Who's 'Bout to Bounce? (11 page)

That
really
makes me start bawling like a crawling baby.

“Dorinda is a crybaby! Dorinda is a crybaby!” Kenya says, sucking her teeth.

“Kenya,
can ya
please hush up for a second,” Mrs. Bosco says, putting her finger to her mouth.

“
What tour
?” my crew says in unison.

I just blurt out my whole confession, all at once. I tell them about the trail of lies I told to cover up my big audition, and about the rehearsal tomorrow.

Suddenly I feel everybody’s eyes staring at me. Behind Alaba, I see Angie and Aqua looking stunned. And Chanel looks like she just got hit on the head with a brick.

They all turn to Galleria, waiting to see how she’s gonna react. I look at her, too. She’s our leader. Whatever she says, goes. If she says I’m out, then that’s it. I lower my eyes, waiting for the verdict.

“Don’t let us stop you from making ‘Mo’ Money,’ Do’ Re Mi. If you want to go on tour, you
go
,” Bubbles says proudly. She looks at the rest of our crew as if she’s answering for all of them. “We’re proud of you for getting such a big gig. And don’t worry—we’ll always take you back as a Cheetah Girl, even if you come back when you’re a hundred! Ain’t that right, girls?”

“Right!” they all shout, gathering around me.

That gets me crying again, and I feel
really
bad, because now I don’t know what to do about anything! I love my family and my crew so much—how can I bear to leave them?

“Are you happy about it?” Bubbles says, kneeling down next to me and holding my hand.

“I don’t know. I don’t wanna leave y’all now,” I mumble.

“No, I mean about being adopted. You said you always dreamed about being adopted, and now it’s happening. Dorinda, it’s your dream come true.”

Before I can answer Galleria, Ms. Dorothea suddenly bursts into tears! She runs out of the living room, her peacock boa dropping feathers behind her.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” Bubbles turns around to look, but all she sees is the flurry of feathers falling to the floor, like snowflakes.

Dorothea locks herself in the bathroom, and she won’t come out. After what seems like-well, forever, me and my crew and Ms. Simmons put our ears to the bathroom door.

“Ms. Dorothea is still crying,” Angie whispers.

I feel terrible. “Do you think it’s something I said?”

“No, Dorinda, I think Dorothea has always been a little dramatic,” Ms. Simmons says.

She should talk. That “off-Broadway performance,” as Bubbles called it, that Ms. Simmons pulled when Chanel got caught charging on her card would have sent the Wicked Witch of the West flying away on her broomstick!

“Ms. Dorothea, can I come in?” I yell through the keyhole.

“Only if you come in by yourself,” Dorothea says, sniffling, then bawling again.

Bubbles looks at me like, “Whazzup with that?” But she has to understand that she can’t always take care of everything.

“I’ll handle this,” I whisper, then knock softly on the door.

“Dorinda, I’m so glad we can talk by ourselves,” Dorothea says, sniffling and laughing after she’s closed the door behind us. “Sorry we have to meet like this,” she says, balancing herself on the edge of the bathtub.

I feel embarrassed because the paint has chipped off, but Mr. Hammer, the super, keeps saying he’s going to repaint it soon. I wish my apartment was dope like hers, with cheetah stuff everywhere.

“You know, Dorinda,” she says, sniffling into her tissue, “from the first time I met you, I felt close to you.”

“I know, Ms. Dorothea. I feel close to you, too,” I reply.

“Now I know why,” she says, pausing, then pulling down her leopard skirt over her knees. “I, um, I, um, always wanted to be adopted, too.” Then she starts bawling again.

“You were a foster child?” I ask, amazed. “Bubbles never told me that.”

“Bubbles doesn’t know,” Ms. Dorothea says, smiling at her daughter’s nickname. “I never told her.”

“Oh,” I say, then we both hug. I would never have known Ms. Dorothea was a foster child. She is so beautiful and everything.

“I’ve hired a private detective to help find my mother, but I’m not having much luck,” she says, sobbing some more.

So that’s why she hired a detective! I think, remembering Bubbles and Chuchie’s conversation in the chat room that night. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Dorothea,” I say, comforting her. “Don’t give up, you’ll find her.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Dorothea says, then pauses. “Do you know what happened to your birth mother?”

“No. Um, Mrs. Bosco says she went on a trip around the world or something, but I don’t know.” I’m whispering, because I don’t want anyone to hear me through the door. “I never told anybody that. Not even them.”

Pointing outside the door, Ms. Dorothea smiles. “Well, let’s just keep this our little secret, okay?”

“Okay. I won’t say anything.”

“I’m not ready to tell Galleria about my childhood. I never told her, because I’ve always wanted her to have a perfect life. But watching you just now, telling the truth, I felt so proud, like you were
my
daughter, One of these days, I’m gonna tell Galleria the truth—she deserves to hear it.”

“Yes, she does,” I agree.

“And you, Dorinda—now you have two mothers, whether you like it or not, okay? Mrs. Bosco—and me.”

“Yes, Ms. Dorothea,” I say. Now I’m crying harder than ever, and she holds me for what seems like hours. Then I remember about our names.

“Did you know that Dorothea and Dorinda are both variations of the same name—meaning ‘God’s gift’?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Dorothea says, wiping her eyes with what’s left of her tissue. Then she starts laughing uncontrollably. “God’s gift—wait till Ms. Juanita hears that one!”

We’re still laughing when I open the bathroom door, but Dorothea wants to stay in there for a while longer, so I go out by myself. Of course, Bubbles, the rest of my crew, and Ms. Juanita are still standing outside the door—being nosy posy, no doubt.

“What were y’all laughing about?” Bubbles says.

“I told her that my name and her name both mean ‘God’s gift.’”

“Really?” Bubbles exclaims.

“No wonder she’s so conceited!” Juanita says, huffing.

“I wonder what
your
name means!” I heckle, then the six of us huddle outside the bathroom door, hugging and giggling together.

“We should leave her alone in the bathroom for a while,” I say, pushing everyone toward the living room.

“That’s for sure, ’cuz she wouldn’t be caught dead crying and then not fixing her makeup!” Juanita chimes in.

Bubbles gives us a look behind Juanita’s back, then blurts out, “Neither would
you
, Auntie Juanita!”

Yesterday I may have been adopted, but today, nothing has changed in my house. Mrs. Bosco is washing dishes. Topwe is fighting with Kenya over the last slice of sweet potato pie, and Monie the Meanie is still here, talking on the phone with her boyfriend Hector. “Shut up!” she screams at the other kids. “Can’t you see I’m talking?”

I don’t pay much attention, though. I’ve got bigger things on my mind. Today is do-or-die day I’m going to my first rehearsal for the Mo’ Money Monique tour. Not only are the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, but I actually feel
nauseous
. That must be from the three slices of sweet potato pie I ate last night—I think two must be my limit.

I’m too sick to eat anything, but luckily my ankle feels a whole lot better. Drinking a glass of orange juice, I wonder who helped Mrs. Bosco with all the papers she must have signed for my adoption? If there is one thing I know about the Child Welfare Department, there are more forms to fill out than at the CIA, ABC, or FBI, if you know what I’m sayin’. And normally, I’m the one who helps her fill out forms.

After the kids finish breakfast, I help Mrs. Bosco clear away the plates, then get ready to leave.

“Dorinda, baby, I gotta tell you something,” Mrs. Bosco says, walking over to a kitchen chair and sitting down real slow. Pulling out some papers from the knickknack ledge, she coughs, then says slowly, “When I got these papers and signed them, I didn’t have my glasses on, so I guess I didn’t realize what they were saying.”

Mrs. Bosco pauses for a long time, which makes me feel uncomfortable, so I say something to fill up the empty space. “Yeah?”

“Well, Dorinda, I guess the adoption didn’t go through,” Mrs. Bosco says, letting out a sad sigh. “I found out on Friday, but I didn’t want to say anything to your friends, since they were so excited setting up the party and everything.”

I sit there, too stunned to move. “So, I’m not legally adopted or anything?” I ask—but I already know the answer.

“I guess not, baby—but I’m gonna keep trying, you hear,” she says, looking at me so sad. “You know how trifling those people downtown can be. They can’t do nuttin’ right but mess up kids’ lives. That’s the only thing they seem to do good.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, although of course it does. I guess Mrs. Bosco will straighten it out with “those people” eventually. One of these days, I really will get adopted. Still, after all the celebration, it feels pretty empty to know it isn’t really true.

I get a sudden urge to ask Mrs. Bosco where my real mother is. Or if it’s true she’s really around the world on a trip—but I think I already know the answer to that. Besides, looking at how sad Mrs. Bosco is, I don’t think it’s a good time to talk about it now.

“I don’t mind being a foster child,” I say, “as long as
you
are my foster mother.”

She lets out another sigh. “You always were the smartest child I ever had. Nuttin’ you can’t do if you put your mind to it. That’s what I always said.”

At least I can be sure of one thing—if Mrs. Bosco went to all that trouble to adopt me, then no matter what happens, at least I don’t have to worry about her giving me away, right?

I decide this is as good a time as any to ask her for the one thing I
really
want. “Can I call you Mom now, instead of Mrs. Bosco?”

“Yes, baby. I guess after all these years we’ve been together, you can call me anything you want!” Mrs. Bosco beams at me, then pulls out a tissue to cough.

I know it would be pushing too much if I started hugging her, so I don’t. And I don’t wanna start crying again like a crybaby, as Kenya says, so I tie my jacket around my waist and get up to go. “See ya later, Mom.”

“See ya, baby,” my foster mom says.

It’s a good thing I’m early for rehearsal, because my stomach starts acting up again, and this gives me a chance to sit on the studio floor and calm down.

Pigeon girl from the audition was right. So far, there seem to be exactly five dancers. There are two guys and three girls, including me. They are all definitely older than I am, but they are all kinda small, like me—okay, they’re taller, but not
that
much taller.

I smile at the dancer with long black hair down to her waist. She is so pretty. I don’t remember seeing her at the audition. She musta been near the front or something.

She smiles back and introduces herself. “Hi, I’m Ling Oh.”

“Hi, I’m Dorinda,” I say, because I’m not sure if she just told me her first name, or her first and last name—so I wanna be on the safe side. Now I feel sorta self-conscious, because all the dancers are wearing black leotards, and I’m wearing my cheetah all-in-one. It makes me feel like a spotted mistake in the jiggy jungle!

Rubbing my ankle, I hear cackling in the hallway, and a whole group of people comes in, bringing in the noise.

Omigod, I can’t believe my eyes. It really is Mo’ Money Monique herself!

She is
really
pretty. Her hair is really straight, and her skin is a pretty tan color, and she isn’t even wearing any makeup. I read in
Sistarella
magazine that she is sixteen now, but she still lives with her mom in Atlanta.

Mo’ Money Monique adjusts her black leotard, and stands next to Dorka, the choreographer.

“Hi, Ms. Dorka,” I say, because I can’t pronounce her last name, and I don’t want to embarrass myself by trying.

“Hello, Dor-een-da. I’m so glad to see you.”

Mo’ Money Monique comes over and introduces herself to us. We introduce ourselves back, and then she says to me, “I love your leotard, it’s dope.”

Word, she’s
really
nice!

Dorka then takes over, and tells us that we are going to be practicing the moves without music first, just to get the combinations down.

The moves in hip-hop dancing are all about attitude. You have to move quick, sharp,
and
give attitude, as opposed to being graceful, like with jazz. For me, that’s what makes it so dope.

Suddenly, it hits me that I’m doing what I’ve always dreamed of doing—dancing in real life, instead of in the clouds—and yet, I don’t feel happy at all. I don’t even feel nervous anymore. I just feel, well,
sad
.

At the end of rehearsal, the not-so-jolly giant from the audition, who it turns out is also the principal dancer, tells us to fill out a form.

That’s when it hits me. I don’t want to fill out any form. I don’t want to be a backup dancer. I wanna be like Mo’ Money Monique—the star. And if I can’t be with my crew, then I don’t want to be here, ’cuz I really am a Cheetah Girl.

Now my legs are shaking, as I go over to Dorka to break the news. “I can’t do this, Ms. Dorka,” I say, even though I’m so nervous, my throat feels like it’s shaking.

“You can’t do what?” she responds.

“I, um, can’t go on the tour—because I’m already in a group,” I say, proud of myself that I’m acting like a Cheetah instead of a scaredy cat.

“What kind of group, Dor-een-da?” Dorka asks, genuinely interested in what I have to say.

“We’re the Cheetah Girls. It’s five of us, and we sing and dance, and we’re gonna travel all over the world one day too.”

Now Dorka seems amused. “I remember when I left my country to come to America. I got accepted to ballet school here, and I was so scared that I told my mother, ‘I don’t want to go.’ Do-reen-da, I hope you’re not doing the same thing, are you?” She gives me a searching look.