Growl Power! (5 page)

“Ooo, wait till they get a hold of her strawberries!” Angie says, snickering.

“Big Momma will have you in that garden on your hands and knees replanting fruits and vegetables till you’re ninety, if you don’t watch out,” Ma warns us.

She pulls her Katmobile into our four-car garage, and it finally hits me:
We iz home!

Once we’ve hauled all our things inside, I ask, “Ma, is it okay if we call Galleria and tell her we made it here?”

“Who’s Galleria again?” Ma asks absentmindedly, clearing some plates off the dining room table.

I can’t believe my eyes. This place is a
mess
. If we had left the house like this, she would have grounded Angie and me for the rest of our lives!

“
Galleria Garibaldi
. She’s the leader of the Cheetah Girls—our singing group,” I say in a sarcastic tone, since Ma obviously doesn’t remember things that are important to
us
.

“Oh, I don’t think you ever told me her name,” Ma says.

“Her mother, Ms. Dorothea, named her after the Galleria mall here in Houston—ain’t that funny?” Angie says, trying to be helpful like always, even though Ma isn’t really listening. “See, Ms. Dorothea was here in Houston working—I think she was modeling for some catalog—and she was pregnant. She went shopping at the Galleria and bought her first pair of Gucci shoes, so that’s why she named her daughter Galleria.”

“Lucky for her she could afford Gucci shoes,” Ma says firmly. “When your father and I were raising you, by the time we finished paying for everything, I was lucky to be able to get a pair of Payless pumps.”

Finally, Angie gets the message. Meanwhile, I have dialed Galleria’s bedroom phone, and luckily she’s there. “We’re home!” I say, trying to sound chirpy.

“That’s good,” Galleria says, sniffling.

“What’s wrong, Bubbles?” Now Angie is hovering by me, trying to hear the phone conversation.

“Nona is not coming after all! She went to Turin for a mud bath, and she slipped and broke her hip. Daddy is flying over there to be with her, but Ma’s working, so we’re
stuck
here!”

“Oh no, I can’t believe it!” I say, trying to console her. “Angie and I are gonna say a prayer for you.”

“We’re gonna say one for you, too,” Galleria says.

Ma throws me a look. “You two better start getting ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say without thinking. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. That’s the first time Galleria has ever said anything about praying. She always used to make fun of Angie and me with our church stuff.

You know what? God really
does
work in mysterious ways….

I
f there is one thing we miss about Houston, it’s taking a bite out of Big Momma’s peach cobbler! Well, finally our long wait is over. Stepping out of Ma’s car as we pull up in front of Big Momma’s house, I notice that some of the kids hanging out down the block stop to stare at us. This one boy, with red kinky hair and freckles, starts walking toward us, waving.

“Who is that?” Angie asks.

“I don’t know,” I respond, watching him and thinking how much faster he could walk if he tied his sneaker laces.

“What, y’all moved up to the Big Apple and forgot about us?” the redheaded boy screeches as he approaches.

“It’s Beethead!” Angie whispers.

It sure is—even though his hair is not as bushy. Major “Beethead” Knowles is the reason why I have seven stitches in my left knee and don’t like wearing skirts. When I was about four years old, I was swinging real high, showing off, of course. Beethead kept throwing rocks at me, to see if he could reach my head. He did, causing me to fall off the swing and bust my knee on a jagged rock edge. Big Momma told Beethead never to come anywhere near us again. And he hasn’t—until now.

“Hey, Beethead,” I exclaim, and he breaks out in a grin.

“Check y’all out,” he says, examining our cheetah outfits. “Y’all sure look
different
.”

The other kids are still staring at us, too—like we’re in a zoo or something. I guess we’re gonna cause quite a stir in Houston with our new “cheetah-ness.”

“I’ll see y’all inside,” Ma yells as she walks up to the front of Big Momma’s house. Beethead waves at Ma, and she waves back, smiling.

“Y’all got tickets yet to the Karma’s Children’s concert?”

“No, we haven’t,” I reply.

“Well, you better get ’em soon, ’cuz they’re almost sold out,” Beethead says, trying to be helpful.

“Well—we’ll see,” I respond, without further explanation.

Beethead props himself against the big oak tree outside Big Momma’s house. I never noticed that he had such long eyelashes before—almost like a girl’s.

“What’s that?” Beethead says, pointing at Porgy and Bess’s cage.

“That’s our guinea pigs,” I reply.

Beethead heckles so loud, I almost expect him to expose hyena fangs any minute. Ugh. Now I don’t think he’s cute
at all
.

We say good-bye to the heckling Beethead, and go up the front steps. Angie chuckles, and says, “He sure got skinnier.”

“He sure did,” I say, then coo at Porgy and Bess. “That’s okay if Beethead doesn’t like y’all. I’ll bet Big Momma’s gonna
love
you.”

Big Momma never did have the pleasure of meeting Porgy and Bess when we lived at home, because she never came upstairs to our bedroom. These last few years, she has slowed down quite a bit, and she uses a cane to get around.

“Look at y’all!” Big Momma says, standing still in the doorway so she can get a look at us. She peers closely at my cheek—I guess to see if there’s a beauty mark.

“It’s Aquanette, Big Momma,” I say, helping her out.

“I know how to tell my grandchildren apart, Nettie One,” she says, shooing me with her hand. “My, my, my—those are quite some get-ups y’all got on!”

“This is what we wear when we’re the Cheetah Girls!” Angie exclaims, and we pose so Big Momma can admire us.

“Don’t just stand there, take off your coats—the pawnshop’s closed!” Big Momma says, chuckling at her own joke.

I set Porgy and Bess’s cage down, and hug Big Momma real tight. Then she hugs Angie. Our cousins Egyptian and India come running into the foyer. Egyptian is ten and India is almost eight, but she is the same height as her older sister.

“We’re so glad y’all finally got here—now we can eat!” India says sassily. She has big bug eyes, just like Uncle Skeeter, but her demeanor is more like her mother’s—Aunt Neffie—high and mighty.

Personally, I don’t think Aunt Neffie’s name is really Nefertiti like she claims, even though Ma says that now she sure is a queen, “sitting alone on a throne.” (She means because Aunt Neffie and Uncle Skeeter got separated.)

“Is Uncle John coming?” Egyptian asks me, even though she knows Daddy moved to New York because he and Ma got dee-vorced.

“No. Is Aunt Neffie here?” I ask, playing the same game. Aunt Neffie doesn’t come to Big Momma’s now that Uncle Skeeter is living back home.

“Oooo!” India says, eyeing Porgy and Bess in the cage.

Now Big Momma sees them too, and grunts, “Guess there ain’t much bacon under those hides. Not worth cookin’.”

“Big Momma!” I squeal, then grab her waist. She’s just joking, though. Big Momma wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“Can we take them out to the garden?” India asks, picking up Porgy and Bess’s cage.

“That’s where they belong,” Big Momma says, smiling.

“Why didn’t Skeeter meet me to go to the airport?” Ma asks Big Momma as she helps her put the “good” silverware on the table. (Big Momma always puts out the good stuff when company comes.)

“I don’t know,” Big Momma says, distracted. “I think it’s time to get the corn bread out of the oven.”

She hobbles over to it, and Ma runs to help her. “Sit down now—I’ll take care of everything.”

Egyptian cuts me a look and tries to mouth something to me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. I put my finger up to my mouth and tell her to “shhh” and tell me later.

“Big Momma, how was the Quilt Festival this year?” I ask quickly, so she doesn’t know we were whispering. Even though she’s slowed down some, Big Momma wouldn’t miss the Quilt Festival for anything.

“Junie—how many quilts did they have there this year?” Big Momma turns and asks Ma.

“I think more than nine hundred,” Ma calls out.

“They sure were beautiful,” Big Momma says.

Egyptian starts mouthing at me again. I shake my head at her and tell her to stop. She probably is trying to give me a blow-by-blow account of one of Aunt Neffie and Uncle Skeeter’s battles.

Angie and I feel bad for Egyptian and India because they’re younger than we are, and it’s hard for them to understand that sometimes grown-ups are better off separating than staying together and being miserable.

“Are y’all gonna go down to Kemah’s Boardwalk to audition?” Egyptian asks nonchalantly, dabbing pink lip gloss on her lips from a Glitter Gurlie tube, like she’s grown.

“What audition are you talking about?” I respond, not looking up because I’m trying to get a napkin into the holder just right, so the fan shape is perfect.

“You know—they’re looking for unknown groups for the Karma’s Children benefit concert. Didn’t Aunt Junie tell you?” Egyptian licks her lips again, then jumps up to get Ma’s attention. “Aunt Junie, didn’t you tell Nettie One and Two about the poster up in the Galleria?”

“What poster are you talking about?” Ma shoots back.

“Aunt Junie—you’d have to be blind to miss it. It’s got their picture on it and everything,” Egyptian says, exasperated.

“Whose picture?” Angie asks.

“Karma’s Children!” Egyptian says, like we’re all stupid.

“They’ve even got on outfits like y’all’s,” India says, grinning straight at me, even though her left eye isn’t. India has a wandering eye, which is probably why she is nicer than her sister. Kids have been making fun of her eyes ever since she could talk, and I think getting made fun of makes a person more sensitive.

“No, they don’t,” Egyptian says, cutting off her sister. “They’re polka dots, stupid!”

“Well, they look the same,” India says, shrugging. She pours some of the beads and crystals out of the pinto beans can she uses to store all her arts and crafts stuff.

“Don’t do that now! Big Momma will get mad!” Egyptian hisses, picking up the beads, some of which have rolled onto the floor. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Ma comes out of the kitchen with a serving pan of corn bread, and puts it on the table. “What poster are you talking about, ’Gyptian?” she asks.

“They are looking for unknown groups to open for Karma’s Children for the benefit concert at Kemah’s,” Egyptian says, like she is
so-o
tired of repeating herself.

“’Gyptian, how am I going to tell them about a poster I never saw?” Ma shoots back.

“
Everybody
is talking about it,” Egyptian counters. “It’s right outside the Glitter Gurlie store in the Galleria. Even people who can’t sing are gonna audition for it!”

“’Gyptian, I haven’t been to the Glitter Gurlie store, now have I? But it’s obvious
you
have,” Ma says disapprovingly, first looking at the tube of lip gloss in Egyptian’s hands, then at the glittery gunk she has smeared on her lips.

Egyptian puts her head down meekly, toying with the lip gloss tube in her hand.

“Now, you know you’d better go wash that stuff off before Big Momma sees it,” Ma says sternly.

“India, exactly what does the poster say?” I ask my younger cousin, since she’s more levelheaded than her sister.

“They’re having auditions tomorrow for unknown groups who want to sing at the Karma’s Children concert,” India says.

“That’s what it said, huh?” I respond. The wheels in my head are turning faster than on a Bronco.

“‘Help Us Sing for Their Supper,”’ Egyptian adds nonchalantly. “That’s what it says at the top of the poster.”

“I wonder if they’re paying,” I mutter out loud.

“Who cares?” Ma shoots back. “It sounds like it could be the opportunity of a lifetime!”

“Well, we’ve sure heard
that
one before,” I chuckle, and look at Angie.

“We’d better get down to the mall tomorrow morning and look at the sign,” Angie says, ignoring me.

“You don’t have to,” India says.

“Why not?” I ask.

“’Cuz I wrote down the number for myself!” she answers proudly. Then she sees Egyptian glaring at her, so she stutters, “’Gyptian and I just want to meet Karma’s Children and get an autograph.”

“I didn’t see you write down any number,” Egyptian hisses.

“I did it when you went inside the store!” India says adamantly, pulling out a paper from her purse. “Here it is!”

I take the paper from India and run to the phone. “Let me hear!” Angie insists, as I dial the number and wait.

“It’s just ringing!” I hiss back. A recorded message comes on, and I tilt the phone receiver so Angie can hear it too:

“We care about Houston. Do you? If you want to help out Houston’s homeless, then make a date with stardom. Unknown groups can audition for the Karma’s Children benefit concert on November 23rd, at The Crabcake Lounge, Kemah’s Boardwalk in Galveston Bay. If you’re a singing group in the Houston area, this may be your chance to shine. Auditions will be held on November 21st from 10
A.M.
to 4
P.M.
Come help Houston’s hottest stars sing for their supper. Call 800-000-GET-HOME to order your tickets now!”

Angie and I look at each other. “We have to swallow our pride and go to that audition,” I confess excitedly.

Ma just looks at me, and smiles. “I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses, Nettie One.”

“Yes, ma’am, I am too!” I tell her. Then I turn to India and give her a big hug. “I guess if it wasn’t for your divette detective skills, we wouldn’t be going to any audition!” I tell her.

“You know, they only want groups from here,” Angie points out.

“Yes—and?” I ask.

“What about the
rest
of the Cheetah Girls?”

“Oh,” I say, finally realizing what she means. I was so busy thinking about Angie and me performing that I forgot about them. “That’s right—they’re from New York City. So what are we gonna do?”