It's Raining Benjamins (4 page)

“You were right—it's the move,” Bubbles says, nodding absentmindedly. She is still glued to the book, and
muy fascinada
with the pygmy pets.

At last, I see Derek and Mackerel bopping down the hallway in our direction. “Red Snapper Alert,” I whisper softly, nudging Bubbles's arm.

She waves at Derek from down the hall, motioning for him to come over to us. Usually, we just ignore Derek (whom we call Red Snapper behind his back), but today we're happy to see him … and even Mackerel.

“Mr. Hambone, here you go. You are the proud owner of a Cheetah Girls choker,” Bubbles says, handing him the choker, which we made extra wide just for him.

Derek examines the merchandise with a smile on his face, and fingers the shiny silver metal letters that spell
SCEMO
. “Oh,
that's
how you spell that word you're always calling me. Shame on
you
, Cheetah Girl. I dig it,” Derek says, flashing his gold-toothed smile. (A lot of
la gente
where Abuela lives have gold teeth.
Cuatro yuks
!)

“Do you really like it?” I ask Derek proudly.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, nodding his head. “You Cheetah Girls got skills, no doubt.”

“No doubt on that tip,” Mackerel says, nodding along, trying to get me to look at him—but it's too early in the morning for me to look at
his
snaggletooth smile.

We stand there waiting for Derek to whip out the duckets. Finally he gets the hint.

“Word, I guess it's time to dole out the duckets,” he says, laughing and reaching into his deep-sea pockets.

We wait patiently as the Red Snapper retrieves a ten-dollar bill and hands it to Bubbles.

Wait a minute
—I thought Bubbles told him the chokers cost
twenty
dollars!

“Did you get amnesia or something?”

Bubbles asks Derek on the
sarcástico
tip. “We said twenty dollars, my brutha.”

“Yeah, well, we heard you was charging LaRonda ten dollars,
my sista
,” Derek retorts, slapping Mackerel a high five.

Derek
always
has good comeback lines. I think that's why Bubbles doesn't like him—because he can snap better than she can, and Bubbles thinks she's the best—
la mejor
.

“Can't blame a Cheetah Girl for trying to get more ‘pounce for the ounce,' now can you, Derek?” Bubbles snaps back, with a smirk on her face that says she's satisfied with
her
comeback line.

“No, but I hope you don't mind that the ‘Red Snapper' is always gonna be ‘off the hook!'” Derek says, heckling and slapping Mackerel a high five, like he is
supa
-satisfied with
his
snap.

How'd he know we call him the Red Snapper
? Uh-oh. Somebody probably told him. Fashion Industries East peeps are like
telenovelas
, it seems—there is always some “drama” to watch.

“No, we don't mind, Derek—especially if you come back and buy another choker,” I throw in, giggling. Bubbles doesn't always have to get the last word. Then—even though it kills me—I blurt out, “You know, Mackerel,
you
would look
tan coolio
with a choker, too!”

“Is that right?” he says, perking up and grinning ear to ear.

Oh, no
! I don't want to see his
vampira
teeth—they're so crooked and pointy, they make me cringe!

Luckily, Dorinda steps up to the snap plate and says, “You two try to roll like you're the dynamic duo, right? Well, do it, duo! Buy another choker, joker!”

“
Ayiight
. I'll take one of them, too,” Mackerel says—quietly, because he's kinda shy. That's when I notice that Mackerel's eyebrows are kinda arched high—just like High Priestess Abala Shaballa Cuckoo or whatever her name is. (She is the girlfriend of Aqua and Angie's father. We went over to the twins' apartment before we flew out to Los Angeles, and we had to drink this nasty “good luck” witches' brew she cooked up.)

Maybe Mackerel is a
vampira
, too, like her. You never know how
la gente
are getting around these days—on broomsticks or the bus,
está bien
?

Mackerel gives Bubbles a five-dollar bill, then fishes around for more money out of his pocket.

“I got your back, Mack,” Derek says, diving into his deep-sea pockets for more duckets. “Here you go, Cheetah Girl,” he says, handing it to Galleria. Then he moves a little closer to her. “Maybe y'all wanna come to the fashion show at Times Square Tabernacle Church on Tuesday night. Tickets are ten dollars. It's for a good cause, and you'll get to see how a brutha works the runway, you know?”

“Maybe,” Bubbles says, giving Dorinda and me a look, like, “We've got bigger fish to fry first.” “We'll let you know, though, if we're gonna go with your flow, you know? But in the meantime, you know where to find
us
, if you need more product.” She runs a finger slowly up between his choker and his neck, and Mr. DUH breaks into a goofy grin.

“Yeah, I'll look you up in the jiggy jungle!” he says, winking at Bubbles. “I gotta bounce—I've gotta go right now for a fitting. I'll check you by lunchtime, though.”

“We'll save you some noodles. Toodles!” Bubbles says, waving behind her as the two of them go off, heckling like hyenas.

“He can heckle all he wants,” Bubbles huffs, “'cuz we are about to get
paid
. We got
chokers
. What's
he
got to sell—
jokes
?”

“Word!” Do' Re Mi chuckles.

“What
boca grande
told Derek that we call him Red Snapper behind his back?” I ask, frowning.

“Probably that Kadeesha. They play basketball together sometimes. Can't blame her. She's probably trying to get Derek to ask her out. He's tall enough for her, right?” smirks Bubbles.

“What happened?” I chuckle, then I get my mind back on our business at hand. Turning to Dorinda, I say, “So listen. LaRonda's in my geography class. I can give her the choker and collect the duckets for us.”

“Bet,
mamacita
. Better you, Do', than Miss Cuchifrita—she'd probably run off to some pygmy pet shops before we go to lunch,” Bubbles says. “And you'd better check out Oakland on the map today!”

Bubbles
would
bring up the little “boo-boo” I made in California. While we were backstage, getting ready for our showcase, I started talking to one of the other groups who were performing—CMG, the Cash Money Girls—and they said they were from Oakland. Me with my
boca grande
, I asked, “Where it that?”

How was I supposed to know Oakland is in California? I mean, I'm representing the East Coast,
está bien
?

“I bet
you
didn't know where it was either,” I shoot back in protest.

“Yeah, well, I sure wouldn't have let Miss Abrahamma Lincoln in on that tip, that's all I'm saying,” Bubbles says with a grin, then waves her hand in my face.

“I wonder which one of
them
writes the raps for their songs,” I say, changing the subject. Bubbles has got me annoyed now, and I figure it's as good a time as any to bring up my new pet peeve. “Maybe they write them
together
?”

“Why?” Bubbles asks, smirking.

“
Porqué
—because—I don't know. Maybe
we
could write songs together,” I blurt out.

There
. I said it. Why
can't
I write songs for the Cheetah Girls, too? How come Bubbles is the only one who gets to write songs?

“We
who
?” Bubbles asks, like she doesn't get what I'm talking about.

“
Me
and
you, está bien
?”

“Chuchie … maybe you should stick with what you do best—”

“What happened? How do you know what I do best?” I ask, getting flustered.

“Chuchie, the bell's gonna ring for homeroom. And then we have to walk to first period before I can take off these wet shoes.” Bubbles is showing me how exasperated she is. But I know it's just a way for her to blow me off. She doesn't want to talk about letting me write songs with her.

“One thing you did really well—taking doggy poo off my shoe,” Bubbles snaps, putting me in my place. “Now I'm walking around like Flipper!” Bubbles starts walking to her desk, waddling like she's got fins on her feet. Some peeps look up like she's a little cuckoo, but I'm used to that. It's not like we're walking around unnoticed with all the cheetah-licious outfits we wear.

“So what? It's not my fault the faucets in the bathroom are older than the Dominican Day Parade!” I call after her.

“Can we stop talking about it now, please?” she says, sitting down and opening up her cheetah backpack. “By the time we sell these chokers, it'll be time for a markdown sale or something!” she mumbles, not looking at me.

“
Está bien
,” I say, giving in. I never win fights with Bubbles. She
always
has the last word. Why am I even worrying about writing songs, anyway? We don't even have a record deal! We'll be lucky if we don't end up headlining karaoke clubs and singing “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle” for the rest of our lives!

Chapter
4

B
ubbles and I are sitting in homeroom class, turning our heads really slow, so everyone can check out our chokers—especially Keisha Jackson.

I'll never forget what Keisha did on the first day of the semester: our homeroom teacher, Mr. Drezform, asked the class if any of us spoke another language besides English. A few students raised their hands—including me and Bubbles, of course.

Keisha cut her eyes at us, like we were telling fib-eronis or something. Then, after class, she had the nerve to come up to Bubbles and ask her if she
really
spoke Italian. So now I'm not feeling Miss Keisha,
está bien
?

Luckily, a few students smile at me as I crane my neck at them. I smile back, showing off the choker. Then I turn to my right and say hi to Daisy Duarte, who is supa-chili—and also Dominican, like me.

“
Ay, qué bonita
! Your choker is so cute!” she exclaims, checking out the “product.”

“My crew and I make them,” I say proudly. “Support a Cheetah Girl—come on, buy one, Daisy!” I egg her on, because we're really cool like that with each other.

“How much?” Daisy asks, amused to the max.

For a second I hesitate. Then I realize, Bubbles has already gotten busted once for pricehiking—by Derek Hambone, no less. So I figure we'd better chill, and I blurt out, “Ten dollars.
Está poco
, okay?”

“
Está bien
,” Daisy says, her eyes lighting up.

I motion to Bubbles, who whips out a Cheetah Girls choker from her backpack and hands it to me. Since it's my sale, I pass the choker to Daisy.

Daisy looks as happy as my mom does at a garage sale. Her eyes are glistening, like she knows she's gotten a really good bargain,
está bien
? Daisy forks over ten dollars with pleasure, then snaps the choker onto her neck like it's a trophy.

“How does it look?” she asks me, pushing her long, wavy hair behind her shoulders to show off the choker.

“
La dopa
—and fresh as a Daisy!” I respond proudly, then hurriedly fold the crisp ten-dollar bill into my cheetah wallet. I stuff the wallet into my backpack before Mr. Drezform takes attendance.

“Talk to you later!” I whisper, pinching Bubbles under the chair. I feel so much better already!

I guess it was kinda hard, adjusting to being back in school after our dream trip to La La Land. We got to lie in a pool, perform for the bigwigs—and I even met this publicity executive from Def Duck Records at the showcase. He said that I reminded him of Kahlua Alexander, their biggest artist!

I am lost in my own
Telemundo
channel, when I hear Mr. Drezform call my name
loudly
. Bubbles pokes me really hard.

“Here!” I yell, then sit back in my chair and take out the pygmy hedgehog book. I wonder if the little hoglets only make tiny poopoos in the kitty litter box. Otherwise, you can forget it—
olvídate, está bien
? Mom is even worse about odors than I am—unless they're coming out of very expensive perfume bottles!

When attendance is over, I jump up because I have to go to the bathroom before first period. I smile at Daisy and say good-bye, then tell Bubbles I'll meet her in math class.

As soon as the bell rings, I get up to make a mad dash out the classroom door. But all of a sudden, I hear Keisha Jackson yelling at Bubbles.

“Yo, Galleria, I think you dropped something,” Keisha says with a smirk, handing her—gasp—the silver letter “L” from Bubbles's Cheetah Girl choker!

Ay, Dios mío
! I think I'm going to faint! Quickly, I put my hand around my neck.
Gracias gooseness
—thank goodness—I still have all my letters.

Bubbles snatches the silver letter from Keisha's hand and puts it in her pocket, like it's no biggie—but I know she is
goospitating
.

“Galleria, you know what? It doesn't look too bad without the ‘L'—‘Grow Power!' I like it!” Keisha says, heckling. Then she says, in a real loud voice, “I heard you and Chanel tell Daisy that
you
made the chokers?”

I am so humiliated, I wish I could do an abracadabra on the spot and disappear! “Yes,
we
made them,” Bubbles whimpers. Her face has turned five shades of my favorite color—red.

“Maybe you'd better tell Daisy, before hers falls apart next period,” Keisha says. Sucking her teeth, she walks off, like she's a designer herself or something. Come on—she majors in fashion merchandising, just like we do.
Qué bobada
. Phony baloney!