Growl Power! (2 page)

A
ngie and I are
soooo
grateful that school is out for the Thanksgiving holidays! A whole week off this year, too—thanks to construction at our school, LaGuardia Performing Arts League. All we can think about is heading home to Houston, and telling everybody about the Big Apple till they’re green with envy!

We, of course, is me, Aquanette Walker, and my twin sister Anginette—but
I’m
usually the one doing the talking, because I can’t help
thinking
of the two of us as one person. (It’s something you’d understand if people were always confusing
you
for your twin!)

Right now,
we
are fixing up a special dinner in the kitchen of the big New York City apartment we share with our daddy. We’ve been living here since June, and already there’s been more excitement than we had in all those years back in Houston!

But that doesn’t mean we don’t want to go back home to visit. Our ma is down there, still living in the old house we love so much. And
her
mama—our grandma, whom we all call “Big Momma,” still lives in the house she and Granddaddy Selby lived in for fifty years or more. Granddaddy died seven years ago, but that don’t stop Big Momma.
Nothing
stops her!

Granddaddy Walker will be waiting for us, too. Angie and I can’t wait to visit the Rest in Peace Funeral Parlor again—that’s where he lives! It’s granddaddy’s business, and he lives up top, two floors above the corpses. I guess that’s why our daddy has always been such a serious person—and why Angie and I just
loooove
horror movies!

The dinner we are fixing is not for our daddy. He wouldn’t eat it, so why bother? He only eats the kind of food his new girlfriend makes him—seaweed shakes and stuff like that. Daddy is looking thin and peaked, if you ask me; but he thinks he’s never looked better.

I believe he’s been bewitched by High Priestess Abala Shaballa Bogo Hexagone. That’s his girlfriend’s name, believe it or not. She claims to be a real high priestess. I don’t know about that, but she sure is strange. I don’t like her one bit, and neither does Angie.

Anyway, we’re cooking a holiday dinner for the Cheetah Girls right now—that would be Galleria “Bubbles” Garibaldi, Dorinda “Do’ Re Mi” Rogers, and Chanel “Chuchie” Simmons. The five of us are a cheetah-licious girl group, and we’ve got mad skills, too. Being Cheetah Girls is the best thing that ever happened to me and Angie. Not only do we have a crew of our own, but we’re close as can be to getting a record contract! Can you believe it?

The first time the Cheetah Girls came over to our house, Princess Abala Shaballa was doing the cooking. She made up this good-luck brew for us out of some nasty roots and herbs. It was supposed to help us win the Apollo Theatre Amateur Hour Contest—which it didn’t. We came in second.

Right now, Chanel and Dorinda are sitting at the kitchen table, watching me and Angie do the cooking. Suddenly Chanel stands up and puts her dirty, sneakered foot up on the edge of the sink to stretch it!

Angie and I look at each other like, “Yes, she really is doing that!”

“I’ve
gotta
stretch my legs, or I’ll get rigor mortis, and they’ll fall off or something,” Chanel giggles. Ever since Chanel and the rest of the Cheetah Girls found out that our grand-daddy owns Rest in Peace Funeral Parlor, they are always trying to take a stab at us with “corpse jokes.” Ha, ha, yes, ma’am.

I would say something back, and make her get her feet off my clean sink, but I know Chanel’s legs are extra tired. See, she ran in the Junior Gobbler Race in Central Park this morning. She
won
, too! They gave her a big ol’ turkey, but she turned around and gave it to Dorinda’s foster mother, Mrs. Bosco, so all those foster kids in their house would have turkey for Thanksgiving.

“That was real nice of you to give Dorinda your turkey, Chanel,” Angie says, thinking the same thought as me, like always.

“Don’t worry,
mamacita
,” Chanel says. “At least
someone’s
gonna get to eat it—because
I
sure can’t eat all of it by myself.” Chanel is laughing at the thought of it, making a face like she just ate a whole turkey.

Angie and I are laughing with her, but then I get a look at Dorinda, and I realize she has been sitting like a frog on a log ever since she and Chanel plopped in.

“Are you tired or somethin’?” I ask her. “Did you run in that race, too?”

“I did,” she says. “But I’m not tired. I’m just …” She heaves a big sigh and looks at Angie and me. “You two are so lucky you’re going home for the holidays,” she moans.

I guess we do still consider Houston our home, even though we live in the Big Apple. But sometimes it seems like something is missing—I guess it just doesn’t feel right without the smell of Ma’s Shalimar perfume wafting through the air.

Still, at least
I’m
going home to see
my
ma. Dorinda doesn’t even
remember
her real mother. I can see she is depressed. This must be a hard time of year if you’re a foster child like Do’ Re Mi. She lives with ten other foster kids uptown in Harlem. She likes it there okay, but around the holiday season, I’ll bet she misses having a real family—even a split-up one like ours.

“Here, Do’ Re Mi, why don’t you cut these up?” I say, passing her a knife and chopping board. I figure it’s better to put her on onion patrol than have her sitting there looking glum.

Not that we need her help. Angie and I are cookin’ this special dinner for our friends without
anybody’s
help, thank you.

“I wish
I
was going somewhere for the holidays,” Chanel pipes up. “You two get to have all the fun.”

Our lives back in Houston may seem glamorous to Chanel, but what she doesn’t realize is that Angie and I were sleeping in twin coffins before we became part of the Cheetah Girls—that’s how
boring
our lives were. But, like Big Momma says, “the grass always looks greener on the other side.”

“Bubbles should be here soon,” Chanel says, trying to lick some cream off the spatula.

At least
Galleria
is happy about spending Thanksgiving in New York. That’s mostly because her grandmother and favorite aunt—I think her name is Aunt Donie-something (it’s hard for me to pronounce)—are flying in from Bologna, Italy.

Imagine that—having family in another country! Now to me,
that
is glamorous. Bubbles is late today because she had to go to the airport with her father, Mr. Garibaldi, to pick the relatives up.

“You gonna eat at Bubbles’s house too, right?” I ask Chanel delicately.

“I guess so.
Mamí
’s going to Paris to see her boyfriend—”

“The sheik that makes you shriek?” Dorinda asks, scrunching up her cute little nose.

Chanel’s parents are dee-vorced, just like ours, but Ms. Simmons has this strange new boyfriend who lives in Paris, Zurich,
and
Saudi Arabia.

“
Sí, mamacita
. The loony tycoon!” Chanel says, giggling at her own joke. Then she stops smiling and adds in a sad voice, “And Daddy is going to Transylvania with Princess Pamela, to see her family over there.”

Princess Pamela is Chanel’s father’s girlfriend. She has a hair salon and a fortune-telling parlor, and she is quite mysterious—just Angie’s and my cup of tea. Chanel is really crazy about her, too. But her father and Pamela didn’t invite Chuchie to Romania with them. They left her home with her
abuela
—her grandma. I know Chanel loves her
abuela
, but I also know she’d rather have gone along to Transylvania.

If you ask me, it’s a good thing Galleria’s family invited the two of them over. That Abuela Florita of Chanel’s is getting too old to cook a big dinner all by herself. And forget about Chanel. I don’t think she knows how to make anything except reservations.

“I don’t know why y’all are so sad about staying in
New Yawk
,” Anginette says to Chanel. “At least you’ll have
fun
over at Ms. Dorothea’s. Not like at home with your mother.”

Chuchie doesn’t respond, even though I can see Dorinda is trying to take her side. I know Chanel has problems at home, always fighting with her mom—but nobody told her to run up her mother’s credit card behind her back! That isn’t exactly the best way to win brownie points!

“At least we’ve all got some money to spend,” I say, trying to cheer Chanel up. You’d think she’d be happy we won a hundred dollars each for coming in second at the Apollo Theatre in the “Battle of the Divettes” Competition. That’s right—we came in second in
that
one, too! It seems like when it comes to the Apollo, the Cheetah Girls always come out second best. Lord, keep me away from that place from now on!

Galleria, Chanel, and even Dorinda were upset that we only came in second. But not me. A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, that’s what I say. Shoot, Angie and I got over it real quick—as soon as those bills touched our palms! We were just so happy to win
anything
!

“What are you gonna do with your share?” Angie asks Chanel.

I frown at Angie. She should know better than to ask her such a nosy question. I’ll bet Miss Shopaholic has already spent her share.

“I … I paid back my mother with the money,” Chanel whispers sadly.

“Well, that’s real good, Chanel,” I say, genuinely surprised. I know how much she must be hurting to part with all that money. I feel terrible for thinking badly of her before, so I put my arm around her shoulder and give her a hug.

“
Sí, mamacita
,” Chanel says, “but you’re getting to go home, while we have to stay here and freeze to death or die from boredom, whichever one happens first.”

“I’m not going to lie, it’ll be nice to go home,” Angie sighs.

“And you get to go to the Karma’s Children benefit concert, too!” Chanel laments. “I wish I could go. They’re
tan coolio
!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think
we’re
going—even if half of Houston is,” I huff.

Karma’s Children may be the biggest singing group in Houston, but I don’t have to
like
them. Ever since Angie and I were little girls, singing in the church choir, it was always, “Someday they’ll be as good as those Karma girls.”

They are older than we are, from the same neighborhood, and definitely our nemesis—they’re big time, and we aren’t, ’cuz they’ve got a record deal—
and we don’t
!

“That’s all anybody is talking about back home—Karma’s Children, Karma’s Children—I’m so
sick
of those girls!” Angie says, trying to stick a finger in my eggnog to “test” it.

“You’re just green with Gucci envy, both of you,” Dorinda says, breaking into a sly little smile.

“I guess so.” I have to admit it, ’cuz it’s true—we
are
jealous. And we’ll
stay
jealous, until Def Duck records finally calls us back and tells us the Cheetah Girls have got themselves a record deal!

The doorbell rings, and Angie goes to open the front door. Galleria is finally here with her father.

“Hi,
cara, cara
, and
cara
!” Mr. Garibaldi says, greeting us with hugs and kisses. He is such a sunny personality—he always makes us smile.

Meanwhile, Galleria waltzes into the kitchen and plunks her cheetah backpack down on the linoleum floor. She looks upset.

“
Aquanetta
—when are you going home?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, hovering in the doorway. He always puts an extra “a” at the end of my name, making it sound
soooo
beautiful.

“I’m gonna name my eggnog ‘Aquanetta-does-it-betta Eggnog’ in your honor, Mr. Garibaldi,” I coo. Then I answer his question. “We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

“
Chè pecato
. I wanted your mother to try my specialty—chocolate cannolis. I think if she takes one bite, she would fly to New York to live, no?” Mr. Garibaldi asks, grinning from ear to ear.

Then his eyes widen. “I know—tomorrow morning, I can take you to the airport and I bring the cannolis—specially made for you, no?”

I hesitate, only because I know our daddy will have a proper fit if we agree to let Mr. Garibaldi drive us to the airport.

Angie knows it too, because she pipes right up. “Our father is driving us, but that is so sweet of you, Mr. Garibaldi.”

“Call me Franco, please,
cara Anginetta
. I come by in the morning anyway, and bring them for you.” I open my mouth to say he doesn’t have to, but Mr. Garibaldi shoos the words away.

“Won’t you have some eggnog?” I say, trying to tempt him. “I’ve outdone myself again!”

“Okay,
va bene
. I’ve been charmed once again by the Cheetah Girls,” Mr. Garibaldi says, sitting down.

Suddenly, Galleria blurts out what’s on her mind. “You are not going to believe what happened. Nona was supposed to arrive on Flight #77, but the airlines from Italy are on strike.”

Mr. Garibaldi comes to his daughter’s aid real quick. “I tell you a funny story. When I was a young boy, I cut school one day so I could go to Lake Como just to see a girl I like.” Mr. Garibaldi sips my eggnog. “Hmm, this is
per-fecto
,” he says, and I blush with pride.

“So I go to see this boot-i-ful girl—her name, by the way is
Pianga
, which means ‘to cry’ in Italian—so I should have known. My mother thinks that I’m going to school, and I tell her we have soccer practice afterward, so I will be home late. No problem. Well, when I’m ready to leave Lake Como and sneak back home to Bologna, the train is on strike!
Scioporro
! I cannot believe it!” Mr. Garibaldi moves his left hand like he is shaking flour off chicken drumsticks before frying them.

“You got in trouble?” Dorinda asks.

“I cannot tell you how much trouble,” Mr. Garibaldi says, shaking his head, “all because on that day the train workers decide to strike and ruin my life!”

“How did you get home?” Dorinda asks fascinated.

“I come back to Bologna the next morning—but believe me, when I saw my father’s face, I wish the strike never ended!”