Bow-wow Wow!

by Deborah Gregory

  “It’s a goody bag situation from their sponsors. Let’s see, there’s a two-hundred-dollar gift certificate to the Girlie Show boutique, one hundred dollars’ worth of S.N.A.P.S. cosmetics, gift certificates to Radio Shack, Maroon’s Restaurant, and Barnes and Noble bookstore—I forget how much for each. Oh, and a one-year scholarship for the after-school program at the Harlem School of the Arts, of course,” Bubbles says proudly.

  “Well, it’s not Prada, but it’s not nada either!” I say, blowing the hair out of my face.

  “That steam is killing my dreams. Can you turn it off for un segundo, mamacita?” Bubbles asks me.

  “I’m finished anyway,” I say, turning the dial off on the steamer. “Well, I have to ask Mamí first.”

  “No way, José. Let our manager handle that,” Bubbles says, smiling.

  She’s right. Madrina should talk to Mamí about anything that has to do with our career. That’s what a manager is for, right? “Mamí gave me money to get my hair straightened,” I tell Bubbles.

  “To Pepto’s right?” Bubbles asks.

  “Si.”

  “I wanna go too!” Bubbles says, then does the Roadrunner to the front of the store to talk to Madrina, who is just getting off the phone with an impatient customer.

  “Some of these women need to get a life—not another outfit!” Madrina says, putting down the receiver. “Galleria, what happened? Don’t tell me you got skirt-jacked!” Madrina says, looking at Bubbles’s tiny pleated cheetah micromini in horror.

  “Nothing happened, Mom,” Galleria says, rolling her eyes.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking the schoolgirl look a little too far?”

  “Mom, you know it’s the latest style—everybody’s wearing them,” Bubbles says, ignoring Madrina’s protest.

  “As far as I’m concerned, no one should wear a skirt that’s only one inch longer than a ruler. I can’t wait till this apology-for-a-skirt joins its cousin—neon yellow lip gloss—in the fashion cemetery.”

  “Mom, save your breath for last. Chuchie is getting her hair—”

  Madrina cuts her off. “Yes, calm down, Galleria. You can go—on two conditions.”

  “Condition one?”

  “You extend the moratorium on Biggies bubble gum for one more week.”

  “Hold up. Another week without bubble gum? Are you trying to kill the economy?” Bubbles spurts.

  “Like Gloria Gaynor, the bubble gum industry will survive,” Madrina says firmly.

  “Okay—what’s condition number two?” Bubbles says, now visibly upset that she can’t resume the glory in her nickname.

  “If I give you money to get your hair straightened, then you have to put that skirt in the back of the closet until it grows—or you do,” Madrina says adamantly.

  “Okay,” Bubbles says, knowing she has been defeated.

  “And, by the way, you shouldn’t be bringing Ragu here,” Madrina says, annoyed.

  “Don’t worry, Mom, he’s hiding in his blankie—and I’m gonna go right back home. I just wanted to tell Chuchie—and ask you—about us performing in this talent show on Saturday.”

  Another talent show?” Madrina asks, her eyebrows raising over her glasses.

  “Mom, we’re sitting around waiting for Mouse Almighty to get us into the studio again—I mean, I’m going cheetah crazy!” Bubbles says, tapping her feet impatiently. “All he cares about right now is finishing Kahlua’s album.”

  “Well, darling, you have to understand that she is everybody’s favorite platinum pussycat right now. Your album hasn’t even gone ‘tin’ yet.”

  But we don’t have an album!” Bubbles blurts out.

  “That’s the facto exacto,” Madrina says, sewing cheetah sequin flowers onto a bustier.

  “Did I tell you what one of the prizes is?” Bubbles says, dangling the bait. “A gift certificate to Maroon’s Restaurant.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Madrina says, smiling. Maroon’s is her favorite Caribbean and soul food restaurant. After eating a piece of their red velvet cake, Madrina says she can conquer the world. “Yes, the talent show will be good for you. Yes, I’ll talk to Juanita. Yes, I’ll make sure the Cheetah Girls are entered into the competition. Now take Ragu home and don’t leave him alone or give him a bone!”

  “Thank you, Mom,” Bubbles says, excited, then pulls my arm for me to walk her out of the store. “Come on, Chuchie, walk me outside and let the ‘Riddler’ do her work!”

  Chapter

  4

  In school, Bubbles is always—siempre—the leader of our crew, grabbing (all the attention) or gabbing (about the Cheetah Girls game plan) to any of the Fashion Industries East peeps who’ll listen—which is mostly everybody ever since the Cheetah Girls were flown to Hollywood to perform in the Def Duck Records New Talent Showcase. I’m not bragging, but we have gotten more hookups than all the other peeps at school (even the seniors) and that is why some of them are muy celoso—very jealous—of the Cheetah Girls “growl power,” since we’re only freshmen.

  Today, though, I can’t tell who is gabbing more—Dorinda or Bubbles. I am so sick of both of them munching on everything. I know it’s probably because I haven’t eaten lunch and the only thing I have to munch on are my stupid carrots, but I just want to scream at both of them, Cáyate la boca! Shut your traps, está bien.

  It’s finally three o’clock and the three of us are standing by the lockers, when we run into Daisy Duarte. She is wearing a pair of pink suede UGG boots. I want a pair of those too because they are tan coolio. “I love your boots!” I moan to Daisy.

  “They are my early Christmas present from Papi,” she says, smiling. Daisy is Dominican and her parents are divorced like mine, so we have a lot in common. But Bubbles cuts right in and starts talking about her braces. Then Dorinda starts in with the puppy tales from the projects! “Word, as soon as I opened the door to my house, everybody was ready to pounce on me—and trying to get at Nobu,” Dorinda says, chuckling, recalling her first day bringing Nobu home. “Kenya tried to put Nobu in the toilet to give him a bath! Topwe snuck into the kitchen and put some Cheerios and milk in a bowl. He was worried that Nobu would get hungry or something. And Corky was crying because we wouldn’t let Nobu sleep in his room. It was cheetah crazy yesterday at my house!” Corky, Kenya, and Topwe, of course, are three of Dorinda’s eleven foster brothers and sisters who she lives with in the Cornwall Projects on 116th Street.

  I start to feel sooo jealous again—tan celosa otra vez—about Dorinda’s pooch that I blurt out to her, “How is Gaye?” just so she can change the channel, está bien. Gaye is Dorinda’s newest foster sister. Even though their apartment is already too crowded, Mrs. Bosco agreed to take Gaye in because she was abandoned in a park. (And that’s how we got the hookup for the Mariah Carey concert at Madison Square Garden. See, when the Charm Bracelet diva heard about Gaye in the newspapers, she donated concert tickets to the foster care agency.)

  “Oh, she didn’t go near Nobu. I think she was kinda scared of him,” Dorinda says, chuckling.

  I feel my cheeks getting caliente. I didn’t ask Dorinda about Nobu. I asked her about Gaye. No more—no mas! I keep quiet because nobody is listening to me anyway. Daisy just keeps nodding her head (kinda like a puppy too) until Dorinda says, “Chanel, that’s foul your mom won’t let you keep a puppy, but you can come over anytime to see Nobu, okay?”

  “Yo se. I know,” I say, trying to smile. I am so embarrassed that she said that in front of Daisy! And no way, José, would I come over her house to steal affection from her puppy.

  Now Bubbles makes it even worse. “Tell Daisy about Princess Pamela’s prediction. ‘Ooooooo—there is a furry creature waiting to cuddle with you!’”

  Now my cheeks are burning, but I pretend like I’m not embarrassed. Besides, Daisy is Dominican like me, so she understands things like brujería and doesn’t make fun of it like Bubbles does. I fix Bubbles’s wagon, though, because I tell Daisy in Spani
sh. She is so nice, she nods her head and says, “I hope you get one, mija.”

  Daisy tells us she has to hurry up and get to her babysitting job, but now Bubbles is going on about the Can We Get a Groove? competition on Saturday night.

  Kadeesha Ruffin and her crew, who are the only girls on the school’s basketball team, pile next to our lockers. Kadeesha is always eavesdropping on Bubbles. All of a sudden, she goes into her locker and pulls out a book, then says really loudly, “Yo, did y’all write this?” She is pointing at the cover of the book that everybody at school is reading after school, Confessions of a Backup Singer by Anonymous. “Oops, that’s right, y’all ain’t got a record deal yet. Well, you’d betta be taking notes ’cuz this is what y’all gonna be doing real soon—backing up.”

  Of course, Kadeesha and her cronies, including Backstabba (who stole her nickname from the lead singer of Karma’s Children), exchange some more snickers and woof-woofs. Then she turns and gives me a look like, “Yeah, I think you’re whack. What?”

  I turn away quickly because I really don’t like them. There is nothing we hate worse than people who are copycats. Peeps can make fun of us all they want, but we, the Cheetah Girls, are original. Pura vida.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you should pick up a copy of Full Court Press-On because that’s what you’ll be doing after you graduate,” Bubbles blurts out. “Fixing your broken nails during halftime at the playground.”

  Backstabba flings her arm full of tick-tacky rubber bracelets in Bubbles’s face but Bubbles doesn’t flinch. “Yeah, well, get ready for the cheetah chomp down—coming real soon.”

  “Yeah, well, betta hurry over to Mickey D’s and try their new special. I think you’ll dig it—a jerk sandwich,” Bubbles riffs.

  Derek and Mackerel scurry in our direction to bite on the beef jerky. “Oh, snaps, the Cheetah Girls are at it again,” says Derek Ulysses Hambone with his crony Mackerel Johnson in tow. “Guess you could say they always got more pounce to the ounce.” The Red Snapper, which is the official nickname we gave Derek, is also a design major like Dorinda and has a giganto crush on Bubbles. Mackerel is kinda cute, but I never pay him any attention because he is really shy Today, though, he smiles at me before he shoves his hands into his oversized jeans pockets. I look down at the floor because he makes me uncomfortable.

  Derek leans on the locker next to Bubbles. “Hambone, what’re you holding, because we have to bounce. I’m off to the ortho—”

  “Oh, trust, we know,” Hambone says, putting his hands together over his mouth like he is Principal Daly holding his megaphone and about to make an announcement to the students: “ATTENTION, ALL GIRLIES AND BOYZEES. WE HAVE A CHEETAH GIRLS UPDATE LIVE FROM THE SERENGETI CONSERVATION CAMP. GALLERIA GARIBALDI, THEIR STYLING FELINE LEADER, WILL BE MORE FEROCIOUS THAN EVER COME TOMORROW WHEN HER METAL JAWS ARE REMOVED. THAT’S RIGHT THIS IS AN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN ALERT. WATCH OUT—’CUZ NOW THE CHEETAH GIRLS ARE ‘BOUT TO UNLEASH THE NOISE—FOSHIZZLE.”

  “Well, thank you for doing what you do best—hamming it up!” Bubbles says, slamming her locker shut. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have to make the next stop on our busy itinerary.”

  “What, you’re not going to invite us to watch you get down at the Can We Get a Groove? competition on Saturday?” Derek asks, flashing his gold tooth. Bubbles looks at Derek, impressed.

  “Oh, trust, the bathroom walls have ears,” Mackerel chimes in. “Not that it would be too hard getting the Cheetah Girls’ full itinerary around here—considering you announce it every half hour.” Even I snicker at that remark (because it’s true).

  Bubbles throws Mackerel a look like he’s in choppy waters.

  “Oops,” Mackerel says, doing our Cheetah Girls handshake with Hambone.

  “Oh, you two are so cutie patootie,” Bubbles says, smirking, “you should have a wedding ceremony and wear matching fins. As for Saturday, if you’ve got the duckets to pay at the door, then I guess you will be seeing us perform. What can I say? It’s a free country.”

  “Thank you for that heartwarming speech, Miss America—trust, we’ll be there in the front row,” Hambone says, clutching his Starter jacket. “Oh, and we’ll be rolling up first thing tomorrow mornin’. Can’t wait to see those shiny fangs—oops, I mean teeth—out of prison.”

  “Whoa, ease up, cowboy—gotta have a cup of cappuccino before I stomach the likes of you that early. Can we start that rodeo around noon?” Bubbles says, looking at the gold tooth in Derek’s mouth. “Oh, and maybe it’s time for you to take a cue—why don’t you let go of a little precious metal yourself, huh, Mr. Duh?”

  Derek just stands there looking goo-goo-eyed. Sometimes I don’t think he catches Bubbles’s drift. “Whatever makes you clever, Cheetah Girl,” Derek says, waving good-bye at us like his arms are fins.

  “Oh, Do’, I have been hanging on to these forever,” Bubbles says, turning her back on Derek and opening her locker again. “Daddy got them duplicated!” Now Bubbles whips out pictures of all of us with Mariah Carey in her dressing room after the concert. “Everybody gets one, but, Do’, you get three so you can give one to Tiffany.”

  Dorinda is the official keeper of the Cheetah Girls scrapbook, and Tiffany is Dorinda’s adopted sister who came to the concert with us. “Oh, Tiffany is gonna go gaga for this! Good looking out, Galleria,” Dorinda says, placing the photos in her backpack like they are gold.

  “Can a brother get a peek too?” Derek says, peering over Bubbles’s shoulder.

  Bubbles probably pulled the photos out just to impress Derek and Mackerel. They were sooo green with Gucci envy that we got to go to the Mariah concert in the first place.

  Bubbles just ignores Derek and goes on about Mariah in the photos. “Wow, she really is tall—she doesn’t seem that much shorter than Mom. She is definitely wearing Dolce head to toe.”

  “Word?” Dorinda says, scrunching up her nose.

  “Her shoes—they must have five-inch heels. They have to be Dolce.”

  “Oh, right,” Dorinda says, nodding, then hoisting up her backpack. “I gotta go take care of Nobu before they fry him for lunch.”

  Bubbles grabs my arm (which I hate) and starts walking us down the corridor to the exit so we can get to her orthodontist appointment.

  We are waiting in Dr. Gold’s office for over an hour, so I start tapping my feet out of nervousness.

  “Chuchie, you seem jumpy, bumpy,” Bubbles says, flipping through a Cosmo Girl magazine.

  I know I should tell her about my secret plan, but I don’t want her to try and stop me. Bubbles is my best friend, but sometimes she thinks she knows everything. (I mean, she has a nice figure and it looks good on her. But when I gain weight, I just look like a toothpick with an olive in the middle, está bien.)

  The office phone rings. “Galleria, it’s your mother on the phone,” Ornella, the receptionist, says, handing Bubbles the receiver.

  Mom, why didn’t you hit me on Miss Wiggy?” Bubbles asks impatiently. “Don’t worry, I told you I’ll have Ornella call you as soon as we finish. Did we get in? Wow, really? Okay. Okay. Bye. Oh, all right, Mom!” Bubbles hands the receiver back to Ornella.

  “My mom feels bad she couldn’t get away from the store to be here—that’s why she’s calling,” Bubbles explains to Ornella, who just nods her head and smiles politely. I know Bubbles is embarrassed that Madrina called to check up on her.

  “Mom says we’re in the there like swimwear for the competition on Saturday,” Bubbles says excitedly, leaning on the receptionist’s counter and fiddling with her cheetah applejack cap. Bubbles is so happy that she will be performing without her braces finally. Bubbles looks at Ornella again and explains to her about the Can We Get a Groove? competition.

  “That’s really nice,” Ornella says, beaming at both of us. She has really big white teeth and a pretty brown complexion like Aqua and Angie. I wonder what country she is from, but I don’t want to be rude and ask her.

  All of a sudden, Bubbles whips out h
er Kitty Kat notebook, the one she uses just for writing songs. “Wow, I got a new drift—Bow-wow Wow!” she exclaims, then starts scribbling in the notebook, humming a melody to herself, which sounds a lot like Snoop Dog’s song. (It’s obvious that Bubbles has puppy on the brain all the time now.)

  “Are you left-handed?” Ornella asks Bubbles, her big brown eyes opening even wider.

  “Yes, I am,” Bubbles says, nodding, and still scribbling.

  “In my country that means you come from royal blood,” explains Ornella.

  “Really?” asks Bubbles. “What country is that—’cuz I should move there!”

  “Well, I’m actually from Gabon—but I was born in a village called Medoumou,” Ornella explains. “Off the coast of West Africa.”

  “Maybe when we’re famous, we’ll get to perform there,” Bubbles says excitedly. “We’re gonna try and go to every place on the planet!”

  “Well that sounds like a plan,” Ornella says politely.

  “My dad is from Bologna,” Bubbles says proudly. “So I speak Italian too.”

  Ornella nods her head and keeps smiling.

  “Do you think it’s gonna hurt?” Bubbles asks.

  “Wearing braces is the hard part,” Ornella says calmly. “Getting them off is easy.”

  “Good, because I can’t wait!!” Bubbles says, tapping the pen on the counter to the “Bow-wow Wow!” melody.

  A woman wearing a long white cape and pajama pants comes from the back and stands at the receptionist counter. It’s a good thing Madrina isn’t here because she would want to send the lady’s Star Wars: The Final Frontier outfit to the fashion cemetery and bury it along with leopard turbans and yellow lipstick, está bien.

  “How’s my favorite Cheetah Girl!” Dr. Gold shouts, coming from the back and giving Galleria a hug, then taking her arm. “Come on back into my den of torture!”

  Galleria looks back at me, then says with a snicker, “Hang tight, Chuchie. And don’t forget to read my horoscope.”

  Why did Bubbles ask me to read her horoscope? Aqua always does that, not me.