Authors: Deborah Gregory
O
nce upon a rhyme, there were two beautiful, bubble-icious girls named Galleria and Chanel who were the best of friends and the brightest wanna-be stars in all the land. One night, they looked up in the sky at all the real, glittering stars and dreamed of a place where they, too, could shine forever. Under the spell of the moonlight, they made a secret pact that they would find this place no matter how long it took, no matter how hard they had to try Then they would travel all over the world and share their cheetah-licious songs and supadupa sparkles with everyone who crossed their path.
But it wasn’t until Galleria and Chanel banded together with three other girls and unleashed their growl power that they discovered the jiggy jungle: that magical, cheetah-licious place inside of every dangerous, scary, crowded city where dreams really do come true. The jiggy jungle is the only place where every cheetah has its day!
Toto must think my toes are dipped in Bark-B-Q sauce, the way he’s trying to sneak a chomp-a-roni with his pointy fangs. I have just painted my toenails in a purply glitter shade called “Pow!” by S.N.A.P.S. Cosmetics and am lying on my bed with my feet dangling to the winds so they can dry.
“Guess what, big brother, you’re gonna have to get your grub on somewhere else,” I coo to the raggedy pooch with dreadlocks whom I love more than life itself. “I, Galleria Garibaldi, supa divette-in-training, cannot afford to have Toto-tugged tootsies.”
Mom isn’t sure what breed Toto is, because she and Dad adopted him from the ASPCA before I was born. But when all the hair-sprayed ladies on the street stop and ask me, I say that he is a poodle instead of a “pastamuffin” (that’s what I call him). It sounds more
hoity-toity
, and trust: that is a plus on the Upper East Side, where I live.
I stick the bottle of nail polish in my new cheetah backpack. I hold up my hands, and it looks like a thousand glittering stars are bouncing off my Pow!-painted tips. “Awright!” I tell myself. “This girlina-rina is gonna get herself noticed by first period, Toto. High school, at last!”
Tomorrow is my first day as a freshman at Fashion Industries High School, and I’m totally excited—and scared. I figure it can’t hurt to make a big first impression—but painting my nails is also a way to get my mind off being so nervous.
I’m real glad Chuchie is coming over for dinner tonight. That’s Chanel Simmons to you—she’s my partner-in-rhyme (aka Miss Cuchifrita, Chanel No. 5, Miss Gigglebox, and about a gazillion other names I call her). We’ve known each other since we were in designer diapers. Chuchie, her brother, Pucci, and her mom, Juanita, ought to be here any minute, in fact.
Chuchie’s going to Fashion Industries High, too. Thank gooseness—which is my way of saying thank you. She’s about the only familiar face I’II be seeing come tomorrow morning.
Chanel is a blend of Dominican and Puerto Rican on her mother’s side, Jamaican and Cuban on her father’s side—and sneaky-deaky through and through! She lives down in Soho near my mother’s store, Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes. It’s on West Broadway off Broome Street, where people are a lot more “freestyle” than in my neighborhood.
Down there, you can walk on the sidewalk next to a Park Avenue lady, or someone with blue hair, a nose ring, and a boom box getting their groove on walking down the sidewalk. Up here, hair colors must come out of a Clairol box. It’s probably written in the lease!
“Galleria?” I hear my mom calling me from the dining room. “You ’bout ready, girlina? ’Cause your daddy’s getting home late, and I’m not playing hostess with the mostest all by myself!”
“Coming, Momsy-poo!” I shout back. But I don’t move. Not yet. Plenty of time for that when the doorbell rings.
Thinking about Chanel has put me in mind of my music. I start singing the new song I have just finished writing in my Kitty Kat notebook: “Welcome to the Glitterdome.”
I have to get my songs copyrighted so no one will bite my flavor before I become famous—which is going to happen any second. I have a drawer full of furry, spotted notebooks filled with all the words, songs, and crazy thoughts I think of—which I do on a 24-7 basis. I will whip out my notebook wherever I am and scribble madly. There is no shame in my game.
I pick up my private notebook, on which my name—Galleria—appears in peel-off glitter letters, and turn to a blank page. I start writing notes to myself and working on the “Glitterdome” song some more.
What I love the “bestesses of all” (as Chanel would say) is singing, rhyming, and blabbing my mouth. It’s as natural to me as dressing for snaps (that means, for compliments). I can make up words and rhymes on a dime. Not rap, just freestyle flow. I also spell words “anyhoo I pleez”—as long as they’re different from other people’s spelling.
The doorbell rings. “Galleria!” my mom shouts. “You’d better wiggle you way over here. The ‘royal’ family has arrived!”
I slip into my cheetah ballet flats and hurry to get the door. Tonight’s a big night for Chanel’s mom, Juanita: She’s introducing us to her new boyfriend. He’s some kind of mysterious tycoon or something, whom she met in gay Paree, aka Paris, France, no less! From what Mom tells me, Juanita thinks he might be her ticket to the Billionaire’s Ball, if there is such a thing.
“She met him in Paris, and he supposedly owns half of the continent or something,” was how Mom put it. “She’s trying to get him to marry her—so we’ve gotta make a good impression.”
Well, okay. I guess I know how to make a good impression. Hope he likes purple glitter toenails, ’cause I am me, y’know? Like me or don’t, I’m not fluttering my eyelashes like Cleopatra!
“Chuchie!” I say as I open the door. “Wuzup,
señorita
?” We do our secret handshake greeting—which consists of tickling each other’s fingernails—and give each other a big hug.
Juanita looks like a glamapuss. Poly and Ester must have been on vacation. She’s still as thin as she was when she was a model (unlike my mom, who is now a size-eighteen, class-A diva). Right now, Juanita’s wearing this long, flowy dress encrusted with jewels, like she’s the royal toast of gay Paree or something. Like I said, it looks good on her, but it’s kinda weird if you ask me.
“Hey, Galleria!” she says. Then she steps sideways so I can see her new boyfriend. “This is Monsieur Tycoon,” she says, laying on the French accent.
“Pleased to meet you,” I say, offering my hand. But he doesn’t take it. I guess over there they don’t shake a girl’s hand if they don’t know her. “His Majesty” just smiles this teeny little smile and nods at me.
“Come on in, y’all,” I say, and they do, Mr. Tycoon last of all. Juanita gives me a little wink as she passes and I can tell she’s happy and nervous all at the same time. Pucci hugs my waist.
I look at Chuchie, and she rolls her eyes at me. I bite my lip to keep from giggling and wonder how Chuchie’s managing not to giggle herself. She’s always the first to lose it, not me. But that’s because she’s met the tycoon before.
He’s good-lookin’, all right, with a big black mustache and black eyes that make him look like he’s an undercover spy. And he’s wearing a pinstriped suit that’s probably hand-sewn—every stitch of it! He comes in and looks around the place, nodding like he approves. I’m so glad he thinks we’re worthy of his royal highness.
Not
. I mean, I am not used to being scrutinized, you know? I wonder how my mom is going to react.
“
Bon soir
,” Mom says, flexing her French and gliding into the room from the kitchen, six feet tall and looking every inch the diva she is—still ferocious enough to pounce down any runway. The tycoon gives her a little bow and puts his hands together like he’s praying, but I think it’s because he’s impressed.
“I hope you’re all hungry,” Mom says. “I’ve been in the kitchen all day, whipping up a
fabulous
feast.”
I know she’s fibbing, but I stay hush-hush. Mom
always
goes down to the Pink Tea Cup for dinner when she wants to serve soul food. Their stuff is greasy but yummy.
Me and Chanel give each other looks that say “We’ve gotta talk!”
“’Scuse us for a minute?” I ask the grownups. “I want to show Chanel my new cheetah backpack.”
“Go on,” Mom says. “We’ll call you when dinner’s served.”
We hightail it into my room and shut the door behind us. As soon as we do, Chuchie explodes into a fit of giggles. “I can’t take it anymore!” she gasps.
“Is he for real?” I ask. “Shhh! He’ll hear you laughing and get insulted. You don’t wanna mess things up for your mom!”
“She is so cuckoo for him!” Chuchie says.
“Chuchie, you’re gonna be a royal princess one of these days, and I’m gonna have to bow down and throw petals at your corn-infested feet every time I see you.”
“Stop!” Chuchie says again, dissolving into another fit of giggles. When she’s finally done, she says, “Seriously, Bubbles. I’m worried about Mom. I mean, his ‘His Majesty’ is so weird. I’m not even allowed to talk when he’s around! He thinks children are supposed to be seen and not heard.” Chuchie calls me Bubbles because I chew so much bubble gum.
“Children?” I repeat. “Miss Cuchifrita, we’re in high school come tomorrow! We are not children anymore!”
“Tell me about it! Are you ready for the big time?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be—I’ve got my nails done (I flash them for her), my new backpack, and attitude to spare. How ’bout you, girlita?”
“I guess,” she says, not sounding too sure of herself. “It’s gonna be kinda strange not knowing anybody else but each other.”
“Hey, we don’t need anybody else,” I tell her. “We are the dynamic duo, yo!”
Me and Chanel have been singing together since we were six, but not professionally, because Chanel’s mom does not want her to be a singer. A talent show here or there is “cute,” but after that she starts croaking.
What Juanita doesn’t know is that me and Chuchie made a secret pact in seventh grade. We are going to be famous singers despite her (or maybe to spite her) because we can’t be models like she and my mom were.
My mom is a whopper-stopper six feet tall. I’m only five feet four inches. Juanita is five feet seven inches. Chanel is five feet three inches. Do the math. We’re both too short for the runway sashay. (My mom was a more successful and glam-glam model than Juanita—and sometimes I think that’s why they fight.)
Unlike Juanita, my mom is pretty cool with whatever I’m down with. She wanted to be a singer really bad when she was young. She had the fiercest leopard clothes, but she just didn’t have the voice. Then she went into modeling and sashayed till she parlayed her designing skills.
The only reason
I
haven’t become a famous singer yet is because I don’t want to be onstage by myself. Being an only child is lonely enough. I would go cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, for sure. With Chuchie around, it’s like having a sister. Like I said, we are the dynamic duo, bound till death. But, still, there’s something missing—and I’m beginning to think I know what it is.
“You know what, Miss Cuchifrita?” I say. “I think we need to find us some backup singers and make a real girl group.”
“Yeah!” she says right away. “Girl groups always become famous. Look at the Lollipops. They were finger-lickin’ large.”
“Or the HoneyDews,” I say. “Their bank accounts are ripe with loot.”
“Or Karma’s Children, or The Spice Rack Girls!” Chuchie adds. “They are not even supa-chili anymore, but they once were, and that is what counts.”
The kids in junior high school used to say that I look like Backstabba, the lead singer of Karma’s Children. That is probably because I’m light-skinned (dark butterscotch-y) and wear my hair kinda long in straight or curly styles. (My hair is kinky, but I straighten it.) I don’t think we look alike. I have bigger hips and tommyknockers (that means boobies). I also wear braces.
Karma’s Children are four fly singers—Backstabba, Greedi, Peace, and Luvbug—from Houston and they must have instant karma because they had a hit record right out the box, “Yes, Yes, Yes.” From what I can see, you don’t have to have a lot of lyrics to be large. The Spice Rack Girls had a hit song with even fewer words—“Dance!”—and they live in a castle, I think, somewhere in Thyme City, Wales, which is far, far away from the jiggy jungle.
“Hey, if we get in a girl group, we could travel all over the world, singing,” Chuchie says.
“We could go to London,” I say, getting in the groove. “Drink Earl Grey tea with the queen.”
“Yeah, and shop in the West End district.” That’s Chanel for you. Her idea of geography is knowing every shopping locale worldwide!
“We could go to Paris, too,” I say. “Eat croissants with butter—not margarine!”
“Yeah, and shop at French designer saylons,” Chuchie adds, stretching the long “a.”
“Like Pouf,” I say, “where they sell the
trèGs
fiercest leopard-snakeskin boots. Then we can go to Italy to see all my aunts and uncles on my father’s side.”
“And shop at Prada! That’s where I’m headed. ‘Prada or Nada,’ that’s my motto for life!”
Chuchie picks up my hairbrush and starts singin’ into it like it’s a microphone—doin’ Kahlua and Mo’ Money Monique’s “The Toyz Is Mine.” I pick up my round brush and join her, both of us bouncin’ on the bed as we sing and do our supa-dupa moves in perfect har-mo-nee.
Chanel kinda looks like a lighter version of Kahlua—with the same slanty, exotic brown eyes, and oodles of long micro-braids falling in her face.
When we’re done, we both dissolve in giggles. Then I roll over and say, “We’re gonna do it, Miss Cuchifrita. Alls we gotta do is find the rest of our girl group.”
“Uh-huh. But where we gonna do that?” she asks me.
“I dunno,” I say. “But one thing is for sure: It’s gonna happen.” We give each other our secret handshake and a fierce hug.
That’s me and Chuchie: always hatchin’ big dreams together. At first, we wanted to open a store for pampered pets—and now we have a game plan for becoming starlets. And you know what? One day, they’re all gonna come true. Trust me.
“Hey! What are you two ‘high school’ girls doin in there?” I hear Mom calling. “I got din-din on the table and I know you don’t want cold pork chops and black-eyed peas!”