Growl Power! (8 page)

We are so proud of Ma. Now I wish the rest of the Cheetah Girls could meet
our
mother—they would be proud of her too!

“Gentlemen, could you step inside?” says a security attendant to Fish ’N’ Chips.

“Well, ladies, it looks like it’s curtain time,” Mr. Fred Fish says, as the two of them go inside for their audition.

We wish them good luck—and we really mean it. Fish ’N’ Chips sure earned their tartar sauce tonight! I start humming a bar from their song as we wait for our turn.

After about fifteen minutes, Fish ’N’ Chips reemerge in the doorway of the Crabcake Lounge. Ma seems genuinely happy to see them again. “Why don’t you two wait out here with me, while the girls go inside?” she suggests to them.

Angie and I grin from ear to ear as we are ushered into the Crabcake Lounge for our audition. “I’ll be waiting right here!” Ma yells after us.

The first thing I notice when we get inside is the stacks of forms. They are piled in big bins on top of a table with a checkered paper tablecloth. The place really looks a plain mess.

I can feel the disappointment in my heart when I look around and don’t see Karma’s Children. I knew they weren’t here, because we would’ve seen them come in. But somehow, I guess I held out hope that they were hiding under the bar or something.

Angie and I smooth down our cheetah skirts, and stand quietly on the tiny stage until we’re addressed. There are about six people sitting at the tables talking, and a few more running around, busy doing things.

“Okay,” says one of the ladies, who is wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat, a fringed jacket, and a badge that says
VOLUNTEER
.

“You girls are …?” the lady asks, then pauses, obviously waiting for us to fill in the blank.

“Angi—” my slow sister starts in.

“The Cheetah Girls,” I say, thinking quickly. That’s what the lady wants to hear—the name of our group. “My sister was trying to say that she’s Anginette and I’m Aquanette Walker—but we’re the Cheetah Girls. The other members of our group are in New York—you know, for the holidays.”

“Ah, yes,” the cowboy hat lady says. “You girls are from Houston though, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, we are,” I say proudly.

“Good—because ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ is the name of the benefit concert, as you may have heard by now,” the lady continues.

“Yes, ma’am, we know.” I nod again.

A man with thick glasses and a bright red tie clears his throat. He seems to be getting impatient. They are probably tired and irritated after seeing hundreds of people all day.

“Well, would you mind singing for us now?” the lady asks.

“You mean, just a capella?” I ask.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Oh.” I nod, then move toward Angie so we can begin our two-part harmony. Why didn’t we rehearse a gospel song? I wonder, shrieking inside. Maybe our kinda of music isn’t appropriate for a homeless benefit! No, that’s ridiculous, I assure myself.

Angie is looking at me, waiting to begin. So are all the auditioners. We sing “It’s Raining Benjamins,” and by the time we get to the second verse, they all seem to be smiling. Some of them are even keeping time with their hands and feet. That gives us confidence, and we really lay into the chorus:

The volunteer lady starts clapping, then the others join in. “Wonderful, girls. Well let you know,” she says enthusiastically. “We’ve got to move along now, but it was great meeting you.”

“How many groups are they gonna pick?” I ask as we’re leaving.

“Well, we want to give as many groups a chance as we can,” the nice volunteer lady rambles on.

“Each group will get to do one song,” the man in the glasses and red tie explains, getting more to the point. “We plan on having about three to five warm-up spots.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” I gush, even though I’m not exactly sure what he means. Then, remembering my manners, I ask the lady her name, so I can say good night to her properly.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I’m Mrs. Fenilworth, and this is Mr. Paddlewheel.”

“Good night, Mrs. Fenilworth. Good night, Mr. Paddlewheel.”

Once we’re outside, Angie asks, “When he said warm-up spots, that’s what we were auditioning for, right?”

“I guess so. Thank goodness, we’ve got spots to spare!”

We see Ma standing by the railing with Fish ’N’ Chips, a little way from the crowd. We are so happy to see them that we hug all three of them one after another.

Ma wants to know all about the audition, but Angie and I have only one thing on our minds right now. “Let’s go eat!” we scream at Ma in unison. We’re always hungry after we perform—just like real cheetahs!

B
ig Momma calls first thing in the morning, and this time we can really hear the strain in her voice. “I’m praying for Skeeter,” she says, sobbing. I can just see her wringing her good handkerchief in her hands—the one she keeps balled up in her skirt pocket and takes out for “sneezing and wheezing.”

“Big Momma, don’t you have any idea where he could be?” I ask, getting so anxious I can hardly contain myself.

“I’ve called everybody that knows that boy, and nobody has seen hide nor hair of him,” Big Momma says sadly.

“What about, um, a lady friend?” I ask gingerly.

“You know he never brought her around here—which means she ain’t no Christian woman,” Big Momma says gruffly.

“We’re praying for him, Big Momma,” I say, sniffling into the phone. “We love you.”

Ma comes over to me, sits down at the table, and puts down her coffee mug. She takes the phone from my hand. “No news?” she asks, then listens. “Hang on, Momma—that’s my other line beeping. Someone’s trying to get through. Yes, I
have
to get it. Just hold on for a minute.”

That makes Angie smile. Big Momma hates call waiting. “If the line is busy, let ’em call back!” she always insists. She refuses to get call waiting on her phone, and sometimes it takes us hours to reach her!

“This is Mrs. Walk—um, Junifred speaking,” Ma says to someone on the other line. She still seems confused about what to call herself, now that she and Daddy are dee-vorced. “Could you hang on a second please?” Ma says to the person on the phone, then clicks to the other line, “Momma, a lady is calling for the girls on the other line. Hmm. Hmm. Call me as soon as you hear something. Hmm. Hmm. What? Yes, I’ll tell them.”

Ma clicks the line and hands us the phone, chuckling. “Big Momma says Porgy and Bess have worn out their welcome. She said it’ll take her two years to replant the strawberry patch they trampled to death!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say quickly, hardly even paying attention. I grab the receiver from her and greet the person on the line. “Hello?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Fenilworth, from the ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ Committee?”

“Hi, Mrs. Fenilworth! This is Aquanette Walker,” I say, suddenly getting a jittery feeling in my stomach.

“Well, Miss Walker—we had a really hard time narrowing down all the candidates for the benefit concert,” Mrs. Fenilworth says, very slowly.

Oh, no—we didn’t get it! I let out a big sigh. Oh, well, at least she was nice enough to call and let us know.

“There were just so many wonderful performers from our fine city,” Mrs. Fenilworth rambles on, “but we had to think about what would be, um, the best complement for Karma’s Children—and that’s how we finally decided on picking you girls.”

Did she say what I thought she said
? “Do you mean you picked us out of all those people?” I ask, holding my breath.

“Well, we have narrowed it down to five groups, but yes, we thought your group—the, um, Cheetah Girls—would be a nice addition. That is, if you’re still interested. We understand that there is no money involved, so it could be difficult—”

I just start screaming my head off.

“Miss Walker?”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fenilworth, but you have no idea what this means to the Cheetah Girls!” Then I suddenly realize—what about the rest of the Cheetah Girls? We can’t perform onstage without the others—that just wouldn’t be right!

Angie grabs the receiver from me. “Hi, Mrs. Fenilworth, this is Anginette Walker—did you say
all
the Cheetah Girls could come? No, they live in New York—but if you paid for their plane tickets, they’d be here tomorrow!”

I look at Angie in disbelief. Has she lost her mind? I turn to Ma, who is just sitting there, smiling and shaking her head.

“No, no. We have plenty of room for them to stay at our house. Hmm. Hmm. Okay. Bye.”

“Mrs. Fenilworth is gonna let us know if they’ll pay to fly the Cheetah Girls from New York to Houston!” Angie screams.

“That’s real good, Angie,” Ma says, delighted. “And good for you for having the courage to ask!”

“Angie, what if they change their minds about using us because of what you just did?” I ask my sister, stunned.

“If Fish ’N’ Chips can stick together for thirty-five years, then so can the Cheetah Girls—all
five
of us!” Angie insists proudly.

The phone rings, and all three of us jump up. Ma is first to grab it. “Hello?” she says. “Yes, this is their mother. Oh, that’s wonderful news! The girls will be so pleased! Uh-huh. Let me get a pen. Well, the girls do have a manager—I’ll tell her to call you and make the travel arrangements. Uh-huh …” Ma continues writing furiously on a notepad.

I motion to her to give me the phone. “That’s real good news, Mrs. Fenilworth!” I exclaim.

“Well, it’s the least we could do, since you girls are giving your time and talent for such a good cause,” Mrs. Fenilworth says.

“Um, Mrs. Fenilworth, what are some of the other groups you’ve picked?”

“Let me get the list,” Mrs. Fenilworth says. I can hear her shuffling some papers, then she returns. “We have Diamonds in the Ruff—they are so cute—older girls than you, I think. Um, Miggy and Mo’, Moody Gardens, and—oh, that’s it. Funny, I thought there were five….”

“Well, Mrs. Fenilworth,” I say, sounding professional, “while we were waiting to audition, we had the pleasure of hearing this amazing blues group, Fish ’N’ Chips.”

“Uh, yes, I remember them,” Mrs. Fenilworth says, hesitating. “We thought they were very good, but perhaps … not appropriate as an opening act for, um, the Karma’s Children audience.”

“Well, Mrs. Fenilworth, we are only thirteen, and we
love
them. My generation isn’t just interested in R & B, rap, and pop music—we love the blues, too!” I try not to look at Angie, who is making me laugh, hopping around with her hand over her mouth.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fenilworth says, like she’s trying not to say anything to offend me. She
is
nice.

“And you know Houston does help its own—everyone is real proud of Fish ’N’ Chips at the Montgomery Homeless Shelter—where they
live
, tirelessly helping the other residents and cheering them up with their music.”

“They
live
at Montgomery?” Mrs. Fenilworth asks, surprised. “They never mentioned that.”

“Well, they are proud, fine musicians first of all—so I’m not surprised they didn’t say anything about living in a homeless shelter.”

“Let me see what I can do—because your point is very well taken, young lady. If I can pull a few strings here, we’ll contact the gentlemen ourselves, okay?” Mrs. Fenilworth says. “Um … do you have any
more
requests?”

“Oh, no, ma’am!” I reply quickly. “We, um, the Cheetah Girls look forward to seeing you at the rehearsal, Mrs. Fenilworth—and we can’t thank you enough!”

“
OMIGOD
!!” Angie and I hug each other like two cuddly teddy bears.

“That was real nice what you did, Nettie One,” Ma says to me—and now I’m beaming, because I’ve made her proud, too.

The phone rings
again
. “Well, pick it up. Don’t look at me—I just live here,” Ma says, half smiling. I think she’s afraid to pick it up, to tell you the truth—’cuz it might be bad news about Uncle Skeeter.

“Hello?” I say apprehensively.

“Anginette?”

“No, it’s Aquanette,” I say to Big Momma, who sounds upset.

“Put Junie on the phone,” she says quietly.

Ma sees the fear on my face as I pass her the phone. “What is it?” she asks, while we look on. “On Sycamore Road? Yeah, that’s all we can do now, sit and wait.”

Ma hangs up, and we can feel her heaviness. All the excitement about performing at Karma’s Children Benefit Concert has flown out of the room like fairy dust.

“We’ve got to go on with our lives until we know more, Aquanette,” Ma explains, calling me by my full name, which she only does when she’s being real serious. “You’d better call Galleria and get this rodeo in motion.” She hands me the phone to call New York.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, trying to shake the bad case of the spookies that has come over me.

“Houston is boostin,’ baby!” Galleria exclaims excitedly when I tell her the good news. “Now I know that dreams do come true in the jiggy jungle, because I’ve been
praying
for a way to get out of Dodge for Thanksgiving!”

I try to calm my nerves down as I tell Galleria all about Fish ’N’ Chips, Mrs. Fenilworth, Mr. Paddlewheel …

All of a sudden, Galleria interrupts, blurting out, “Miz Aquanette, what’s wrong? You don’t really sound like yourself. If you don’t want us to come and perform with you … we’ll understand.”

I am shocked that Galleria thinks we don’t want the rest of the Cheetah Girls to come down and perform with us. “Oh, no! It’s not that,” I reassure her. “But there is something wrong. Our uncle Skeeter hasn’t come home for five days. He hasn’t even called his kids—our cousins Egyptian and India. Now we found out that his car has been spotted on Sycamore Road, but we don’t know anybody who lives over there.”

“Don’t you worry, Aqua,” Galleria says confidently. “When we get there, and once we take care of our business, we’re gonna put our Cheetah Girl heads together and get to the bottom of this.”