Growl Power! (9 page)

Angie talks to Galleria for a few minutes, and then we
finally
sit down to eat breakfast. I feel so overwhelmed by everything that is happening that I don’t know if I should cry or laugh. I know we’re only singing one song in the benefit, but it’s a
big
deal. And I know Uncle Skeeter is probably okay, but that is a big deal too. Please God, help us through this.

Ma gets up from the table and puts the phone in the living room. “I don’t want to hear another phone ring all day!” she says.

“Amen to that!” Angie and I say together.

W
e’re disappointed Ms. Dorothea can’t come down with Galleria, Chanel, and Dorinda to Houston. Galleria, on the other hand, is tickled silly to be away from her mother.

“Free at last!” she screams, practically jumping on top of me when we meet her at the airport.

“Have you seen Karma’s Children yet?” Chanel asks.

“No, we haven’t,” I assure her. “You’ll be the first to know when they hit Kemah Boardwalk—you and everybody else!”

“Girls, I hope you don’t mind, but we’re gonna have to take you right over to rehearsal first,” Ma informs our friends.

“That’s cool-io with us,” Dorinda says.

Ma chuckles, “You girls have such a cute way of talking!”

“That’s how we flow in the Big Apple!” Galleria shouts.

“
Gracias pooches
, for letting us come stay with you,” Chanel says, making Ma chuckle some more.

“You’re quite welcome. I haven’t seen my girls this excited before—about
anything
!”

Angie and I start talking a mile a minute about everything that has happened so far. Dorinda is especially keen on hearing about Fish ’N’ Chips.

“You actually got them on the bill with us?” she asks, surprised.

“Well, hopefully we did!” I say. “You should have seen the committee’s faces when we sang ‘It’s Raining Benjamins.’ At first, we thought we picked the wrong song—”

“Hold up,” says a breathless Galleria. “You told them we’re gonna sing ‘It’s Raining Benjamins’?”

“Why, yes,” I say, flustered.

“Aqua, you can’t make those kind of decisions without us!” Galleria says, getting agitated. “
I’m
the one—I mean,
we
decide
together
what numbers we’re going to perform.”

Everybody gets real quiet. Now I know exactly how Chanel feels when Galleria rags on her!

“Well, what’s done is done,” Galleria huffs, giving up for once. Thank gooseness.

“Ooh, look at all the water!” Dorinda coos as we pull up to Kemah’s Boardwalk.

“This is Galveston Bay,” Angie says proudly. “You should see it in the spring when all the flowers are in full bloom—it almost looks like a tropical paradise.”

“Word. I
feel
like I’m in paradise,” Dorinda chuckles.

“Y’all are staying for the rest of the holiday weekend, aren’t you?” Ma asks, like she’s not taking no for an answer.

“Yeah!!!” Galleria, Chanel, and Dorinda say in unison. Angie and I smile at each other. Who woulda thought
we
would be showing
them
the time of their lives?

“Here we are,” Angie says, as we pull into the parking lot of the Crabcake Lounge.

“This is so dope,” Dorinda says, marveling at everything. Walking through the parking lot, we pass a group of people wearing cowboy hats, fringed jackets, and boots. “Word, look at their outfits!”

“You know the rodeo is real big in Houston,” I explain to the New York Cheetah Girls. “Everybody has at least one cowboy hat and pair of boots.”

“Well, howdy doody, I’m diggin’ it,” Galleria says, tipping an imaginary hat to the ten-gallon cowboy hoofers, who are staring at us like we’re the main attraction in the rodeo!

“Everybody is feeling our cheetah-ness!” I exclaim.

“There they are!” Angie says, spotting Fish ’N’ Chips. “Look, they’re playing!”

Fish ’N’ Chips are holding court for the tourists walking by. Mr. Fred Fish is plucking on his banjo and Mr. Chips Carter is shaking his tambourine. Mr. Fred’s banjo case is opened and lying on the ground. A few tourists throw change into it.

As soon as Fish ’N’ Chips see us, they light up as bright as a Christmas tree. Then they circle around us, and start singing up a storm:

Galleria, Chanel, and Dorinda are grinning from ear to ear and clapping.

“See?” I tell Angie, “I
told
Mrs. Fenilworth we young people can groove to the blues—it’s just in our blood!”

“Can you believe they picked a couple of old-timers like us, out of all them younguns?” Mr. Fish exclaims.

Angie and I grin like two foxes who’ve swallowed some hens. I poke her, just to make sure she doesn’t say a word to Fish ’N’ Chips about us pulling a few strings. I’m just grateful we had a few strings to pull!

I look at Dorinda, and see tears welling in her eyes. “Can I see that?” she asks, pointing to Mr. Fred’s banjo.

“Sure thing, little lady.”

Dorinda is just fascinated with Mr. Fish’s instrument. We all sit on the railing and watch, while he shows her how to play.

“Now, when you pluck the banjo to play the blues, you gotta
feel
the blues—you know, slump down some, and think about all the people who done you wrong,” Mr. Fish says, grinning his toothless grin.

“Word. That won’t be too hard,” Dorinda says, slumping her tiny little shoulders and putting a funny scowl on her face.

“Now just make up any words you want, so you can get the melody to match the plucking.”

“Um, okay—um, let’s see:

A tourist stops to listen, and puts another dollar in Fish ’N’ Chips’ banjo case! We all start howling at Dorinda.

“Well now, that’s interesting how you got the rap mixing up with the blues,” Mr. Fred Fish says, tickled.

We are laughing so hard that we don’t see Mrs. Fenilworth motioning for us to come in for rehearsal. Ma taps us on the shoulder and points to where Mrs. Fenilworth is standing quietly, waiting for us to finish.

Mr. Fred Fish seems a little embarrassed by the money in his banjo case, and he shovels it quickly into a pouch he takes out of his pocket.

Suddenly a light goes off in my head—this is probably how they make money to live—by singing on the streets!

Two little girls with pigtails and freckles come inside behind us, and sit down at one of the tables. “Hi, we’re Miggy and Mo’!” the more freckly one says. I wonder if they’re fraternal twins. They must be sisters, and they look really young.

“Hi, we’re the Cheetah Girls,” Chanel says, real friendly.

“Mr. Paddlewheel, is everybody here?” Mrs. Fenilworth asks.

“No—we’re missing the Moody Gardens.”

All of a sudden, three boys wearing plaid shirts and jeans barge into the Crabcake Lounge. “Uh, sorry we’re late.”

“Just take a seat,” Mr. Paddlewheel says nicely. “Tomorrow night,” he tells us all, “we are throwing a very special benefit concert, to help raise money for Houston’s homeless population. The benefit, we are happy to report, is
completely
sold out, and we are expecting an estimated five thousand people to fill the Turtle Dome Arena out in back. You have been selected to sing one song each—sort of a tribute to Houston’s burgeoning undiscovered talent, and the possibilities that lie ahead of all of us.”

Five thousand people!
I swallow hard just thinking about it. We’ve never performed for that many folks at once!

“What’s the game plan now?” Galleria asks excitedly, as we head back to Ma’s car.

“Well, I made some crawfish and potatoes stew for dinner, if anyone is interested,” Ma chuckles.

“Yes, bring on Mr. Crawdaddy!” Galleria shouts.

“Gentlemen, that invitation still holds.” Ma is talking to Fish ’N’ Chips, who are about to walk out of the parking lot. I’ll bet you they walk all the way back to Montgomery Shelter, since they don’t have a car!

“We’ll be there, Ms. Junifred, don’t you worry,” Mr. Chips Carter says. Lifting his sunglasses, he gives her a wink. “Yes, indeed. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Wow, this is
la dopa
!” Chanel exclaims, “It looks like right out of a magazine.”

I guess we forget how pretty Ma’s house is. It’s so country and flowery—the exact opposite of Daddy’s apartment in New York.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Ma says, moving some mail off the table. As she does, she looks at one of the envelopes. “I’ve got to mail this census form in,” she says, putting it aside.

“The ones who don’t get counted are usually the really poor people,” Angie explains to Dorinda.

“So what?” Dorinda asks.

“Well, see, how much money the government gives Houston depends on how many people say they live here. So when poor people don’t fill out their census forms, the government gives less money to help the poor.”

“Oh,” Dorinda says, and you can tell it makes her feel sad.

We sit down in the living room while Ma starts getting ready to cook dinner. Fish ’N’ Chips will be coming over later, and she wants everything to be perfect, so there’s a lot for her to do.

Meanwhile, Galleria wants to hear about the whole Skeeter business. I tell her about his red Cadillac being spotted on Sycamore Road.

Ma hears us talking about him, and she reminds us of his last words to her: “He said he was tired of everything, and just wanted to ‘rest in peace.’ That’s why we are so frightened at what he might do.”

“Don’t forget what India said, about Uncle Skeeter’s girlfriend having a name that’s softer than mink,” Angie adds, trying to be helpful. “And what Big Momma said about her last name being Wilkerson.”

“Don’t snooze on the clues!” Galleria exclaims, and we can see the lightbulb going off in her head. “Get me a phone book—you’d be surprised by who has a listed number.”

Angie and I just look at Galleria like, “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your mother says her last name is Wilkerson, right?”

“Yeah … so?”

“So, let’s see if she’s in the phone book.”

“Galleria, do you know how many Wilkersons there are in the Houston phone book? That’s a
typical
Southern last name!” I’m starting to get exasperated by Galleria’s over-eagerness. Of course, I should have known she would have a plan.

“Yeah, but how many of those Wilkersons have a first name that’s softer than mink?”

Now we all look at Galleria in awe. Why didn’t
we
think of that?

“Let’s look at every Wilkerson in the phone book!” Chanel says excitedly.

We huddle around, going down the names of Wilkersons carefully and reading them out loud—“Annabel, Karen, Katie, Sandy, Sable, Twanda, Toinette—”

“Wait a minute,” Dorinda says. “Go back—
Sable!
Remember what India said? ‘Soft as mink.’ Well, sable is a kind of fur, and so is mink.”

“Omigod,” gasps Angie. “Look. She lives on Hummingbird—that’s right around the corner from Sycamore!”

“We’ve gotta think of a plan,” Ma muses.

“I’ve got an idea,” Galleria says with a satisfied smirk. “We go over there, and say we’re from the Census Bureau, and that we need her to fill out a form, because people aren’t handing them in on time. Your Mom could be the census lady—and we’ll be her kids. She can say she’s working late to earn extra money or something.”

“Oh, I get it—get her sympathy and wheedle our way in. Then, when Ma wins her confidence, they can do girl talk—about their boyfriends, right?” It sounds like a good plan to me.

“Yeah!” Galleria says.

“But what if she recognizes Ma?” Angie asks, concerned, even though Ma has obviously never met Sable.

“She’s not going to recognize your mother,” Chanel says.

“Why?” we ask in unison.

“Because we’re gonna put her in a Cheetah Girl disguise, just in case,
mamacitas
!”

“I haven’t had so much fun playing dress-up since I was a kid,” Ma says while we fuss with her. We wrap her hair in a cheetah turban and try on a pair of cheetah sunglasses.

“Well,” Ma says, looking in the mirror. “It sure doesn’t look like me—I guess it’s worth a shot. But I don’t have too long—I’ve got to get dinner together, remember.”

“Don’t forget the form,” Dorinda says, handing Ma the envelope with the census form inside.

“Oh, right—and I should take my clipboard from work, and my briefcase,” she adds.

I can tell Ma is feeling much better—at least we’re
doing
something about finding Uncle Skeeter, instead of sitting around thinking the worst.

“I think it’s best if Dorinda and I pretend to be your ma’s daughters,” Galleria says. “Just in case Skeeter already told Sable that he has twin nieces.”

Even though I feel disappointed, I know Bubbles is right about that. Uncle Skeeter does love bragging about us to everybody, just like Big Momma.

“Why can’t
I
be one of the daughters?” Chanel asks, feeling left out, too.

“’Cuz, Chuchie, you have a Spanish accent—maybe Sable won’t buy that you’re Ms. Walker’s daughter.”

“Oh—I’ve got to change my name,” Ma says. “I’ll say my name is Mrs. Cobbler—that way I won’t forget, ’cuz I was planning on making y’all a cobbler for Thanksgiving Day.” Ma seems amused by her own cleverness.