Who's 'Bout to Bounce? (4 page)

“Hey, Twinkie!” I say to my favorite sister, who is nine years old. Her real name is Rita, but we call her Twinkie, because she has blond fuzzy hair, and fat, yummy cheeks.

“Don’t call me Twinkie anymore!” she announces to me, shuffling the deck of Pokémon cards she has in her hands. Twinkie grabs my hand, and pulls me down the hallway to the kitchen. Everybody else has eaten already, but Mrs. Bosco always puts my food in the oven, covered in a piece of tinfoil. All the kids know they’d better not touch it, either.

“I have to whisper something in your ear,” Twinkie says, pulling me down so she can reach.

“Okay,” I say, hugging her real tight. Twinkie has lived with us for nineteen months, and we are really close—she will always be my sister forever, no matter what.

“You have to call me Butterfly now,” Twinkie tells me, and her blue eyes get very big, like saucers.

“Okay, Cheetah Rita Butterfly!” I giggle, then tickle her stomach, which I know sends her into hysterics.

“Stop!” she screams. “You big Cheetah monkey!”

“What’s a Cheetah monkey, Cheetah Rita Butterfly?” I ask, poking her stomach some more. “Tell me, tell me, or I’m not gonna stop!”

“I don’t know, but
you
are!” she screams, and giggles even more hysterically.

“Okay, I’ll call you Cheetah Rita Butterfly, if you promise that we are gonna be sisters forever. You’re never gonna get away from me!”

“Okay, okay!” she screeches, and I stop tickling her. After a minute, she stops laughing. “We’re not really sisters though, are we?” Twinkie asks me with that cute little face.

“Yes, we are,” I say.

“Then how come we have different last names?” Twinkie asks, suddenly all serious. She is so smart.

“That doesn’t mean we’re not sisters, Cheetah Rita.”

“Okay, then, I promise,” Twinkie says, teasing me, then she runs off, daring me to chase her. “I’m Cheetah Rita Butterfly! Watch me fly so high!”

Putting one of the Pokémon cards from the jungle deck over one eye, Twinkie turns, then squinches up her face and yells, “Dorinda!”

“What?” I turn to answer her back.

“You can call me Twinkie again!” She giggles up a storm as I chase her down the hallway into her room, yelling, “You little troublemaker!”

Twinkie shares her bedroom with Arba, who I already told you about, and my sister Kenya.

Kenya is six, and she is a “special needs child,” because she is always getting into trouble at school, or fighting with the other kids. But I don’t think she is “emotionally disturbed” like they say She is just selfish, and doesn’t like to share anything, or listen to anybody. Twinkie and Arba don’t seem to like sharing a room with Kenya. Can’t say I blame them.

I share a bedroom—a tiny one—with my two
other
sisters, Chantelle and “Monie the Meanie.” Monie is the oldest out of all of us. She is seventeen, and has a major attitude problem. I’m so glad she has a boyfriend now—Hector—and she’s over at his house a lot. She doesn’t like to help clean or anything, and she likes to boss me around. I wish she would just go stay with Hector. It would make more room for me and Chantelle.

Chantelle is eleven, but tries to act like she’s grown already, sitting around reading
Sistarella
magazine, and hogging my computer.

Mr. Hammer gave
me
the computer last year. He’s our super, and he knows how to fix everything—and who throws out what. He told me that a tenant from one of the other buildings was gonna throw out her computer, and he got her to give it to me. I call Mr. Hammer “Inspector Gadget,” ’cuz he’s got the hookup, if you know what I’m saying.

The boys all share the biggest bedroom. That would be Topwe and Corky, along with Khalil (who has only lived here two months), Nestor (who we nicknamed Nestlé’s Quik because he eats really fast), and “Shawn the Fawn” (we call him that because he’s really shy, and always runs away from people). Four of the boys sleep in bunk beds to make more space.

Mr. and Mrs. Bosco’s bedroom used to be the pantry—that’s how small it is. But since Mrs. Bosco is up all day with us kids, and Mr. Bosco works all night, usually only one of them sleeps at a time—so I guess it doesn’t seem as small to them as it does to us.

Every time one of us leaves for good, I always think the Boscos will switch bedrooms around. But they never do. They always go and get another foster child to fill the empty bed. That’s the way they are. Lucky for all of us …

I have followed Twinkie into her bedroom. Arba is sitting there on the floor, drawing with crayons, and Kenya has her mouth poked out, staring at a page in her school notebook. She’s always mad about something. I feel bad for her. But I know if I ignore her, then she will at least act nice for five minutes, trying to get my attention.

I pretend Kenya isn’t even there. “There’s Arba!” I exclaim, kissing her dirty face. Then I sit on the floor to take off my smelly sneakers and socks.

That gets Kenya. “Abba!” she yells, taking a crayon from Arba’s hand. Kenya never pronounces anybody’s name right. “Don’t eat that!”

“She wasn’t gonna eat it, Kenya,” I say, forgetting that I’m trying to ignore her.

Kenya sticks out her tongue at me, happy to have gotten my attention.

“Abba-cadabra,” chants Twinkie, suddenly taking off her shorts. “I’m smelly. I’m gonna take my bath first, okay?”

“I’m smelly, too.” I giggle. “You feel better, Arba?”

“Bubba bath! Bubba bath!” she says, smiling.

Then I hear Mrs. Bosco coughing in the living room. “You take your bath first, Twinkie,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Bosco just got out of the hospital last week. She was real sick, and she still has to rest a lot. When I go in the living room, I see her lying on the plastic-covered couch, with a blanket pulled over her. The lights are off in here, so that’s why I didn’t see her when I first came in.

“Hi, Mrs. Bosco. What’s the matter?” I ask her. She doesn’t really like to kiss or hug much, and she says I don’t have to call her Mom. I guess that’s good, because I called my last foster mother Mom, and she gave me away. Still, I sure wish I had
somebody
I could call Mom.

“My arthritis is acting up again.” Mrs. Bosco moans.

“Lemme rub your arms,” I tell her. She likes when I give her massages, and I think it helps her arthritis too.

“No, baby—or … what your friends call you now?”

“Do’ Re Mi,” I tell her with a giggle.

“That’s right. You go and get your Do’ Re Mi self some dinner. I’ll be awright,” Mrs. Bosco says, chuckling and waving her hand.

Then she gets serious. “Oh, Dorinda—Kenya’s teacher called today, and said she’s having trouble with that child. Seems she’s stealing things from the other kids. Can you talk to her? She’ll listen to you.”

“Okay,” I yell back.

“And when you get a chance, look at that letter from the electric company. I don’t have my glasses on. Tell me what it says.” Mrs. Bosco sighs, and lies down again.

Mrs. Bosco can’t read or write. We’re not supposed to know this, but I don’t mind taking care of the bills for her, because if the social workers find out, she won’t be able to have any more foster kids.

“Is something wrong with your leg?” Mrs. Bosco asks me as I hobble to the kitchen.

“Yeah, I think my ankle is broken,” I whine.

“If it was broken, you wouldn’t be able to walk on it, but you’d better let Mrs. Gallstone look at it. Oh, I almost forgot. What’s the name of that lady where you take them classes?”

“You mean Drinka Champagne?”

“No, I remember her. You know, I was young once, too—‘tippin’ and sippin’,’ like her song says. No, I mean the other lady you talk about—at the YMCA.”

“Oh, Ms. Darlene Truly?” I ask, squinching up my nose.

“What’s that child’s name?” is another “game” we play, because Mrs. Bosco can’t write down the messages, so she tries to remember who called, and sometimes she forgets.

“Yeah, that’s her. She said it’s very important for you to call her if you ain’t coming to class tomorrow, because she needs to talk to you— and it’s very important,” Mrs. Bosco repeats herself. Then she adds, rubbing her forehead, “Lord, now I got a headache, too.”

I want to tell Mrs. Bosco to take off her wig, and maybe that would help her headache, but Mrs. Bosco doesn’t take off her wigs until she goes to bed at night. She is wearing this new one that we ordered from It’s a Wig!, but it looks terrible. It’s kinda like the color silver gets when it’s rusted, even though the color was listed as “salt and pepper” in the catalog.

Why is Ms. Truly calling me? I wonder. I can feel a knot in my stomach. She’s never called me at home before, and I don’t like people bothering Mrs. Bosco. I must have done something wrong!

“I don’t know what Ms. Truly wants,” I say, “but I’ll probably see her before class, since I’m working at the YMCA concession stand after school tomorrow.”

I don’t want Mrs. Bosco to worry about anything, or think I’m in trouble for some reason. She has enough to worry about.

“How’d you hurt your leg, Dorinda?”

“I fell,” I say. “Can Man hit me with his cart. Maybe it was my fault, anyway. I’m just gonna put ice on it and go to bed.”

Luckily, Mrs. Gallstone said my ankle isn’t broken. It’s just strained. I hate going over to her apartment, because the kitty litter box really stinks. I made it a really quick visit, telling her I had to get back home and go to bed early.

It’s only nine o’clock, but it’s been a long, hard day. Once I lie down on my bed, I’m too tired to get up and put ice on my ankle after all. Chantelle is popping her gum so loud—but if I say anything, she’ll get an attitude, so I just ignore her.

On a table in between her bed and mine is my Singer sewing machine. I’m trying to design a new costume for the Cheetah Girls, but I haven’t figured out what to do on the bodice.

Oh, well. I’m too tired to work on it tonight. Instead, I turn my face to the wall. I’m even too beat to take off my shorts and take a shower!

As usual, whenever I’m lying awake in bed, things start bothering me.

What if I’m really not a good singer after all
? If the Cheetah Girls find out, then they are gonna kick me out of the group. They probably only let me stay in the group because they feel sorry for me, anyway.

“How come you wuz limping?” Chantelle asks me, popping her gum extra loud.

“Can Man hit me from behind with his shopping cart,” I moan, hoping Chantelle will stop bothering me.

What does Ms. Truly want
? I wonder. Please tell me, crystal ball. I wish I knew a psychic like Princess Pamela—she’s Chanel’s father’s girlfriend, and she can read the future. But I’m not close enough to her to get her to read mine for free, and I don’t have any money to pay her.

I get real quiet, thinking again. I’ll bet Ms. Truly doesn’t want me to take dance classes anymore, because there are other kids who need them more than I do. Or maybe the YMCA found out that I’m not really fourteen! That’s it—they’re gonna kick me out of the Junior Youth Entrepreneurship Program!

I know if I keep this up, I’ll be awake all night. So I make myself go to sleep by thinking about my favorite dream. In my dream, I am dancing across the sky, and I see my real mother in the clouds, smiling at me. I can dance so high that she starts clapping.

Dozing off, I whisper to myself so that Chantelle doesn’t hear me, “Dancing in the clouds, that’s me—I’m not just another wannabe….”

Two days a week after school, I work the concession stand at the YMCA on 135th Street as part of the Junior Youth Entrepreneur-ship Program, which teaches peeps like me skills to pay the bills—marketing, salesmanship, motivational training, and stuff like that.

It’s almost six o’clock, and I’m kinda nervous because I haven’t seen Ms. Truly walk by yet. She teaches a dance class here—earlier than the one I take—so I thought I would see her going to the cafeteria for a soda or something between classes. Sucking my teeth, I realize I must have missed her, because I was too busy folding these boring T-shirts!

Abiola Adams works the stand with me. She’s a freshman at Stuyvesant High School, and studies ballet at the American Ballet Theater School in Lincoln Center. In other words, she’s smart
and
she’s got mad moves.

I call her “Miss Nutcracker”—and she’s really cool, ’cuz she’s into flava like me. She has on this dope vest with red embroidery like paisley flowers, and baggy jeans. We are both wearing the same black Madd Monster stomp shoes.

“You know why nobody is buying these T-shirts?” I turn to Abiola with a mischievous smile on my face.

Abiola is sitting like a high priestess of price tags on a high chair, tagging baseball caps stamped with the YMCA moniker in big, ugly white letters. “Why?” she says, trying to stuff a yawn.

“’Cuz they’re having a wack attack, that’s why,” I say with a frown. “See, if they would let me design the shirts, they’d be flying off the rack.”

“Well then, why don’t you ask them if you can? You could put, ’Cheetah Girl is in the house at the YMCA, yo!’” Abi says sarcastically.

“I’m not trying to floss. I’m serious, Abbacadabra,” I say, smiling, ’cuz I’m imitating my sister Twinkie. “This lettering could put a hurtin’ on a blind man’s eyesight. Who’s gonna pay fifteen dollars for these T-shirts, anyway, when they can go to Chirpy Cheapies and get one for $5, with their
own
name stamped on it?”

“They don’t charge extra for that?” Abiola asks me, like she’s a news reporter or something.

“I don’t know, but you know what I’m sayin’. I’m not playin’. Next semester, I get to take an embossing class, so I’ll learn how to do some dope lettering. You watch.”

“I will,” Abiola says, shaking her head at me. What I like best about her is she can keep a secret. See, she’s the only one here at the YMCA program who knows that I’m only twelve.

Sometimes I feel bad because I haven’t even told my crew yet—but I don’t want them treating me like a baby or something. I didn’t mean to tell Abiola, but it just kinda slipped out one day.

See, she was telling me about the trick candles her mother put on her birthday cake. No matter how hard she blew, they wouldn’t blow out. So I slipped, and told her how on my last birthday, Mrs. Bosco only put eleven candles on my cake instead of twelve. I thought it was so funny that she forgot how old I was.