Authors: Deborah Gregory
“I think we should try it. If it don’t work out, at least we’ll have had a little fun with the show, then split the money and keep on searching for the rainbow,” Angie says, fingering her arts-and-craftsy earrings.
Do’ Re Mi steps to the home run plate. “We’ll have to agree on the costumes and stuff, because we are not gospel kinda girls.”
“We know that. We can see!” Aqua claims. “You three have that New York style. We are not going to come into this and take over. We
want
to be in a group.”
“Okeydokey, then. The committee will go for it, right, Chuchie?”
Chuchie nods her head yes.
“All right, then,” I say “It’s time to get busy in the jiggy jungle—no diggity, no doubt.”
Chanel and her family, Pucci and Juanita, live in a cheetah-certified loft on Mercer Street in Soho. (Yes, Mom helped decorate it.) In one part of the loft, Juanita has built a dance-exercise studio completely surrounded by mirrors. She likes to look in the mirror when she’s exercising, which she does a lot.
Today she is in the studio giving herself exotic dance lessons and listening to some music that sounds
trèGs exotique
. Maybe Juanita thinks moving her middle will make her a riddle to Mr. Tycoon.
“Hi, Galleria,” Juanita calls out to me when I peek into the loft. Juanita hasn’t gained an ounce since her modeling days. She brags about it all the time. Today she has on a crop top, and a sarong (like you wear at the beach) wrapped around her waist. She is moving a leopard scarf in front of her face right below her eyes, like she thinks she’s the Queen of mystery.
“You girls want to come in here?” she asks me without missing a beat.
“No, we’re going into the den,” I yell back, trying to keep a straight face. Juanita thinks it’s cute that we are performing at the Kats show. She has been in a very good mood lately, thanks to Mr. Tycoon.
The way she is wiggling her hips is too much for me. I run into Chuchie’s bedroom and start wiggling my hips with my hands over my head. “I know,
mami
,” Chuchie says, giggling, then rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
We have been rehearsing for a week, and everybody is getting on everybody’s nerves. We can’t seem to agree on what music to play for the show, but now it’s show time—or, I should say, a showdown. Aqua and Angie are already waiting in the den with the records they want to use for the show.
Me and Chuchie walk into the den prepared to battle. See, our music tastes are exactly the same. We both like Kahlua, and we both like my songs—simple! Right now, I’m ready to throw down for my songs, and I must figure out how to get my way.
Do’ Re Mi is sitting there quietly, reading a book called
The Shoe Business Must Go On.
She’s very into shoes lately—especially the kind that make her taller! And, of course, she’s always into books. I guess that’s why she’s so smart. Well, I hope she’s smart enough to be on my side now.
“Okay, y’all,” I begin. “We gotta figure out what we’re gonna sing at the bash.”
“I love Prince,” Chuchie says, starting the negotiations. “Can we do his song ’Raspberry Beret’?”
“No,” I say without even thinking. I can’t believe her! I mean, what is she thinking? And didn’t I just get through saying our tastes were the same in music? Yaaa!!!
“Who gets to choose the music, anyway?” Do’ Re Mi asks, getting right to the point.
“We all do, but can’t we pick songs by girls?” I say, stumbling. This is not going well. I need a mochachino.
“Who do y’all like?” Chuchie asks Aqua, imitating the twins’ accent.
Aquanette says, “I told you. Karma’s Children, Jiggie, Ophelia—”
“Uh-uh. No gospel!” Do’ Re Mi says, sucking her teeth.
“I brought some house records from my mom,” I say. “They’re tracks without lyrics, so it will be easy to put my music to them.”
There. I’ve slipped it in. Let’s see if anybody has any objections.
“What do you mean,
your
music?” Aqua counters.
Dag on! I think to myself, imitating her. Why can’t she just accept that I’m the leader of this pack?
“The songs I write,” I explain patiently, pulling out my Kitty Kat notebook. “Don’t act like you haven’t seen this. I’m writing in it all the time!”
“Oh,
those
songs,” Angie says, snuffing me.
So it’s like that. I realize I’d better be quiet, before I go off. I guess it’s my own fault. What with all the excitement about formin’ a group, I hadn’t mentioned to them that we would be performing
my
songs, too.
On the other hand, what’s wrong with sin-gin’ my songs? What do they think we’re gonna sing: “Amazing Grace”? See, I’m ‘bout to go off, so I’d better shut up for a change.
“What about that group, the Divas?” Angie says, trying to be the peacemaker. “Why can’t we do one of their songs, like I’ll Crush You Like a Broken Record’ or ‘I Will Defy’?”
It turns out that Angie and Aqua only like gospel singers. I say, “Good as we are, we aren’t good enough singers to pull
that
off.”
I knew I shouldn’t have flapped my lips. I can see them looking at me like, what’s she all mad about?
“Me and Chuchie like girl-group types of songs,” I say, moving on to another point. “Do’ Re Mi is partial to rap—plain and simple.”
“Okay, what about ‘Nothing But a Pound Cake’?” Aqua asks. This is her idea of compromise? That song is by Sista Fudge, who is a powerhouse singer. She
can
raise the roof off Jack in the Box.
“Aqua, can you just get it into your head that the rest of us can’t carry a song like that? We don’t have the vocal range!” I scream at her. “And can you pleez think about something else besides eating, okay?”
Oops, I went and restarted the Civil War. Aqua gives me a look that shoots right through me.
“Yeah, that’s right. We’re so used to singing together or with the choir, I forget y’all can’t sing like us,” she says, showing off, no doubt. “We definitely need to pick pop songs so y’all can stay in the middle notes.”
After two hours of fighting, we finally pick two songs we can all agree on.
The singer we
all
like is Kahlua. We choose two of her songs: “Don’t Lox Me out the Box,” and “The Toyz Is Mine,” which is a duet Kahlua does with Mo’ Money Monique. It actually is perfect for five-part harmony because it has lots of choruses and refrains.
Of course, I still want to add some of my own songs to the mix. What is wrong with Aqua? I ought to clock her. And Angie, too. She is more sneaky. Shell smile in your face, then go along with her sister. First thing I’ll do is drill right into Angie’s chedda waves!
I can’t deal with this drama today, not until I talk with Mom and figure out how to tell Aqua and Angie (without going off) that we are singing at least
one
of my songs. I know we are only doing this for a Halloween show, but it would make it so much more fun.
Forming the group (at least for the bash) has inspired me to write a song about it called “Wanna-be Stars in the Jiggy Jungle.” I’ve been dying to let them hear it for days now.
Well, later for them. I know my songs are dope. They are probably jealous. They can sing, but they can’t write songs. Angie and Aqua already told us that. They are gonna have to give it up.
“Okay, girls. Time to go home! I’m expecting company, and I don’t want a bunch of kids hangin’ round when he gets here,” Juanita yells. Chuchie and me look at each other and stifle a giggle. We know who “he” is, all right. Juanita and Mr. Tycoon are doing the tango. Pretty soon, she’s gonna be showin’ off the rock—and is it ever gonna be a boulder! It’ll probably topple her over.
“I have to go, anyway,” Do’ Re Mi says. “I’ve gotta go baby-sit my brothers and sisters while my mom takes one of the kids down to the foster care agency.”
“Why, wuzup?” Juanita asks. “Is everything okay at home, baby?”
“Um … uh-huh,” Dorinda says, pasting a smile on her face. But I know, and so do Chuchie and Juanita, that things at Do’ Re Mi’s house are always in crisis. Kids comin’, kids goin’, all the time. I feel bad for her. It really makes me and Chuchie appreciate all we’ve got: two parents who love us (even though Chuchie’s are divorced), and plenty of duckets for whatever we need (even if we do have to do a lot of cheesin’ to get it).
I’m glad we got Do’ Re Mi into our girl group. Once we perform, we’re gonna get her into the Kats and Kittys for free. We already arranged to get her into Drinka Champagne’s for nothing—Drinka calls it a “scholarship.” Well, Do’ is sure a scholar.
“Bye, Miss Simmons,” I hear Angie and Aqua yell to Juanita.
Now that the others have gone, me and Chuchie have to go look at a few spaces. As the officers on the party committee, it’s our job to find a club to hold the event.
We need to find a majordomo club, too, because a lot of Kats and Kittys will come to a party as laced as this one. Mrs. Bugge, the club president, will then work out an arrangement with the club owner after we choose a space.
That’s the one thing I like about being an officer at the Kats and Kittys Klub: We get to feel large and in charge—even though we are “minors.” (Yuk. I hate that word.)
“Let’s check out the Cheetah-Rama,” I say to Chanel, who is lost in her own
Telemundo
channel. I can tell there is something on Chanel’s mind because she is real quiet, and Chuchie is not a quiet girlita, if you follow the bouncing ball.
Chanel leans on the refrigerator door, twirling one of her braids for a second, then takes a deep breath and blurts out, “Who’s gonna be the lead singer of the group?”
“Me and you,
of course
,” I answer, trying to be chill. “Look, Do’ is the best dancer. No doubt. She can harmonize with us. Aqua and Angie are the background singers. That’s cool, right?”
“
Está bien, mamacita.
” She breaks out into a smile. I know she wants to sing lead on “The Toyz Is Mine.” And that’s fine by me, ’cause when we sing
my
songs—and we
are
gonna sing my songs—there’s only gonna be one lead singer: and that’s me.
Seventh period, every Thursday, dance class is definitely the highlight of our week. Me, Chanel, and Do’ Re Mi are a crew now. We meet during lunch and after school every day. Then we go over to Chanel’s loft in Soho and practice our vocals with Aqua and Angie. (Things are still touchy between us, but I’m not touching it—for now.)
Today, I’m wearing a calfskin black blazer with a matching miniskirt and a cheetah-print turtleneck. Chanel has on leopard jeans and a red top. Do’ Re Mi is wearing a black denim jumper. She has it zipped down a little so you can see her red tank top.
I want to surprise Do’ Re Mi with a cheetah backpack when we go to my mom’s boutique on Saturday, so I’ve been really nice for a change. I’ve helped clean the kitchen every night and I’ve been reorganizing my room.
Last night, me and my mom watched a special on chimpanzees as we hand-sewed some new leopard pillow shams for the bedrooms. Dad says the best tailors in Italy still sew by hand, and he said he was proud of me. When we got ready for bed, I rubbed Mom’s shoulders. She told me to stop tickling her. I’ll get better at it. I’m sure Do’ has a book I could read on massage.
In the locker room, Dorinda takes off her top. She always wears a white training bra, but she doesn’t have much to train. She is flat-chested like Chanel. Ouch. I don’t know if it bothers Do’ Re Mi, so I don’t have jokes about that. I wear a regular 34B bra already, and I’ve got the big hips to go with it.
Do’ Re Mi hums to herself all the time, now that we are singers. She is so tiny, she easily could have been a ballerina. She has a perfect little body She is really muscular.
“I took gymnastics all through junior high,” Do’ Re Mi tells us while she is changing. “I miss it.”
“You have to have perfect balance for that, right?” Chuchie asks.
“No doubt,” explains Do’ Re Mi. “That horse is no joke. Once I came down hard on it. I was about six—and bam! I hit my thigh. I was crying. Mrs. Bosco—I mean my mother—had to come to school to take me home.”
Mrs. Bosco. That is the name of her foster mother, I realize. Do’ Re Mi never told us that before. I wonder if the kids in school ever made fun of her for having a foster mother instead of a real mom.
“Did you tell your mother about the show we’re doing?” Chuchie asks her.
“Of course, silly. She says it’s cool,” Do’ Re Mi explains, stuffing her clothes in a locker. “But she really wants me to be a teacher. I don’t want to do that.”
I wonder where Do’ Re Mi’s real mother is, but I’m not going to ask her that. I hope one day she will tell us.
“Where did you get your, um, last name from?” Dorinda asks me, hesitating. “It’s so different.”
“My dad is Eye-talian.” I giggle. “He’s from Bologna, Italy. There was a guy named Garibaldi in Italy. He was a hero because he freed the country.”
I change into the new leopard bodysuit I just got that I’m going to wear with black tights. “My dad says he saw his first opera when he was nine,” I tell Do’ Re Mi, because she is very into me talking about my family, anyway. “It had a Black opera diva from the United States, and that’s when he knew he would come to the United States.”
I wonder if my dad’s dreams have come true. He says he wanted to marry a Black opera diva, but that Mom is the closest thing because she looks like one. When they joke around, she mouths opera for him, and he sits in the chair and watches her. I try not to laugh.
Me and Chanel like to stay in the back of the gymnasium, just in case we feel like doing different dance steps or making up new moves. Dorinda likes to stay in the front. She is the best dancer in the class, and Ms. Pidgenfeat smiles at her as she walks around to correct our movements.
“Everybody watch Dorinda,” she yells whenever she wants us to get a dance step down. Do’ Re Mi has all the moves down to jiggy perfection. I’m kinda jealous, but then I think about how much I like her. She is definitely crew forever.
Today we go back to Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory for our vocal lessons. They were closed for a very long summer vacation because Drinka was on tour in Japan. She is a famous singer from the disco era, who founded the conservatory for divettes-in-training like me and Chanel. (After practicing with Aqua and Angie, I do realize how much practice
I
need.)