Who's 'Bout to Bounce? (7 page)

Being a Cheetah Girl is dope, but since our first gig, we haven’t made any money at it, and the Apollo Amateur Night, while it’s good exposure for us, doesn’t pay either. Meanwhile, I need to start making
serious
loot.

Sure, we make a lot of our own outfits, but there are some things a Cheetah Girl just has to go out and buy. That’s no problem for the rest of my crew. But as for me, my job at the YMCA concession stand doesn’t pay enough, and I hate asking Mrs. Bosco for
anything
, because I know she can’t afford it.

On the subway, I wonder again why my name is Dorinda. Did my real mom name me after someone? Why do I have a Spanish name? Nah, I can’t be Spanish!

One thing is for sure—the receptionist at the University Settlement is
definitely
Spanish. “May I help you?” she asks, pushing her long, wavy black hair behind her ear.

“Um, I’m a freshman at Fashion Industries High School, and I want to apply for the after-school work program,” I say, feeling large and in charge now that I’ve been to a big audition for a job that pays a zillion times what this one does.

The pretty
señorita
hands me an application form and says, “You’ll have to fill this form out, then someone will be right with you.”

Word. I knew this would be on the easy-breezy tip. I’m in there like swimwear! Smiling from ear to ear, I sit down on the marble bench across from the receptionist to fill out my form.

“Excuse me, miss,” the receptionist says to me.

I jump right up and go back to her window so she doesn’t have to talk loud. Drinka says it’s very bad for your vocal cords.

“You’re going to need three pieces of identification. Do you have your birth certificate with you?” she asks me.

“No, I … didn’t know I was supposed to bring it,” I mutter, my face falling flat as a pancake.

“That’s okay. You can fill out the form and leave it here, then come back with your ID when you have it,” she says nicely. “You can see a job placement counselor any time from nine to five, Monday through Friday.”

Where’s the trapdoor in the floor when you need it? How am I gonna get out of this one?

“You know, I have to go home now anyway, because I have to baby-sit,” I fib, but I’m so embarrassed because I know the receptionist
knows
I’m fibbing. She’s probably wondering where my bib is!

Not batting an eyelash, the receptionist says, “Sure, just come back another time, and bring your birth certificate, social security card, and a letter from one of your teachers. We just need proof that you’re fourteen years old and attending school. You understand.”

She knows I’m not fourteen! I walk out the door with my Cheetah tail between my legs. I walk past a big hole in the middle of Eldridge Street, where they’re doing construction work. I wish I could just fall into that hole and disappear, and save everybody the trouble of having to put up with me!

Mornings are always madness in my house, because all the kids try to get their breakfast at the same time, and “make some noise,” like they’re at a concert or something. Kenya is banging her spoon on the table. Topwe is playing his mouth like a boom box, and Twinkie is jumping up and down, trying to reach the knob on the cupboard over the sink.

“Twinkie, sit down, baby. I’m gonna get your cereal,” Mrs. Bosco says, yawning and opening the cupboard. “Which box you want?”

“Oatmeal,” Twinkie announces. In our house, there are no brand names with cute pictures of leprechauns or elves—just “no name,” Piggly Wiggly supermarket stuff, with big black letters that say Corn Flakes, Rice, Beans and on and on till you could yawn.

“I want toast! I want toast!” Kenya yells, then thumps her elbow down on the counter.

“Kenya!
Can ya
please hush up!” Twinkie says, exasperated, causing all the kids to burst into a chorus of giggles.

“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Bosco says, turning around to look at us, and pushing her bifocal glasses farther up her nose.

“Kenya,
can ya
, please hush up. Get it?” I volunteer.

“Oh.” Mrs. Bosco chuckles, pouring the milk into Twinkle’s cereal. “I’m sorry, Kenya, but you gonna have to have cereal today—so
can ya
please eat it before my nerves leave town?”

That’s good for another round of hysterical giggles. Mrs. Bosco just smiles, and wipes her hands on a dish towel. “And y’all better hurry up, because we ain’t got all day to get to school.”

Kenya sticks her lip out as far as she can, then gets up from the table and storms out of the kitchen.

“I’ll go get some bread. I’ll be right back,” I moan, then tell Kenya to come back to the table. I don’t have time to fight with her today, even though she can be such a pain.

She doesn’t say anything, but she does act like she feels a little guilty, so I can see that the little talk I had with her before bed last night must have made a difference. I explained to her how lucky we are to live here, and how sick Mrs. Bosco is, and how stealing kids’ stuff at school isn’t going to make her
any
friends.

I guess Mrs. Bosco was right, asking me to talk to her. The littler kids all listen to me—kinda like I was their mother or something. I don’t think Mrs. Bosco would have wanted me to say anything about her being sick, but I said it anyway, and I’m not sorry. She needs us all to help her, not to get in her way. And whatever it takes to keep Kenya behaving, I’m going to do it.

As I’m slipping on my windbreaker hood, the phone on the kitchen wall rings. Mrs. Bosco answers it, then says, “Hold on a minute,” before passing me the receiver.

“Who is it?” I ask, afraid.

“It sounded like she said ‘Dokie Po’ something,” Mrs. Bosco says. She wrinkles her forehead with a puzzled frown, causing Topwe to burst out laughing.

“Oh, I know who it is,” I say, because I don’t want to embarrass Mrs. Bosco.

“Hello?” I say nervously into the receiver.

“Dor-e-e-nda?” asks a strange voice with a heavy accent.

“Yes,” I answer cautiously, because I still don’t know who it is.

“It’s Dorka Poriskova, the choreographer. Dor-e-e-nda, I have good news for you.”

Suddenly, I feel like someone could blow me over with a peacock feather or something. “Yes?” I ask in a squeaky voice.

“We want you for the Mo’ Money Monique tour. Rehearsal starts on Sunday morning at ten o’clock. Can you make it?”

“I—I have to ask my mom,” I stammer. What I really want to do is scream for joy!

“Okay, but let us know today, because we haven’t much time to prepare before the tour begins,” Dorka says excitedly.

I am so numb when I put down the receiver, for a second I don’t hear Kenya’s piercing voice yelling at me to get her some toast.

I’m in such a daze, I just turn to Mrs. Bosco and say, “They want me to tour with Mo’ Money Monique as a backup dancer….”

“Is that right?” Mrs. Bosco says, surprised, then wipes Topwe’s crumb-infested mouth with a napkin. “Ain’t that something’, now!”

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I stand motionless for a minute. How could they have picked
me
, out of all those dope dancers? There must be some kind of mistake, I tell myself, and they’ll realize it as soon as they see me again….

I start to feel a wave of panic creeping over me. I don’t have time right now to even
think
about this. About leaving my family … my
crew
…

“You awright, baby? That’s good news, right?” Ms. Bosco asks—’cuz she can see I’m not happy. She spills the orange juice in Topwe’s cup, because she’s so busy looking at me.

“Yeah,” I say, my throat getting tight, like it does whenever I get nervous. “But I don’t know if I wanna go.”

What I
wanna
do is go back to bed and hide under the covers! I can’t go to school and tell my crew
more
fib-eronis. So what
am
I gonna tell them?

I’d better bounce, I tell myself, so I can get to school early and see Mrs. LaPuma, the freshman guidance counselor. I met with her when I first registered, and she was really nice. She told me if I ever had a problem, or needed career guidance, to come to her. Well, I guess I sure need it now!

I know I’m supposed to be happy, but all I feel is scared and confused, like that time my polka-dot dress came apart in school in sixth grade. It was the first dress I ever made, and I stayed up all night sewing it—by hand, since I didn’t have a sewing machine yet.

I was so excited to wear it to school, but the seams started popping open by first period! I waited until everybody left the classroom before I got up and ran home. Everybody was laughing at me in the hallway.

I didn’t go to school the next day, either. I was too embarrassed. Mrs. Bosco had to walk me to school herself the day after that, or I wouldn’t have gone back even then!

“Can I help you?” asks the girl sitting at the front desk outside Mrs. LaPuma’s office.

“Do you think Mrs. LaPuma could see me for a few minutes?” I ask her really nicely.

The girl’s gold chains clank as she goes in to ask Mrs. LaPuma, then they clank again as she walks back to her desk. “Mrs. LaPuma has a few minutes,” she says. “Go on in.”

I go inside, sit down by Mrs. LaPuma’s desk, and tell her the whole drama.

“Well, Dorinda,” she says when I am finished, “I think it would be good for you to go on the Mo’—what is her name?” Mrs. LaPuma asks, arching her high eyebrows even higher. I wonder how she draws them so perfect, ’cuz they both look exactly the same—like two smiley faces turned upside down and smiling at me.

“Mo’ Money Monique. She’s a
really
big singer right now,” I explain, trying to impress Mrs. LaPuma so she won’t think
M
to the
M
to the
M
sang at The Winky Dinky Lizard or something. “She has two songs on the chart right—”

“Yes, my daughter listens to rap music,” Mrs. LaPuma says, cutting me off. She takes a sip of her iced coffee through a straw, leaving behind a red lipstick stain.

“Dorinda, I know how attached you feel to your friends, and your foster family. But this is a great opportunity for you. You deserve to try new experiences, dear, even at your young age. Besides, if I may say so, it seems like you have your hands full at home. I know you may think you’re not ready, but getting a break from your everyday life might be the best thing you ever did.”

Mrs. LaPuma folds her hands on the desk, and looks at me for an answer. I sit there frozen, not knowing what to say. Why is Mrs. LaPuma trying to make it sound like I should run away from home?

“I’m not unhappy at home, Mrs. LaPuma,” I try to explain, and I can feel my cheeks getting red because I’m getting upset. I don’t want Mrs. LaPuma to tell Mrs. Tattle, my caseworker, that I was complaining or anything. See, I know that my teachers send reports about me to my caseworkers, since I’m legally a ward of the state.

“I’m not saying you are unhappy at Mrs. Bosco’s, Dorinda,” Mrs. LaPuma says sternly.

If there is one thing I hate, it’s when grownups get that tone of voice like they know everything—and they don’t!

“But what I
am
saying is, I don’t think you realize what kind of daily strain you’re under,” Mrs. LaPuma goes on. “Being in a whole new environment, especially a creative one, may open up a whole world of new possibilities for you.”

“I’m not trying to be funny, Mrs. LaPuma, but what strain am I under, washing dishes every night? It makes me feel good to help Mrs. Bosco. She’s my
mother
. And the Cheetah Girls help me with
lots
of stuff.”

“Dorinda, don’t get so defensive,” Mrs. LaPuma says, frowning. “The Cheetah Girls are wonderful, I’m sure—but you have to think about your
own
future. Being part of a major artist’s tour, traveling around the world at your tender age …”

She sighs and leans forward, giving me a searching look. “I know that you’re exceptionally bright, because I’ve looked at your junior high school records, but if it is your calling to be a dancer, then—”

At that moment, the girl with the musical jewelry comes in and interrupts us. “Mrs. LaPuma, may I speak to you a moment?” she asks, giving the guidance counselor a look.

“Excuse me for a moment, Dorinda,” Mrs. LaPuma says, agitated. “Yes, what is it, Chloe?” She follows the secretary into the outer office, and is gone for half a minute or so.

When she comes back in, she says hurriedly, “Dorinda, there’s an emergency I have to attend to. We’re a little short-staffed right, now so there is never a moment’s peace around here. Good luck with your decision, and come back and see me if I can be of any further assistance.”

“Oh, okay, bye, Mrs. LaPuma, thanks a lot,” I say, getting up quickly in case she needs the chair. Emergency—yeah, right. I’ll bet. The coffee machine is probably broken or something. Oh, well. I already got her point of view, and I know she’s right—but I still feel really really bad.

Like it or not, it’s show time. Time to see Bubbles and Chuchie before homeroom period. The three of us meet every morning, by the girls’ lockers on the first floor. I hesitate now. How am I gonna tell them I got this job? They’re gonna yell at me for not telling them sooner, and then—then, they’re gonna talk me into
turning it down
! They’re going to
hate
me!

Without even thinking, I walk over to the pay phone on the wall and deposit some change. I dial Ms. “Dokie Po,” as my foster mother called her.

“Hi, Ms. Dorka, it’s Dorinda Rogers. Yes. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be at rehearsal on Sunday. Yes. Ten o’clock. Thank you so much! Bye!”

Hanging up the phone, I feel instantly relieved. For better or worse, I’ve made my decision. There’s no way for my crew to talk me out of it now.

I know Mrs. LaPuma is right. It’d be better for everybody if I just go away somewhere. Better for Mrs. Bosco. Better for the Cheetah Girls …

I mean, they don’t need me, I tell myself. After all, Chuchie and Bubbles have each other, and Angie and Aqua have each other. Who do
I
have?

Besides, if this tour leads to more jobs, Mrs. Bosco can make room for some other foster child who needs a home. That’s probably what Mrs. LaPuma was trying to say, but she was trying to be nice about it.