Growl Power! (3 page)

Galleria is unfazed by her father’s story. You can see the disappointment on her face, even though I know Mr. Garibaldi is trying to make her feel better.

“I know,
cara
, how much you wanted to see Nona and Zia Donatella,” he says, giving her a hug.

“Who is Zia Donatella?” Dorinda asks, making sure to pronounce it right. She is always transfixed by family stories.

“She’s my sister—Galleria’s aunt,” Mr. Garibaldi offers, his face beaming.

“I wanted you to meet her,” Galleria says sadly. Then she looks at me and Angie and coos, “I’m gonna miss you two.”

Now Dorinda slumps in
her
chair—glum as a plum.

“When are you going to perform again, Cheetah Girls?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, trying to make us all happy again.

“Your guess is as good as ours!” Dorinda quips.

“Don’t you worry, the Cheetah Girls are gonna be bigger than the Spice Rack Girls—even bigger than the invention of oregano!”

We burst out laughing, then get quiet again.

“Sitting around waiting to hear from Def Duck Records is making us a little daffy, if you know what I’m saying,” Galleria moans.

“Well,
caras
, I’d better go,” Mr. Garibaldi says, getting up. “I’ll see you in the morning with those chocolate cannolis. And again—the eggnog was
primo—perfecto
!” He kisses Angie’s and my hands, and we giggle. Then he tips his cap and leaves.

“When is
your
dad coming home?” Galleria asks us.

“Any minute now—and he’s bringing the High Priestess with him,” I sigh, not looking forward to her royal presence. “If you feel a strong breeze knock you off your feet, I guess that means her broomstick has landed!”

A
few minutes later, we hear Daddy putting his key in the door. We’re glad he is finally home from work, and we give him a big hello. We know that Daddy is under a lot of pressure with his new job at the world’s biggest bug spray company, S.W.A.T. They’re after him to “beef up the bottom line,” he says.

Walking to the kitchen to get Daddy a glass of eggnog, I chuckle to myself. Maybe some Benjamins will fall from the sky for Daddy, just like that new song Galleria and Chanel have written, called “It’s Raining Benjamins.”

“Daddy, wait till you taste my latest and greatest ‘Aquanetta-does-it-betta Eggnog’!”

“Not for me,” Daddy grumbles.

I can’t believe Daddy turned down my eggnog
! I know his High Priestess girlfriend must have definitely put a spell on him, ’cuz Daddy
loves
my eggnog.

Daddy plops down on his brown leather reclining chair in the living room. Chanel, Galleria, and Dorinda hightail it back to the kitchen.

Angie and I just stand there looking at each other. I know she’s feeling the same thing I am—
guilty
—’cuz Daddy is spending all this money to send us back home for the Thanksgiving holidays. He even let us go to the beauty parlor yesterday to get our nails and hair done for our trip, and I know plane tickets are especially steep this time of year. All that money pressure must be the reason he’s in such a bad mood. I feel like we’ve ruined his holidays!

Daddy shoves some tobacco into his pipe, lights it, puffs on it a second, then blurts out what’s really bothering him. “I worked so hard on this damn account, and somebody over at Sticky Fingers got wind of my campaign before we put it out. How else can you explain their coming up with the
same
slogan I created for a flea spray—‘
Flee, you hear me
?”’

“Yeah, it sure sounds to me like the devil is working overtime,” Angie offers, nodding her head like she’s listening to Reverend Butter give a sermon at church.

“Y’all cleaned my blender after you used it, right?” Daddy says, looking right at me and arching his eyebrow like he does. Dag on, he cares about that blender more than he does us! Just ’cuz High Priestess Abala gave it to him as a housewarming present.

Which reminds me, I’d better remind Angie that she’d better not breathe one word about the High Priestess on a broomstick to Ma, or our Thanksgiving vacation is gonna be
ruined
.

“I bet y’all have made a mess of that kitchen, too,” Dad says absentmindedly See, this is the first dinner we’ve actually been allowed to cook by ourselves. “I don’t want y’all spending all night cleaning up—’cuz I know you haven’t packed yet.”

“No, Daddy, we haven’t,” I mutter. How could we pack, when it took us all afternoon just to fix dinner? We had to go to school, then come home and run to Piggly Wiggly Supermarket and buy the food, then prepare it. How could Daddy ask us such a question—and with our friends in the other room? He can be so mean sometimes!

“Don’t worry, well get everything done in time,” I assure him.

“What did y’all make for dinner, anyway?” Daddy asks, his eyes brightening a little. I think he just needed to air all that bug-spray drama to people who care about him.

“Well, let’s see,” I begin, “we made some honey-glazed turkey legs, collard greens with ham hocks, macaroni and cheese—”

“Blackened catfish with swamp rice,” Angie chimes in.

“And gravy!” I add.

“Well, that sounds real good, girls. Y’all go ahead and enjoy yourselves with your friends.” Daddy looks down at his newspaper like we’re dismissed.

I look at Angie like, “Can you believe him?” I thought for sure Daddy would at least sit down to dinner with us—seeing as how we cooked it ourselves.

Looking up and seeing us still standing there, Daddy softens. “Now, you know Abala is coming over, and we’re going to drink her special shakes together. Go on—can’t you see how much healthier I’m looking just from drinking her shakes?” Daddy moves his eyes down to his stomach to make his point.

Yes, he has lost some weight, I think, but what if he starts disappearing before our eyes?

Like Big Momma says, though—“One monkey don’t stop the show.” If she ever met the Cheetah Girls, she would really get a chuckle at how true that saying is. No sooner do we sit down at the dining room table than Dorinda dives into the food like a hungry cub who hasn’t eaten in days—and so do the rest of us! Later for Daddy and Abala Shaballa!
We
are going to eat this dinner, and have ourselves a good time!

Sucking the bones out of the catfish, I warn my friends, “Y’all be careful and leave the bones alone.” Suddenly, I’m stricken with holiday sadness. I wish Big Momma and Ma could meet the Cheetah Girls. Going home would be so much more fun with them there. Digging into the collard greens, I know better than to say anything. I mean, it wouldn’t take much to turn this crowd into an even glummer bunch!

“Good evening, good evening, ladies!”

I turn my head to see the “Holy One” waltzing into the dining room, wearing yet another of her scary creations. I mean, the wrap on her head alone is so high, it looks like it could anchor a catfish boat!

And what is that—a whole row of
teeth
around her neck? Suddenly, I realize I’m staring. Catching my manners, I blurt out, “Hi, um, High Priestess. You look nice!”

“Why, thank you, blessed one, um …”

Angie breaks out in a smirk, and so do I. I guess we like seeing her squirm, because she still can’t tell us apart. (Angie has a beauty mark on her left cheek and I don’t—but we’re not going to tell her that!)

“I’m Aquanette,” I say, finally coming to Abala’s rescue.

“Why, yes, of course,” she says, as her whole kooky coven of friends files into the dining room area. They sort of stand around like they’re uncomfortable, except for the bald-headed one carrying a wicker basket full of strange vegetables I’ve never seen before. I can’t for the life of me remember her name …

“I hope you Cheetah Girls save some room for our brew,” says Abala Shaballa. “We’ve brought special ingredients just for you.”

“Well, we’re really kinda full….” Galleria says, looking around at all of us for backup.

“Yes, ma’am, I don’t think we’re gonna be able to drink any brew tonight,” I say, speaking for the rest of us.

The High Priestess looks like Chicken Little when the ceiling fell on her—I mean, she really looks panicked! “I—I was really counting on you girls participating in our ritual tonight,” she stutters.

“I know, but I’m sorry—this is our last night together before we have to go home to Houston,” I explain, feeling kind of bad for her.

Daddy can drink all of the strange brews he wants, but we are not going to be a part of this hocus-pocus any longer!

“Could you excuse us for a minute?” Abala Shaballa says, regaining her queenlike composure. She scurries into the living room with her coven behind her, and we can hear them whispering among themselves.

“What are y’all whispering about?” we hear Daddy asking them. But we decide not to worry ourselves with Daddy and his strange new friends. After all, this is the Cheetah Girls’ last night together in New York for a whole week—and we have plenty to growl about, believe me!

T
rue to his word, the next morning Mr. Garibaldi drops off a box of chocolate cannolis for us to take back home. Daddy puts the cannolis on the dining room table, and yells for us to clean our room before we go to the airport.

The way Daddy has been acting, I’m worried that Porgy and Bess, our cherished pet guinea pigs, are gonna be sliced up and put in some Priestess-Pocus magic brew, instead of being fed and loved the way they deserve. Angie and I just don’t trust Abala Shaballa—especially not with our pets!

“I’ve got a great idea,” I say, my eyes lighting up. “Why don’t we just bring Porgy and Bess
with
us?”

Angie puts her hand over her mouth and starts to giggle.

“I know we could get in trouble, but I’m sorry—I cannot bear the thought of losing Porgy or Bess! Now, you’ve gotta distract Daddy,” I tell Angie. In my mind, I’m already planning how we’re gonna pull off Operation:. Save Porgy and Bess.

“We should call Galleria,” Angie says, chuckling, even though we’ve got to be downstairs in five minutes so Daddy can drive us to the airport. But Angie is right—if there is anybody who can pull off a mission impossible, it’s Miss Galleria. That’s what we like about her best—she’s got growl power, as she calls it, and she’s not a show-off. (Well, not exactly!)

“Come on, help me think of a plan, ’cuz we’ve gotta get this rodeo on the road,” I whine.

Even though it’s only nine o’clock and our flight to Houston is at noon, you have to check in at the airport two hours before departure—even for domestic flights! What that means is a whole lot of sitting around in the airport terminal for nothing.

“Why don’t we hide the cage in Daddy’s bedroom, then yell for him to come help us with the luggage?” Angie says.

“Yeah—then you show Daddy your math homework or something, and ask his advice. While you keep him busy, I’ll bring the cage down and stick it in the van! I’ll get a towel from the bathroom, too.”

“What’s the towel for?”

“To cover the cage,” I reply. Sometimes I have to spell things out for my sister.

I shove Porgy and Bess’s cage into a corner of Daddy’s bedroom. That’s when I notice a few bottles on his nightstand. I know I’m not supposed to be in Daddy’s room, but I walk over and pick up one of the bottles anyway.

I read the label. Fenugreek?
What on earth is this
? I feel a chill inside me. I open the lid of the jar and smell it: kinda like some of the herbs Big Momma uses for cooking. I run into our bedroom, and drag Angie back into Daddy’s with me.

“I bet you he got these bottles from Abala Shaballa,” Angie says.

“We
know
that—but what are they for?” I whisper.

Angie just shrugs her shoulders, and I can tell she’s getting as concerned about Daddy as I am. “He never even used to take an aspirin or anything—now he’s running a spice shop in his bedroom!” I say, shaking my head.

Because Big Ben is ticking, Angie hightails it back to our bedroom and calls for Daddy to come help us with our suitcases. Once he’s in there with Angie, I creep down the spiral staircase—which is really steep and narrow, so I have to be really careful carrying the cage.

After I put Porgy and Bess in the van and cover them, I run back inside to the refrigerator to pack a shopping bag of leftover food for our trip. I go back out to the van, place the big brown shopping bag in front of the cage, then check to see if it keeps the cage out of view. It seems Operation: Save Porgy and Bess is ready for Freddy!

When I go back inside, Daddy says to me, “Make sure to take along all that food you cooked.”

“I already did,” I say, happy I beat him to it. “I left you some, though.”

“No need to,” Daddy grunts. “You’d better take it all, because I’m not gonna eat it.”

I feel the sting in my chest. “Daddy, are you sure you’re getting enough nutrients from those shakes in the blender?”

“Aquanette, I’m your Daddy, so I know what I’m doing, okay? I can’t even believe I used to eat all that junk.”

Junk
? I know God made turkey legs and gravy for a reason!

“Abala gave me herbal supplements to take at bedtime—so don’t you girls worry about me. I’m getting all the vitamins and minerals I need.” Daddy smiles serenely at us.

“Okay, I’ll just pack up the rest of the food,” I say. Fine, if he wants it that way. The more bags in front of Porgy and Bess’s cage, the better!

When we get into the van and drive off, I give Angie a meaningful look that says we were right to bring Porgy and Bess with us to Houston. Daddy didn’t say one word about taking care of them, and didn’t even notice they were missing!

To go to Houston from New York City, you have to fly out of LaGuardia Airport, as opposed to JFK, like we did when we went to Hollywood—the most fun experience of our lives, for sure. Suddenly, I think about the Cheetah Girls.

“A whole week without Galleria, Chanel, and Dorinda,” I mumble to Angie, who is sitting next to me in the back of the van.

“I’m gonna miss them,” Angie says, sad as she can be. “I feel bad for Dorinda and Chanel especially—’cuz they didn’t seem like they wanted to spend Thanksgiving at home. I wish we could have invited them to come with us.”