Twinkle, Twinkle, Cheetah Stars

Chapter

1

I’m probably the only person north of Houston, Texas, who knows what a good fake-tress my twin sister, Angie, is. (She truly deserves a gingerbread-baked Academy Award.) Here we are trying to get ready, and Angie has just laid out an outfit on her twin bed that she wants me to think looks cute in this dag-on chilly weather—a white cotton peasant blouse, a denim skirt with a white dust ruffle underneath it, and white tights stuck inside black cowboy boots.

"Galleria told us that wearing white after Labor Day is a fashion crime that should not be committed, I say tersely, delivering a warning. Why do you want to cause problems with the Cheetah Girls?" See, we are going to our annual Christmas meeting for the Kats and Kittys Klub—a national teen social organization that we originally joined in Houston and now belong to in the New York chapter. That’s where we met Galleria and the rest of the Cheetah Girls—which is the best thing that could have ever happened to two singing thirteen-year-old twins who moved up from Houston to live with their dee-vorced father in the Big Apple and start a whole new life. (Daddy got the deal of a century on a duplex apartment through his boss.)

"We do not look like country hicks, Aqua—we look tight," Angie hisses back at me, standing defiantly in her white bloomers. Now my sister the fake-tress is imitating Chanel, the Latin spitfire member of our singing group who is the most obsessed with clothes, but unlike Galleria, would never say a mean word even if we showed up to the meeting in Big Bird costumes.

Okay, Miss wannabe Hognate heffa, I humph at her, referring to the high school with the biggest cheerleading squad in Texas. Don’t forget your pom-poms.

Shaking my head, I change the paper lining in Porgy and Bess’s cage (they’re our treasured pet guinea pigs), then carefully lay out my blue denim skirt, brown turtleneck sweater, and black opaque tights on the bed, just to show Angie what I had in mind. Before I put on my tights, I run my fingers through them to check for holes (sometimes sneaky Angie runs my tights, then puts them back in the drawer!). Now I’m starting to feel uncomfortable about the meeting. See, some of the Kats and Kittys members didn’t come to the Cheetah Girls Bring It On! fund-raising benefit. I guess that was their way of telling us that they really do think we’re corny. See, Angie and I are on the volunteer services committee, but nobody seems all that interested in our plans for a food drive for the homeless at our church, either. Maybe we should have come up with a better idea. That reminds me about the flyers we made for the drive. Don’t forget to put the flyers in your backpack, I instruct Angie. Wiggling my tights up to my thick waist, I start thinking about the first time we met Galleria and the rest of the Cheetah Girls. She made a crack about my white frosted lipstick, so I stopped wearing it because I had to admit she was right—that shade did make my lips look like two flying saucers lost in space!

I guess you can tell by the now that Galleria is a handful. And do pardon my manners, please—the Cheetah Girls are Galleria Bubbles Garibaldi, who is the leader of our group as you will see by her extra-picky dress code; Chanel Coco Simmons (but she isn’t the only Coco anymore, since we just named our new adorable puppy in her honor!); Dorinda Do’ Re Mi Rogers (sweet as she wants to be); and us, of course, Aquanette Marie and Anginette Vivian Walker. Those are our full and proper names, even though we don’t use our middle names since we moved in with Daddy.

Why do you care a heap of beans what Galleria thinks? Angie says, rolling her eyes around like pool balls, then answering her own question. Because you liked that sneaky Eddie Lizard and he liked her!

Now Angie is cutting deep. Eddie Lizard is this boy who slithered his way into Drinka Champagne’s Conservatory, where we all take vocal classes on Saturdays. It’s true that I liked Eddie and he liked Galleria, but it doesn’t matter now, because, luckily, he has crawled back under whatever rock he came from in California. He even left without saying good-bye to anybody. I mean, it’s obvious he doesn’t have any home training, as Big Momma would say, so I have gotten over him real quick.

You know good and well that’s water under the bridge, I say, shaking my head. It’s true that I talked about Galleria behind her back to my sister, but now that the Cheetah Girls are finally going back into the studio with big-time record producer Mouse Almighty, to finish our demo tape (which Mouse is submitting to Def Duck Records in the hopes that we get signed to the label), I don’t have time to think about that ole beef jerky.

And don’t change the subject. She is right about our outfits—that’s all I’m saying, I moan, wasting my breath. See, Galleria talked us into wearing pink cheetah outfits for the Bring It On! benefit, and lo and behold, the Def Duck Records executives in attendance started quacking to Ms. Dorothea (our manager and Galleria’s very fabulous mother) about getting us back into the studio with Mouse Almighty. Then faster than a Bisquick minute, Mouse called Ms. Dorothea and said he was ready to get back in the saddle with us.

I smooth down my hair one last time, then shuffled out of our bedroom and down the spiral staircase to wait for Angie to get it together before I bop her on the head. (Don’t get nervous. Fighting with my other half is as natural to me as singing in a church choir—both of which we’ve been doing since we could get sound out of our vocal chords!) I figure if I leave her alone, maybe she’ll come to her senses and change her outfit. That’s all right, I’m gonna fix her broken wagon real good: this weekend, when Angie isn’t looking, I’m packing all the summer clothes in the plastic garment bags, where they belong.

Landing in the living room, I notice a strong scent in the air. I sniff carefully, trying to place the aroma. One look at Daddy who is standing at the counter, filling his pipe with tobacco and I know what it is: Daddy is wearing some strange new cologne or aftershave. Something must be up, because he never wears anything that strong. And that’s not all: Daddy is also wearing his black velvet sports jacket and dressy black slacks. In other words, Daddy is looking sharp and smelling like the gigantic fern plants they have at the botanical gardens.

You look nice, Daddy, I say casually, to see if he will tell me where he’s going—and most important—with whom.

Thank you, Daddy says, staying tight-lipped. That’s just like Daddy not to tip his hand (that’s why he is real good at card games, even though he lost his card-playing buddies when he moved to New York).

Well, it takes more than that to keep my big nose out of somebody’s business—even Daddy’s. Are you going somewhere, Daddy? I ask cautiously.

Yes, I am, he replies sharply, letting me know that this conversation is over.

Well, we’re going over to the Pizza Pit to meet the rest of the Cheetah Girls before the Kats and Kittys meeting, I say, defeated. That’s also my signal for him to fork over some money for our dinner tonight.

Oh, right, Daddy says, absentmindedly reaching into his back pant’s pocket for his wallet.

I wish I could tell Daddy that his cologne is too strong, but I know better. Instead, I ask him if I can remove the lint from the back of his jacket. Go ahead, Daddy responds gruffly, which I know means hurry up. Now I realize Daddy is just waiting for us to leave, so he can go about his business, and I have a feeling that business has something to do with a woman. I freeze with fear for a second. I hope Daddy hasn’t picked up again with that kooky ex-girlfriend of his. Let’s just say that Angie and I were part of a plot (successful, I might add) to help rid Daddy of his last nut, High Priestess Abala Shaballa Mogo Hexagone, a whole lot of trouble in a head wrap.

While I’m brushing the lint off Daddy’s jacket, Angie clumps down the staircase like a cow. Looking up, I see she is still wearing her cowboy boots and denim skirt and petticoat underneath, but at least she has put on a black turtleneck. From the way Angie scrunches up her nose, I can tell she is thinking the same thing I am. Why is Daddy wearing some new stinky cologne?

Daddy watches us carefully as we put on our coats, and I know what he is thinking, so I grab my black-and-white checked muffler and matching wool hat from the closet so he can see we’ll be dressing warm.

Angie stares at me hard. "That is my scarf!"

No, it’s not—you got the brown set, I hiss back. See, now when we buy stuff, we get different colors, even if we are getting the same thing. I mean, we’re almost fourteen years old—we’re getting a little too old to be dressing like twins. Angie stomps to the closet and grabs the brown-and-white checked knit muffler and cap. I guess we have borrowed each other’s mufflers and hats so many times, Angie forgot which one was really hers.

Daddy yells, Get to bed by eleven, you hear?

Yes, Daddy, I holler back, then stop myself from blurting out, I’ll see you later, since he