Shop in the Name of Love (5 page)

“Yup,” Bubbles says, smiling. Bubbles isn’t afraid of anything. She just acts like herself. He obviously just looks to her as if she is the leader. Which
is
kinda true anyway. We wouldn’t be a group, I think, if it wasn’t for Bubbles. But I don’t want Bubbles to be the
only
leader, because it was my idea too to
be
in a group, so that counts for something.

Today Bubbles is wearing her hair really straight and parted down the middle. I put her extensions in myself, so I know they won’t come out even if Hurricane Gloria flies in from Miami!

“Pucci would love this place,” I giggle, looking at the red brick walls. My mom says the Hydrant is a one-star bistro. I don’t know what that means, but now that she has Mr. Tycoon for a boyfriend, she goes to places, she says, where they don’t even have prices on the menu. I guess this one doesn’t count, because it does.

“You know, this place used to be a fire-house,” says Mr. Johnson. “Lotta action coining down that pole.” Mr. Johnson is looking over in the direction of the big metal pole that goes all the way up the ceiling. “Back in the day, there were some pretty bad torch jobs in the city Buildings burning down all the time. It kept firemen pretty busy, but things have gotten better, and they closed the firehouse down two years ago.”

The waiters are sliding down the pole now, bringing food from the kitchen above. “Tourists love that,” Mr. Johnson chuckles.

“I wonder if the waiters get scared,” Aquanette asks, touching her pin curl, which is laid down and fried to the side of her face.

“Well, let’s clear away the okeydokey and talk some bizness, here,” Mr. Johnson chuckles. He definitely has more rhymes than Dr. Seuss. He looks at all five of us and says, “As your manager, I want you to know that I’m going to forego all production costs for a demo, and get you in the studio with some real heavy-hitting producers, arrangers, and engineers.”

“Can we do some of my songs?” Bubbles asks, always looking out for
número una
.

“Not right away, Galleria. Now, I know your songs are smoking’, ’cuz I heard you girls singing them the night I saw you perform at Cheetah-Rama, but let’s start with the producers’ songs.” Mr. Johnson takes a sip of bubbly water from his glass, then licks his lips. “Pumpmaster Pooch has worked with some really big artists, so he knows how to turn a song into an instant hit,” he says.

I hope the water doesn’t make me burp, I think, as I sip some from my glass, too.

“Who has Pumpmaster Pooch worked with?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

“Well, I don’t want to say right now, because none of the songs have gotten picked up just yet. You girls have to understand. There is a one in a million chance for a record to turn gold, but if you go into the studio with producers who’ve got the Midas touch, you’re likely to turn that song into gold.”

“What happens to the songs after we finish them?” Angie asks.

“We—that means I—have to get your demo to the record companies. It takes a lot of wheeling and dealing, but don’t worry about it, ’cuz it ain’t no thing like a chicken wing.”

We look at each other like we’ve just eaten some Green Eggs and Ham, or something.

Mr. Johnson catches on to our confusion. “What I mean is, I have a serious setup at Hyena Records. Me and the A&R guy—that’s the artist development person, who goes out scouting the country for talent just like you— go way back.
And
I’ve been doing business with Mr. Hyena, the company president, for years. After he gets a taste of that growl power y’all got going on, he’ll be chomping at the bit to sign some superlistic talent such as yourselves. Just let me handle it.”

I sit there wondering how Mr. Johnson can talk so fast without even taking a breath. I wish Drinka could see him in action.

“Hyena Records. Who do they have on the label?” Do’ Re Mi asks, all curious. When Mr. Johnson turns his head toward her, I motion quickly to Angie with my hand. She has a piece of green something stuck on a tooth in the front, and she is just smiling her head off.

“Now, they’re not what they used to be back in the day,” Mr. Johnson says, his pinky finger dangling to the wind as he sips his water. “But nothing is like it used to be in the music biz.”

“Ooh, this is bubbly,” Aqua says, her eyes popping open as she puts her glass down.

“Bubbles. That’s me,” Galleria says, starting to sway. “The Cheetah Girls are cutting a demo, so take a memo, all you wanna-be stars trying to get a whiff of what it feels like,” Bubbles giggles. She is flossin’ for Mr. Johnson.

“That’s very good, Galleria.” He chuckles. “You do that off the top of your head?”

All of this is going to Bubbles’s head, I think. I wish I knew how to make up songs like her. Then Mr. Johnson would like me, too.

The waiter comes and takes our orders. After he leaves, Mr. Johnson whips a manila envelope out of his pocket and opens it. Inside are five pieces of paper.

“Listen, before our food gets here, I want each of you to give one of these to your parents. Have them look it over, then sign it. You can give it back to me the next time we meet, in the studio.”

“What is it?” Do’ Re Mi asks.

“It’s no big deal—just a temporary agreement—a standard management contract, so we can get started right away on your demo. It’s your time and my dime—so let’s not waste it, Cheetah Girls!” Mr. Johnson quips.

He sure is making moves like a jackal. Just like his name. I guess I’ll have my dad look it over. He is good with business. I wish I could give it to Princess Pamela, too. She is smart like that. But Mom would really go off on me if she found out I did that.

“Enough business for nowm” Mr. Johnson says with a big, gap-toothed smile. “Why don’t you girls tell me all about yourselves?”

And we do … oh, do we ever!

Things went really well today at our first business
lonchando
, I think to myself as I’m lying on my bed, clacking the heels of my black patent leather loafers together. I have the keyboard on the bed, and I’m yapping on the Internet with Bubbles, Angie, and Aqua. Dorinda is coming over so we can do our homework together. Meanwhile, I’m trying to get them to help me with this Princess Pamela situation, and end the frustration.

“I just don’t think it’s fair that you can’t see Pamela, and I’m not being square,” Bubbles says.

Angie has an idea: “Dag on, we got so many problems. We better have Cheetah Girls council meetings, so we can give each other advice, instead of rehearsing all the time and talking about being wanna-be stars!”

“It’s a done wheel-a-deal,” Bubbles types back, imitating Mr. Johnson. “Let’s have Cheetah Girls council meetings once a week!”

My bedroom door is open, so I don’t hear when my mom walks right in. “Chuchie,” she says, almost scaring me.

“Oh, hi,
Mamí
,” I say, hoping she isn’t trying to peep my chat.

“You forgot to give me back my credit card,” she says.

“Oh! Right!” I fall all over myself going to my dresser drawer, and take it out. Handing it to her, I say,
“Mamí
, that was so generous of you letting me get that outfit.”

She smiles and gives me a kiss. “The meeting was good, huh?” she asks. Then she sits down on my bed.

“
Sí, Mamí.
Thanks so much.”

She hands me back the management agreement form that Mr. Johnson wanted us to sign. “As long as you do your schoolwork and finish high school,
then
go to college, you can stay with this little group of yours. Just don’t get any ideas that this is for real, okay?” she says, taking my comb and starting to comb her hair.

“Okay,
Mamí
,” I growl back.

My mom just won’t get it into her head that I am very serious about being a Cheetah Girl, or that it means everything to me. I know I will do whatever my mom wants me to do, but on the other hand, I have to do what’s right for me.

“You better let your father see that agreement, too, or he’ll have a fit,” Mom adds, while she looks in my mirror and combs out her hair.

That’s how she gets when she talks about my dad. It makes me so sad that they fight all the time. I’ll tell you one thing, though. She is not going to keep me away from Princess Pamela.

“Yes,
Mamí
,” I reply.

Deep in my heart, I know what I want. I want to be a Cheetah Girl and travel all over the world. Then I’m going to buy Abuela Florita a house away from Washington Heights and near the ocean so she can dream about the D.R.—the Dominican Republic, where she was born. I’m gonna live near her, so we can see each other more often.

Mom interrupts my
gran fantasía
. “So. You’re going to the studio tomorrow, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m kinda nervous about making a demo tape,” I explain.

“What’s that?” she asks me, then looks at herself sideways in the mirror.

“It’s a tape of songs that shows how we sing, so a record company will give us a deal. Maybe it’s not a whole tape, but it’s something.”

“Mmm,” Mom says, getting up off the bed. “You and your crazy dreams.”

She leaves my room and goes back to the exercise studio. Lately, she has become an exotic dancing fanatic. She says it’s great exercise, better than jogging. Her tummy is as flat as my chest, so it must be true. She’s looking good, and she’s got a boyfriend with
mucho dinero
, so why is she so worked up about Princess Pamela?

I ponder the situation. What am I gonna do? I love Princess Pamela, and she is so nice to me, but I know it makes my mom unhappy that I am close to her.

Our Cheetah Girls crew council is a good idea, for starters. Maybe I could ask Bubbles’s mom, Dorothea, my
madrina
, who is super
simpática
, what I should do. But, then again, she and Mom are friends since their modeling days, so maybe I can’t trust her with everything.

Then it hits me! I get
un huen
idea. I can call Princess Pamela’s Psychic Hotline, disguise my voice, and ask
her
what to do!

I dial the 900-PRINCESS number and hold my breath. I can feel my heart pounding through my chest like a secret agent on a mission. “I like truffles, not R-r-u-ffles,” I hum to myself, rolling my Rs. Everybody at Drinka’s voice and dance studio is so jealous because they can’t roll their Rs like I do.

That is my
cultura
for you, I smile to myself, as I take a piece of Godiva chocolate from the box Bubbles’s mom gave each of us for Halloween. I’ve hidden the box from Pucci’s little grubby hands.

A voice machine comes on, telling me the Princess is out, and to call back later. Great. There’s never a psychic around when you really need one.

I get off the bed, and put a few oranges on my little altar table as an offering for Santa Prosperita. I don’t know if she is a real saint, but she is
my
saint, and if you want something bad enough, you can get it, Princess Pamela says. She should know.

“I know it’s not right to ask for anything material, but
por favor
, I need just one little thing,” I whisper to my Santa Prosperita. “Just one little Prada bag!”

See, the Kats and Kittys Klub is selling raffle tickets for community service. Each of the members has to sell as many raffle tickets as possible, and all the proceeds are going to the needy. The best part: the grand prize is two Prada bags! I have got to have them—at least one of them! The only problem is, I’m not too lucky at these kind of things. So I figure I’d better buy a
lot
of tickets.

Of course, that could be a problem, since my pile of duckets is now down to just fourteen. But hey—no
problemo
! I go to my math notebook and open it up to the last page. There, I have written the number and expiration date of my mom’s credit card!

I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not true—I only wrote it down just in case I lost the card, or forgot the number or something! And I
meant
to cross it out when I gave the card back, but I haven’t had the chance. And now …

Well, look. It’s a worthy cause,
está bien?
All those poor needy people in the world—how could I not reach out to help them?

I’m sure my mom won’t mind, especially since, if I win, I’ll definitely give her one of the Prada bags. Besides, I’ll pay her back for everything, once the Cheetah Girls hit it big—which we’re sure to do, now that we’re signing on with Mr. Johnson and making a demo tape! I mean, how long could it be before we’re rolling in
dinero
?

I call up the Kats and Kittys Klub. Mrs. Goodge, the secretary, gets on the line. “Oh, hello, there, Chanel! What can I do for you?”

I tell her.

“A hundred tickets? Why, Chanel, that’s very generous of your mother!”

“Yes it is, Mrs. Goodge,” I say. “My mom is one of the most generous people there is, and she really cares about needy people, too!”

“How will she be paying? Cash or check?” Mrs. Goodge asks.

“Um, she gave me her credit card number to give you,” I say

“Oh. I see … well, I suppose that’ll be all right,” she says.

I give her the number.

“That’s one hundred raffle tickets at two dollars each, for a total of two hundred dollars.

Thank you so much, Chanel—and be sure to thank your mother for us!”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Goodge,” I say.

Yeah, right. Sure I will. That would not be a smart thing to do, now, would it? I hang up, feeling guilty but excited. I’m sure to win the Prada bags, with odds like these. A hundred tickets! How can I miss?

I flop back on the bed and flip through my Oophelia’s catalog once again, even though I know every page by heart. How can I pass up these lime green suede boots? I wonder….

My mom is gonna kill me. Well, at the rate the group is growing, the Cheetah Girls will probably be rich soon, so I can pay my mom back then, I tell myself. I pick up the phone and punch in a number, and I hear my own voice ordering the lime green suede boots from the Oophelia’s catalog operator.

Then I spot something else I just have to have. Ooh, this rug is so cute. It has a big
mono
, monkey face on it. I love monkeys! Ooh, it has a matching blue stool with a
mono
on it, too! I guess it won’t hurt if I order just one more thing. Mom won’t mind, I tell myself. She knows my old daisy area rug has seen better days. It looks like someone has tiptoed through the tulips on it.