Shop in the Name of Love (4 page)

“Now, assuming Miss Cuchifrita here can make herself an outfit, all we have to do to get the Cheetah Girls on track is get you two some new do’s—and outfits you can’t wear at church!” Bubbles loves to tease the twins, who are unidentical but very much alike.

“Oh, and I got some virtual reality for you two,” I add.

“Virtual reality?” Aqua says, taking her pink-flowered paper napkin off her lap and patting her juicy lips.

“I got the
Miss Wiggy Virtual Makeover
CD-ROM. It has one hundred fifty hairdos we can try, and one of them has just got to be fright, I mean, right for you!”

“We could do a sleepover here the night before our
lonchando
, right, Chuchie?” Bubbles asks. “That way we could take care of the do’s right before the luncheon.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say, croaking. “My mom’s kinda down on me even
bein’
a Cheetah Girl. Maybe we better do it at your house.” I roll my eyes at Bubbles, then toward the den next door, where my mom is talking on the phone to Mr. Tycoon in Paris.

I’m scared for my crew to leave, because then I will have to be alone with her. I take a deep breath, which is what Drinka Champagne, our vocal coach, tells us we have to do to help our singing voices stay strong.

After today’s craziness with my
madre, lonchando
with Mr. Jackal Johnson will be a piece of cake. A piece of Princess Pamela’s pound cake …

Later that night, I’m on the Internet chatting with my Cheetah Girls crew, when I hear my mom yelling over the phone to my dad. “I have a prediction for that
Princess Pamela,”
my mom says all
sarcástico
into the phone receiver. “If
she
doesn’t stay away from
my
daughter, The Wicked Witch of the Yeast is gonna slice her up like that cheesy pound cake she sells!” my mom snarls, then hangs up the phone. Mom always has to have the last word. I hear her bare feet pounding down the hallway.

“
Ciao
for now!” I type furiously on the keyboard. That’s the signal we use when a grownup is coming. I run to my bed and open up my history book. All I need is for my mom to see what I’m talking about with my crew on the Internet, and she may figure out a way to stop that, too.

I know she’s about to come in, and I’m dreading the screaming fight we’re about to have. But to my total surprise, the knock on my door is so low I almost don’t hear it.

“What!” I yell, pretending that maybe I think it’s Pucci.

“Can I come in?” Mom asks, in a voice so soft and sweet I barely recognize her.

“Sure,
Mamí
,” I say more quietly.

When she walks into my room, she is smiling at me. Now I feel guilty for thinking bad thoughts about her. I’ve been assuming she was going to get on my case about every single thing in my life, and here she is, being sweet and nice.

“Hi,
Mamí
,” I say, trying to act normal.

“Hi. What are you up to? You and the Cheetah Girls have been talking in the chat room, right?”

She is still smiling! Weird.

“Yeah.” I giggle, shutting the cover of my history book. No use pretending now. Besides, it doesn’t seem to be necessary. She’s obviously not mad—but why?
Qué pasa?

“I’ve been wondering—what are you going to wear for the lunch meeting with Mr. Johnson, Chuchie?” Mom asks me, plopping down on my pink bedspread. She then crosses her legs, like she is practicing a pose for the Chirpy Cheapies Catalog. My mom used to be a model, you know. Right now, she has put her wavy hair up in a ponytail. She almost looks like she could be my big sister instead of my mother.

“
Yo no sé
,” I answer. “I don’t know. I really don’t have anything good to wear.”

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and order that green leopard pantsuit from Oophelia’s catalog,” she says with a satisfied smirk.

“Well, I can’t buy it, because I only have thirty-seven dollars left from the money I got from the show,” I say, kinda nervous. Don’t get the wrong idea—I didn’t just buy shoes and headbands, okay? I also bought a new laser printer for my computer, so that we, the Cheetah Girls, can make flyers for our shows—if we have any more.

“I know you don’t have any money left, but I’m glad you bought a printer. So the outfit is on me. A little present. Here,” Mom says, holding out her credit card. “You can use my credit card and order that one outfit.”

I sit there frozen, not even able to breathe. This is like, unbelievable! My mom offering to let
me
, the shopaholic deluxe, use her credit card? What is up here?

“You sure?” I ask nervously, not daring to take it, for fear I’ll be struck by lightning or something like that.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day. You and I haven’t been spending enough time together lately—what with me bein’ with my new boyfriend, and you hangin’ with the Cheetah Girls. I miss bein’ close.”

I smile. “Me too,
Mamí
.”

“And I know how much this lunch meeting means to you and the girls. So I decided I want you to look your very best.”

“Wow” is all I can say. I can feel the tears of gratitude welling in my eyes.

My mom looks up at the ceiling. “And it just bothers me that that
bruja
Pamela has been pushing her way into your heart, trying to buy your affection with diamond earrings and such. If anybody’s going to buy you nice things, it’s going to be me.”

So
that’s
it! “But,
Mamí
—”

“Now, you just tell her you can’t accept them, and that she’s to stop giving you expensive gifts. It puts a wedge between you and me, baby, and we don’t want that.”

“But—”

“Now, now,” she says, stroking my braids. “I can afford to get you even nicer earrings, if that’s what you want.”

“I can’t return them,
Mamí
,” I say, holding my ground now that I know what she’s after. So, all this niceness is just a trick, to try and turn me against Pamela! Well, it won’t work. If people I like want to give me things, I should be allowed to accept them. “I can’t and I won’t!”

“All right,”
Mamí
says, seeing she can’t win on this one. “You can keep the earrings. But from now on, no more gifts from that
bruja
, you hear?”

“Yes,
Mamí
,” I say, grabbing the compromise when I can get it. “Can I still buy the outfit?”

“Of course, baby,” she says, smiling again, although it looks more forced now than it did before. “I want you to look beautiful for your big meeting.”

“But I thought you didn’t even want me to
be
in the Cheetah Girls!” I point out. Then I want to kick myself for bringing it up. Why couldn’t I just keep my
boca grande
—my big mouth— shut for once?

Incredibly, it doesn’t seem to bother her. “I think it’s just a phase you’re going through,
mi hija
,” she says, still smiling. “But since you insist on this singing nonsense, you may as well go all the way with it.” She pushes the card into my hands and squeezes them. “Buy yourself the outfit. And remember who bought it for you—
me
, not Pamela—
está bien?
”

“
Sí, Mamí
,” I say, giving her a big hug and kiss. I’m still mad at her for not believing in me, but at least she’s showing me she loves me.

“Now, you know the rules, Chanel. You only order that one outfit. You give me the card back as soon as you’re done. And don’t you ask ‘that woman’ for anything ever again.
Entiendes?
You hear?”

Now she is wiping imaginary dust off my altar table right next to the window. My altar table is covered with a pretty white tablecloth. On top of it, there are candles and offerings to the patron saints—fruits, nuts, and little prayer notes.

“I didn’t ask Pamela for anything,” I whine, making the cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die sign across my chest. “She just gave the earrings to me!”

“Well,
don’t
accept anything else. And if your father asks you anything, don’t tell him what I told you.
Entiendes?
” Mom asks me— again. Now I’m really getting annoyed.

“
Está bien.
I won’t. I promise,” I respond. Anything to make her stop being such a policeman. “And thank you sooooo much! Letting me charge a new outfit is the best present anybody ever got me!”

I give her another hug, and that seems to do the trick. She flashes me a big smile, kisses me on the forehead, and heads for the door.

When Mom finally leaves my room, a sudden feeling of total bliss comes over me. The credit card feels sleek and powerful in my hand, and I’m anxious to get my shopping groove on. Prada or
nada
, baby! Okay, so I am rolling more with the
nada
than the Prada— but that is all gonna change with one phone call!

As I flip through the catalog, looking at all the dozens of things I’m longing to own, I hum to myself, “Oooh, Oophelia’s! I’m feeling ya!”

I have never held Mom’s credit card in my hot little hands before. Never. And now, the hologram on its face seems to wink at me, casting a witch’s spell over me. I dial the 800 number and follow the computer instructions, punching in numbers here and there until I get to speak to a real-live person.

Meanwhile, I am thinking about poor Dorinda. She must feel so down about not being able to keep the duckets from our gig. It’s so unfair that she had to give the money to her foster mom. My heart goes out to her. Surely, my mom wouldn’t want us to lose out on making a deal with Mr. Johnson just because Do’ Re Mi came dressed in rags!

I decide then and there to make one tiny little exception to Mom’s rule. After all, she said I couldn’t buy anything else—but that meant
for me
, didn’t it? When the operator picks up, I order two of the green leopard outfits—one in my size, and one in Dorinda’s. I give the credit card number to the lady on the phone, and as I do, my gaze wanders to the pages of the catalog. So many other great things, things I’ve always wanted, and will never have another chance to get …

What would it hurt to borrow just a little of Mom’s credit to stock up on stuff? When we sign with Mr. Johnson, it will be no time till we’re making big duckets from gigs, maybe even a record deal! I can pay my mom back before she even knows I’ve spent the money!

“Will that be all, ma’am?” the voice asks me.

“Uh … no,” I hear myself say “No … just one or two more things …”

Do’ Re Mi looks so “money” in the new outfit I bought her. And on top of that, Bubbles’s mom, who is my
madrina
—my godmother— since birth (and the best godmother in the whole world) made
her
a green leopard pantsuit to match ours for our meeting with Mr. Johnson!

Aqua is wearing a black-and-white-checked blazer with a red shirt and black skirt. Angie has on a denim suit with a hot pink turtleneck.

“At least they don’t look like they’re going to church,” Bubbles giggles to me, sneaking a look in the mirror that covers one whole wall of the Hydrant Restaurant on Fifteenth Street, where we are meeting Mr. Johnson.

When we first tried to tell Angie and Aqua what to wear for the meeting, Aqua got all huffy and said, “
We
are saving
our
money to go home to Houston for Thanksgiving!” The twins are headed south for the holidays—in more ways than one!

“I feel so large and in charge, I’m loving it— and you all, too!” Bubbles says. “That was so nice of Auntie Juanita to let you buy Do’ Re Mi a pantsuit, too, Chuchie!”

Okay, so I told Bubbles a little fib-eroni. I didn’t want her to think that I did … well, what I actually did. I’ll have to straighten her out soon, though, before she opens her
boca grande
—her big mouth—and spills the refried beans to my mom.

The table is covered with a bright red linen tablecloth, and six red linen napkins placed perfectly apart. Right in the middle of the round table is a big glass vase with lots of pink roses, my favorite
flores
.

“You nervous?” I ask Do’ Re Mi, then I add giggling, “I feel like I’m at a seance and the table is gonna lift up any second!”

Mr. Johnson has gone to check our jackets. Yes, we have it like that. There is a waiter dressed in white, standing near our table. He smiles at me when I look in his direction.

“Somebody pinch me, pleez, so I can wake up!” I giggle, then look around at all the people who are having lunch at the Hydrant. I take the book of matches with the name of the restaurant out of the ashtray, and stick it in my cheetah backpack for a souvenir. All around us are grown-ups, and they are all dressed
adobo down
. The lady at the table next to us is sitting by herself.

“She must be waiting for
El Presidente
,” I whisper to Bubbles. The lady is wearing a big hat with a black peacock feather poking her almost in the eye! She looks at us and smiles. Then the peacock lady puts on lipstick without even looking in a mirror! “She definitely has the skills to pay the bills,” Bubbles quips.

Do’ Re Mi looks like she is getting nervous, too, because she is reading the menu like she is studying for a test at school. Then all of a sudden she whispers to me, “What should I order?”

“Just don’t get spaghetti marinara,” I whisper back.

“Do’ Re Mi, try the
penne arrabiata
—that’s the pasta cut on the slanty tip with red
pepperoncino
.”

“What’s
that
?” Do’ Re Mi quizzes Bubbles.

“Those crushed red pepper flakes that Angie loves to put on pizza. You can hang with that!” Bubbles blurts out.

“Here he comes,” whispers Angie.

“Ladies, order to your heart’s delight,” Mr. Johnson commands us, as he sits down and puts the napkin in his lap. We all do the same thing. Do’ Re Mi flaps the napkin really loud when she opens it, like it has wings, but we act like we don’t notice. Mr. Johnson is wearing a yellow tie brighter than a Chiquita banana, and his two front teeth don’t talk to each other. He has a
really
big gap.

“This place is majordomo dope,” Bubbles exclaims, looking around once more.

“Yeah, and I’ve done some pretty major-domo deals here, as you would say,” chuckles Mr. Johnson, looking at Bubbles. “So you’re the writer of the group, huh?” he asks her.