It's Raining Benjamins (3 page)

“It smelled like a psychedelic voodoo shack or something,” Dorinda remembers, laughing.

I laugh, too, and scrunch up my nose again, making a funny face like I smell something bad. That's when I really
do
smell something—and it's really,
really
stinky poo.

Bubbles says I'm prissy, but I'm not. I just don't like odors. My nose is
muy sensitiva
, and I can smell things that other people can't—just like dogs do. (I think that's why I love dogs so much—because we are a lot alike.) And
speaking of dogs
…

“Bubbles, do you smell doggy poo?” I ask sheepishly.

“I smell it, too … oh, no—don't tell me!” Bubbles looks down at her shoes, and discovers the root of the problem. “I can't believe it! I'm so
over
this!”

“Woof, there it is,” Dorinda says, smirking.

I crack up, and Bubbles throws me an annoyed look. “I
hate
this city,” she says. “Nobody cleans up after their dog except me, and I'm the one who winds up stepping in it!”

I try to console her by saying “We didn't see one pile of doggy poo the whole time we were in Cali.”

“No, we didn't,” Bubbles says wistfully. “You got that right.”

“It's even worse in my neighborhood than it is here,” Do' Re Mi moans. Do' lives way uptown, and her neighborhood is like
el barrio
, where Abuela lives. The people there have a lot of big, mean dogs, with ferocious fangs for protection—and just for stylin'. And those kinda dogs leave some big, stinky land mines on the sidewalk.

“I'll get it off for you, Bubbles,” I volunteer. (That'll show her I'm not squeamish like she says I am.) “Come on—before anybody sees it.”

“You mean,
smells
it!” Dorinda corrects me. She and I crack up, but Galleria isn't laughing. She walks on her tiptoes all the way to the bathroom, holding her nose. I walk on my tiptoes, too, like I'm wearing pointshoes—my ballet slippers.

A few people walk by, heckling at Galleria. “Sashay, parlay!” they call out, imitating her walk. Bubbles sticks her tongue out at them like she doesn't care, but I know she's goospitating inside. I know I would be—
Yo sé
!

Chapter
2

T
he bathroom at Fashion Industries East High is right out of a prison movie—kinda dark and creepy-looking. I make Bubbles take off her Mary Jane shoes, then throw both of them in the sink and turn on the faucet.

Nothing comes out of it. “Oh, come on,” I moan. The faucets at our school are broken more than half the time. At last, a little water spurts out—then suddenly, it
gushes
out, flooding the sink, and totally soaking Galleria's shoes!

“Chuchie!” Bubbles yells, running to turn off the faucet. The water is splashing everywhere now—all over the floor, and
us
.

All of a sudden, Kadeesha Ruffin flings open the bathroom door and stands there with her crew. “What's up, y'all—is it laundry day?” she asks. Her crew starts whooping it up and high-fiving each other.

I don't say anything, because Kadeesha is kinda nasty and I'm scared of her. Bubbles just ignores her while Dorinda—politely—explains the situation.

“Don't tell me y'all have never stepped in poop—So here's the scoop: back off and get out of our loop. Just leave us alone,” she says.
Vaya
, go, Do' Re Mi! Her snaps are as good as Bubbles's.
Te juro
. I swear.

“Awright, shortie,” Kadeesha says. She snaps her gum really loud, then marches out the bathroom without using the sink. Her crew follow behind her, still grinning, even though they're not laughing out loud anymore.

Galleria is staring at her soaked shoes, shaking her head like she's about to cry. “
Now
what do you expect me to do, Miss Cuchifrita Ballerina?” she challenges me. “Plié down the hallways all day without shoes?”

Meanwhile, I'm busy yanking brown paper towelettes from the dispenser and trying to blot her shoes dry. The truth is, I feel stupid, like a
babosa
.

Dorinda looks at the dripping shoes, and suggests hopefully, “We could put paper towels in the bottoms.”

“No,
olvídate
!” I say, suddenly bursting into tears. “Just forget wearing them, okay? I'm a ding-a-ling, all right? Now just put them on the paper towels.”

I can't believe I yelled at Bubbles. Suddenly I realize that it's not just the wet shoes that are bothering me. There's something else … something that was
annoyándome
before we went out to L.A. In all the excitement about the New Talent Showcase and the chokers, I'd forgotten all about it. Well, I
tried
to forget it, anyway, and now, that Pucci's birthday was almost here …

“Chuchie, what's the matter with you?” Bubbles blurts out when I can't stop crying.

“
Nada
,” I whine. Then I take out my Yves Saint Bernard perfume spray. I spritz it in her shoes, then spritz the air for good measure. “You know how I am about stinky-poos!”

“Yeah—but what's
really
wrong?” Bubbles insists, waving away the mist of my perfume (which she hates). “You're not crying over my shoes,
girlita
, so don't lie or you'll fry.” It's unbelievable how Bubbles knows me inside and out!

All of a sudden, I blurt out the truth. “Saturday is Pucci's birthday, and my mom hasn't said one thing about buying him a Chihuahua like she promised!”

“Chuchie,” Bubbles says, instantly putting her arm around me. “I didn't know you were so upset about that.”

“You
know
how much I want a dog. I mean for Pucci,” I confess. “Remember when we were at
Madrina
's store, and my mom said she would think about getting Pucci a Chihuahua for his birthday?”

“Yeah, I remember—but I guess
she
doesn't,” Bubbles says, in that tone she gets when she's trying to push me to do something. “You'd better ask her yourself.”

“I don't want to,” I shoot back, wiping Bubbles's shoes furiously with the paper towels. Little wet balls of paper are now decorating her shoes.

“Oh, I get it, you're
scared
to ask her, because you haven't paid back all the money you owe her,” Bubbles says.

I can't wait until I pay back all the money I owe my mother for charging up her credit cards—then I'm gonna seal Bubbles's lips closed with Wacky Glue! “So?” I hiss at her. “You'd be afraid, too.”

“You know it, so don't blow it,” Galleria admits. She gives me a little squeeze. “I know how much you've always wanted a dog—and you
know
that little Chihuahua would be
your
dog, 'cuz no way is Pucci gonna take care of it.”

“Wait a minute,” Do' Re Mi steps in. “What if you offer to pay for
part
of the Chihuahua?”

“What happened? How am I gonna pay for anything?” I ask. “I got
nada
for
nada
.”

We both look at Do' Re Mi like she's cuckoo, but she continues: “We're gonna sell these Cheetah Girls chokers we've made,
ri-ight
?”

“Yeah,” Galleria chimes in. “But so far, we only got orders from Derek and LaRonda. One plus one makes
two
.”

“Yeah, but if the
three
of us go around all week taking orders for Cheetah Girls chokers, we can get Chanel enough money so she can go to her mom and say she'll put in thirty dollars to help buy the dog for Pucci's birthday.”

Do' Re Mi looks to Bubbles for approval. “I mean, we've got all week to sell them,
ri-ight
? And they're dope,
ri-ight
?”

Bubbles thinks hard for a minute. Then she looks at the both of us, wild-eyed, and asks, “If all three of us take orders, how many of these you think we can sell?”

“I don't know—a lot,
ri-ight
?” I offer, smiling. We all give each other the Cheetah Girls handshake, and then get busy helping Bubbles put her wet shoes back on. I feel so much better now that I've told Bubbles and Dorinda the truth about what's been on my mind. They are really my crew,
es la verdad
.

“It's our dime—and choker time,” Bubbles says, handing over Cheetah Girls chokers for us to wear. Then she puts one on herself. The three of us just stand there, gazing in the dirty mirror at our cheetah-fied reflections.

“That does look so
money, ri-ight
!” Bubbles says, satisfied.

“
Sí, señorita
,” I say with a grin. “I can't wait to show Abuela Florita what we're doing. I'll bet you she'll like our chokers.” I turn to Dorinda and pinch her cheeks. “Abuela would love you, too—because she just
loves
dimples.”

“Well, it's time to turn some Cheetah Girl chokers into duckets,” Bubbles says, tickling our fingers as we do the Cheetah Girls handshake one more time. “Homeroom's about to jump off—we'd better get shaking if we want to sell some of these while they're still baking.”

“I know what
you're
going to buy with your choker money,
mamacita
,” I tease Bubbles as we leave the bathroom and start running down the hall.

“What?”

“A new pair of shoes!”

Chapter
3

B
oth Bubbles and I major in fashion merchandising, while Dorinda majors in fashion design. Our homeroom classes are in Building C, on the other end of the second floor. When we get there, there are still fifteen minutes till homeroom starts. We hang in the hallway till the last minute, hoping to run into Derek Ulysses Hambone—“Mr. DUH”—and give him his choker.

“Maybe Mackerel will take the bait, too,” I say excitedly. “Let's hook him on a choker!”

“Just don't get caught in his trap,” giggles Bubbles.

Mackerel Johnson is Derek Hambone's best friend. He has a crush on me—
un coco
that is never gonna happen, because he doesn't know that I'm going to meet
Krusher
.

Krusher, in case you live on Mars and have never heard of him, is a
tan coolio
singer, with the brain, heart, and courage to live his wildest dreams in the jiggy jungle. It doesn't matter that
I
didn't win the 900-KRUSHER contest, which would have taken me on a trip to Miami for a date with my favorite
papi chulo
—I'll find another way to meet him, you just wait and see!

“If Mackerel didn't bounce around like a jumping bean, would you go out with him?” Bubbles asks, smirking at me. She doesn't believe that my heart belongs to Krusher, but I won't settle for less,
está bien
?

“Oh, word, I've got a dope idea,” Dorinda suddenly says, then whips out a book from her cheetah backpack and hands it to me. “Check this out, Chanel,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “I can't believe I didn't think of this when we were talking about it before!”

“What is it, Do'?” I ask, curious.

“I've been reading about these African pygmy hedgehogs,” she says.

I flip through the book, and I can't believe what I'm seeing. These pygmy creatures look sooo cute—brownish and small, with sticky spiny things on their backs. “
Qué monos
!” I coo.

“See, I was thinking maybe you could get Pucci one of
these
for his birthday instead of a dog! They don't shed, so your mother won't have to clean its hairs off the sofa—and you don't have to walk them, like with a dog. I think they're cheaper than a Chihuahua, too—and look how cute!”

“How do I get one, Dorinda? Do I have to go to Africa?”

“No, they have special pet stores here that buy them from breeders in New Zealand,” Dorinda explains. “See, I've been kinda hoping Mrs. Bosco will let me get one for my brother Topwe, because he
really
wants a pet.”

I think
Dorinda
's the one pining for a pet, 'cuz that's how it is in
my
house. It's supposed to be for Pucci, but
I'm
the one who's all upset he isn't getting a pet for his birthday.

“Why do they call them hogs?” I ask, my curiosity all worked up. “They look more like porcupines.”

“I guess 'cuz they're always looking for food or something,” Dorinda guesses, shrugging her shoulders.

“Always looking for food, huh?” That sounds more like Dorinda's stepbrothers and stepsisters—especially Topwe. At Dorinda's adoption party Topwe ate the whole tray of candied yams topped with baked marshmallows before I even got a
whiff
of one!

Pobrecita
, Dorinda. Poor thing … How is her family gonna find room for a pet, with thirteen people squeezed into a tiny apartment? She's even less likely to get a pet than
I
am!

“Lemme see that book,” Bubbles asks curiously. She looks over our shoulders as we flip through the pages, oohing and aahing at the cute, furry, funny creatures. Most of the pictures show the hedgehogs crouched under woodpiles—obviously looking for their next meal.

I'm thinking Dorinda might be right … Maybe I
can
talk Mom into letting me get one of these for Pucci's birthday. I'll bet Mom wouldn't be allergic to those spines—they'd just stick her when she gets nasty, that's all!

“Maybe you can ask your mom to buy one for Pucci,” Dorinda asks.

“
Yo no sé
,” I mumble, lapsing into Spanish unconsciously. I put my hand around my choker, and feel the metal letters which spelt
GROWL POWER
. I need all the growl power I can muster up to ask Mami for anything. These days, it seems like all we do is fight—
la guerra Dominicana, está bien
? Heaving a sigh, I finger the letters on my choker again, and say proudly to Bubbles, “See, I told you this Wacky Glue was the move,
está bien
? It holds the letters on real well.”