then he reaches into his pocket, takes out my copy of Mr. Johnson’s agreement, and lays it on the table.

  “Now, listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “I don’t have an opinion one way or the other. But I just got off the phone with Pamela, and she says you girls shouldn’t sign this agreement.”

  “Why doesn’t she want us to sign?” I ask.

  “You mean because she got a psychic feeling, or something?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

  “Yes, I guess that’s what you could call it,” he says, pulling on his salt-and-pepper goatee. “But if I know one thing about Pamela, her premonitions are not to be played with, entiendes?”

  We all look at each other like we’ve just seen a monster.

  “Pamela said, ‘Tell the Cheetah Girls to stay away from the animals.’ She said Chanel would understand,” my dad explains, looking at me again.

  “What animals?” I respond, acting all innocent, nervous that the spotlight is now on me. I realize she must have known it was me on the phone all those times. How embarrassing!

  All of a sudden, la lucha—the light—goes on inside my head, and I see what Princess Pamela was trying to tell me over the phone. “Beware of predators who run in packs,” I remember her saying to me. “They will prey on your good fortune. They will circle around you like vultures and steal what is yours.”

  It wasn’t the Cheetah Girls she was trying to warn me about! “Oh, snapples—Mr. Jackal Johnson and Mr. Hyena!” I gasp. “Jackals and Hyenas. Those are the animals!”

  “What should we do?” Angie asks, nibbling on one of her Pee Wee Press-On Nails, then tapping her hand on the table nervously. “I mean, it’s only a premonition … and we’ve got this big gig comin’ up at the Apollo….”

  “Let me see what my mom thinks,” Bubbles says, acting large and in charge, and taking her cell phone out of her backpack. These days, we are depending on Dorothea más y más—more and more.

  “My mom can’t see the future, but she can smell an okeydokey from the OK corral a mile away!” Bubbles quips. Over the phone, she explains the situation to her mom.

  When she hangs up, Bubbles has a satisfied smile on her face. She says, “Mom says she has a call in to Mrs. Eagle, her lawyer, to see what she thought about the agreement. Shell let us know as soon as she gets a peep.”

  “So,” Dad says, turning to me like a secret agent. “Did you at least win that Prada bag?”

  “Nope,” I say, looking sheepish, because my dad obviously knows everything, thanks to the Mummy, aka my mom. “Can you believe Derek Hambone did—and he only bought one ticket!”

  Shaking his head, Dad asks, “What about that date with Krusher?”

  Ay, Dios! He really does know everything.

  “Nope,” I say, all sad, so at least my dad will feel sorry for me. “Can you believe some DJ from WLIB radio won? It’s so unfair!”

  All of a sudden, Dad lets out a roar of a laugh, showing his big, big teeth. “That contest must’ve been rigged!”

  “And you know Chuchie made more calls to that 900 number tha
n the rest of us make in a year!” Do’ Re Mi says.

  We all laugh. Then me and my dad do something we haven’t done in a long time. We hug each other real tight, and I start crying. “I love you, Papí.”

  “I know, mía princesa,” he says, stroking my head as I lean against his shoulder. “I love you, too—but you really can’t ‘shop in the name of love.’”

  I look at my dad in surprise.

  “I heard you girls singing outside,” Dad says, raising his thick eyebrows. “A deaf man could hear you down the block. I think Pamela is right, though—the Cheetah Girls are gonna make a lot of people happy—especially my Cheetah Girl!”

  Chapter

  9

  I am humming to myself on the way out my front door, when I stub my toe really hard on a case of Pucci’s Burpy’s soda that is sitting in the hallway. “Pucci, could you put this box in the kitchen, por favor!” I yell out. “It’s in the way! I just tripped right over it!”

  “I don’t care, just do it yourself!” Pucci says, running into his room. He has been mad at me all day because I got to see Dad and he didn’t.

  “You know, for all that money I spent on ballet lessons for you, you are clumsy,” Mom yells at me from the kitchen. She is wearing a turban on her head with a big diamond broach in the middle, and is all dressed up to go meet Mr. Tycoon at the airport.

  “Mom, how come Pucci gets to order Burpy’s soda from the Internet?” I yell back at her.

  “Your ordering days are over till you can buy it yourself, that’s why!” she says.

  “Mom, I’m going to the meeting at Mr. Johnson’s,” I say. Bubbles’s mom has called the meeting, but she won’t say why. Only that her lawyer called her back, and she wants to straighten things out with Mr. Johnson. I’m worried about it—I know Princess Pamela warned us about him, but he’s the only manager we’ve got—and we’ve got our demo coming out, and the gig at the Apollo—if it doesn’t work out with Mr. Johnson, what are we gonna do?

  All Mom says is “Be back in time for dinner, Chanel. And tell Dorothea the Dolce & Gabbana sample sale starts at ten o’clock tomorrow.”