Shop in the Name of Love (9 page)

“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.”

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.

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 than 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!”

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.”

“Está bien.”
Too bad I won’t be going to the sample sale, I think to myself as I close the door. But these days, and until I pay off what I owe my mom, shopping and me are total strangers.

Everyone is quiet when I walk into Mr. Johnson’s office, and they all turn to look at me. They must be early, because I know I’m not late, I think. Nervously, I look at my Miss Wiggy! watch.

“Let’s cut to the paper chase here, Mr. Johnson. This contract is not going to work,” Dorothea says, looking up from her leopard brim and right into Mr. Johnson’s eyes.

“Mrs. Garibaldi, I can assure you this contract is pretty standard,” Mr. Johnson says, smoothing down his bright red tie. “We’re only talking about production costs.”

“According to my lawyer, at the royalty rate you have written in this clause, the only game the Cheetah Girls are gonna be able to afford for the next ten years is jumping jacks!” Dorothea snaps at Mr. Johnson, then leans over his desk.

Bubbles looks at me and puts her finger over her mouth. I can see that I have walked right into another soap opera.

“I am footing the cost of the demo tape, wheeling and dealing to make everything happen for the Cheetah Girls, so it’s only fitting that
I’m
sitting on the throne and seeing my girls become stars,” Mr. Johnson says, slamming his hands down on his desk.

“You’re going to be seeing ‘stars,’ all right—right after I clunk you with my purse!” Dorothea says, her dark brown eyes getting squinty. “You are no longer going to manage
my
girls. And, if you ever come sniffing around them again, Mr.
jackal
, or if you try to release any of those songs with their vocals on it, I’m gonna come back and be so shady the sun is gonna go down on you. Do you understand?” Dorothea says in that scary voice she gets when she is mad. Leave it to my
madrina
to throw her weight around and show who is the conductor on this choo-choo train.

“What about the girls’ gig at the Apollo? I hooked it up so Mr. Hyena can be there. I mean, I’m digging your concern, Mrs. Garibaldi, but I think you’re making a big mistake,” Mr. Johnson says, swiveling in his fake leather chair. There are little beads of sweat on his forehead, like I get when I’m scared.

“The only mistake I’m making is that I don’t hit you over the head with my pocketbook, you hungry scavenger!” Dorothea says, then motions for us to get up with her.

We all walk out of the office behind Dorothea, and bigmouthed Bubbles says to Mr. Johnson, “See ya around like a doughnut!”

Why can’t I think of the kinds of things that Bubbles says? I start smiling and looking at my crew, but Angie and Aqua look sad.

“It would have been nice to perform at the Apollo. What are we gonna do now?” Aqua says, popping her gum.

“Don’t pop gum in public, darling, you’re too pretty for that,” Dorothea says, then puts her arm around Aqua.

“I’m sorry, Mrs.—I mean
Ms.
Dorothea. I was just kinda nervous in there,” Aqua explains. She puts the pink blob of gum in a tissue and throws it in the garbage receptacle by the elevator.

“Now we don’t have a demo tape. We don’t have a show. We don’t have nothing. What
are
we gonna do, Ms. Dorothea?” Angie says, crossing her arms and pouting like a Texas Tornado cheerleader.

“Maybe we missed our last chance, last dance. Was the contract really that bad, Ms. Dorothea?” Do’ Re Mi asks, looking up at my
madrina
, who is more than a foot taller than her, especially with her high heels on. They are bright-red patent-leather pumps that look good enough to eat.

Eat? Suddenly, I realize that I’m hungry.

“Some Dominican-style
arroz con pollo
would be great right about now,” I say to Bubbles.

“Darlings, I know this fabulous Moroccan restaurant we can go to around the corner. My treat!” Dorothea says, pulling out her compact. “Listen, Cheetah Girls, don’t get so nervous you’re ready to pounce at the first opportunity that comes along. We’re gonna figure out something, okay? It takes more than one shifty jackal to chase us out of the jiggy jungle, am I right?”

Dorothea looks at us, extends her hands, and does the Cheetah Girls handshake with all five of us.

“You got that right, Momsy poo—we are gonna do what we gotta do!” Bubbles says, egging her on. “Even if we did miss the opportunity of a lifetime, and even if it takes us longer, we’re still gonna get diggity, no doubt. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I hear that,” Do’ Re Mi says, then sighs. She’s trying to keep her spirits up—we all are—but it’s hard not to keep thinking about everything we’ve just lost.

Because we are so down in
la dumpa
, after our
lonchando
, Dorothea asks us to come to her store so she can give us a surprise. When we get to the store, my mom is there! I wonder what’s going on.

“What are you doing here, Auntie Juanita?” Bubbles asks my mom. I’m thinking, I hope Mr. Tycoon’s plane didn’t get hijacked! Mom puts her sunglasses on her head, and holds up a newspaper. It’s the latest issue of the
Uptown Express.
“Did you see this?” she says, handing Dorothea the newspaper.

“Hmmph, the hyenas are circling after all!” Dorothea says, showing it to us. “’Hyena Records Sings Its Last Note, And Its Founder Is Singing Like a Crow to the Feds!’” We all gather around the newspaper, as Dorothea reads us the article blow by blow.

“Seems that Mr. Johnson and Mr. Hyena were in cahoots all along,” Dorothea explains.

“What’s a cahoot?” Angie asks.

“That means they were the okeydokey duo, get it?” Bubbles says. “They were flipping the flimflam together.”

“Oh,” Angie says, shaking her head. “They weren’t doing right by us. I get it.”