Who's 'Bout to Bounce? (6 page)

“I’m telling you, my mom’s hired a private detective, Miss Cuchifrita, so don’t get ‘chuchie’ with me!” Bubbles types in.

“Why would she need to hire a private detective, Bubbles, can you tell us that?” Chuchie asks.

“NO! If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be asking all of you!” Bubbles is mad—she’s reading Chanel.

“Why don’t you just ask your mom what’s going on—maybe she’ll tell you,” I type on the screen.

Then I feel sad, because I wish I could take my own advice and just be
honest
. Now that would
really
be dope.

My fingernails look like stub-a-nubs. I’ve bitten them off because I’m
mad
nervous. I’m so glad Bubbles isn’t here, because she would be readin’ me, but I couldn’t help myself!

I feel
really
guilty that I didn’t tell my crew last night about the audition, but I don’t want them to think I’m not mad serious about being a Cheetah Girl. On the other hand, sometimes you gotta flex, you know what I’m saying?

Not that I’m flexing now. There are so many tall girls at the Mo’ Money Monique audition that I feel like a grilled shrimp, as usual. I think maybe Ms. Truly made a mistake, because most of the girls here look older than me.
None
of them looks my age. My
real
age, you know what I’m saying?

I’ve got to chill. Maybe they’ll never get to my number. After all, just by looking at these dancers’ “penguin feet,” I can tell they’ve got
mad
moves. They’ll just send the rest of us home long before they get to my piddly place.

I have never seen so many people waiting in line before. Not one, but
two
lines. Not even at the MC Rabbit concert last summer. Both lines are trailing like an out-of-control choo-choo train, all the way down the endless hallway outside of Rehearsal Studio A, where the audition is.

I’m so far back in line, I can’t even hear what music they’re playing inside the studio. I can only feel the vibration from the bass, thumping through the wall. They’re probably using one of Mo’ Money Monique’s tracks. I really like her songs, so that’s cool.

Right now, she has two of the dopiest dope hits out: “Don’t Dis Me Like I’m a Doll” and “This Time It’s Personal.” They play them a kazillion times a day on the radio. I like the second one better, because it has more of the rap flava that I savor.

I wonder if I’m in the right line…. One line is for even numbers, and the other is for odd numbers. I’m number 357. Since I don’t have any nails left to bite, I start yanking and twirling the curls on the side of my face. I’d better ask somebody if I’m on the right line, I think—just to make sure.

“What number are you?” I nervously ask the girl in front of me, who is wearing a red crop top and a baseball cap turned backward. I don’t think she heard me, because she doesn’t answer me, so I ask her again.

“Three hundred and
fifty-five
,” she turns and snarls at me, giving me a nasty look, like, “I heard you the first time, shorty.”

That’s awright, Miss Pigeon. At least I’m not wearing wack contact lenses that make me look like the girl in
The Exorcist
!

“Girls, keep the aisles clear, please,” yells a
really really
tall guy wearing a black leotard and tights. He is the one who wrote my name down and gave me a number, like we’re in the bakery or something. All I can see of him now is the top of his really bald head, until he comes closer a few minutes later, with his clipboard in his hand like he’s a high school principal.

“Everyone is going to get seen,” says the exasperated giant, “and crowding the front, or hanging out in the middle of the hallway, isn’t going to help the lines move any faster!”

All of a sudden, he adjusts his headset, then barks into it, “They’re coming out? Okay, copy that. I’ll send the next group in.” Then he prances away like a gazelle. You can always tell a dancer, because they don’t run like normal people. Except for me, ’cuz I don’t floss like that.

Another hour goes by, which means I’ve been waiting in line for
two
hours now, and my throat is so dry it feels like it’s gonna start croaking up frogs any minute.

I shoulda brought a Snapple and an apple, I chuckle to myself. But it’s no joke, how sore my ankle is getting from standing around here so long. What if I can’t dance because my ankle stiffens up or something?

The girl in front of me must be getting nervous too, because all of a sudden, she starts acting nice. “I need to stretch my legs,” she says, sucking her teeth, then takes off her cap and pulls out a mirror to fix her hair. “I’m gonna be mad late for class. Do you think I should wear the cap, or keep it off?”

“I think you should keep it off—and maybe put your hair up, or something,” I advise Miss Pigeon. She’s dark brown, like Aqua and Angie, and her long blond extensions are so thick and straight, it looks like somebody played pin the donkey on her head. I think she should take off her big gold earrings, too, but I’m not gonna tell her that.

“You know how many dancers they’re gonna pick?” Miss Pigeon asks me, pulling down her red crop top.

“No, but it must be a lot, ’cuz they’re seeing a lot of dancers,” I say, trying to act like I know something.

“No, I don’t think Mo’ Money Monique likes a lot of dancers onstage with her. It wrecks her flow. I bet you they’re gonna pick about five—at the most,” Miss Pigeon says, looking at me with those scary green
Exorcist
eyes.

“Where do you, um, go to school?” I ask, trying to be nice back. She must be a senior, I’m guessing.

“LaGuardia,” she says nonchalantly Folding her arms in front of her, she leans on the wall, like she is
really
bored.

I get so excited, I almost tell her that part of my crew goes to LaGuardia too. Then I realize—
What if she knows Aqua and Angie
? Then she’ll tell them she met me at an audition for backup dancers!

Probably everybody at LaGuardia knows Aqua and Angie because they’re twins—who can sing. I get so scared thinking about what I almost just did, I don’t even hear Miss Pigeon asking me a question.

“I’m sorry, what’choo say?”

“Where do
you
go to school?”

For a second, I think about lying, but then I’ll be frying, so I decide to tell the truth. “Fashion Industries.”

“Oh,” she says, like I don’t have skills.

I am so grateful when the not-so-jolly giant calls our numbers, so I don’t have to talk anymore to Miss Pigeon. My own thoughts come flooding back at me—mainly, “How could you go on an audition without telling your crew?”

“Okay, you girls can go inside now,” Mr. Giant with the clipboard says, pointing to five girls, including me and Miss Pigeon. This is it—time to do or die.

When I get inside, I nervously look around and see one, two,
five
people sitting at a long table with a pitcher of water on it and some paper cups. I’d audition with that pitcher on my head, just to get a sip of what’s inside!

I don’t see Mo’ Money Monique anywhere. At least I won’t make a fool of myself in front of her.

A tall lady with a long ponytail and a bump on her nose motions for us to stand in a single line in front of her. She is really pretty, and I can tell that she used to be a ballerina, just by the way she is standing.

“Hell-o, lade-eez, I’m Dorka Poriskova, the choreographer. First I want you to introduce yourselves one by one, then I’ll give you the combee-nay-shuns for the dance sequence to follow.”

“I’m Dorinda Rogers,” I say, speaking up loudly when it’s my turn. Dorka has a really heavy accent, and I want to make sure she understands me.

“A-h-h,” says Dorka with a smile. “We have the same name.”

“I said
Dorinda Rogers
,” I repeat, louder, ’cuz she obviously didn’t understand me the first time.

“I know what you
said
, Dor-een-da,” Dorka says, stretching my name out.

Omigosh! Now I’ve made her mad at me! Why did I have to open my big fat trap—my
boca grande
, as Chanel would say. I’m finished even before I get started!

“Each of our names means ‘God’s gift,’”Dorka explains patiently. “Yours is the Spanish, um, var-ee-ay-shun, and mine is Czech.”

“Oh,” I say with a smile, but I’m so embarrassed, I want to shrivel right down to the size of a pebble and roll away! I act like I’m so smart, but I didn’t even know what my own name meant!

“That’s okay—you are too young to know ever-r-r-ything,” Dorka says, smiling.

“Word, that’s true, because nobody ever told me what my name means before,” I say with a relieved laugh. In fact, everyone in the room laughs at my joke. Whew! Now I hope I can dance. Please, feet, don’t fail me now.

While Dorka calls out the other girls’ names, I start to think again about my name: Dorinda. God’s gift. I wonder who named me that. Was it my real mother? If I was God’s gift to her, then how come she gave me up?

I asked Mrs. Bosco once about her. Mrs. Bosco told me my “birth mother” was on a trip around the world. She must’ve gone around the world more than once, if you know what I’m saying, because that was seven years ago, and I’m
still
living at Mrs. Bosco’s.

Flexing my ankle so it doesn’t stiffen up on me now, I decide to go to the library after the audition and read some name books. I’m so nervous, I don’t even hear what the other girls say about themselves, but like a zombie, I snap out of it when Dorka begins to give us the combinations to follow.

“Let’s start in fifth position, right foot front. Move your foot to the side on
two
, then back on
three
, and close in first position on
four
,” Dorka instructs us.

It’s basically hip-hop style with jazz movements. I’ve got this covered on the easy-breezy tip.

But wait a minute … did she say back on two or three?

“Are you ready, girls?”

“Yes!” we answer in unison, and I quickly figure out that she had to have said “on three.” The whole combination wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

They’re playing the MC Rabbit song “Can I Get a Nibble?”—which is straight-up hip-hop. I’m groovin’ so hard, I don’t even feel nervous anymore—until we’re finished a few minutes later, and Dorka says, “Thank you, girls. If you’ve been chosen, you will receive a phone call. You were gr-e-a-t.”

As I’m leaving, I say thank you to Dorka, since she knows Ms. Truly.

She smiles at me and says, “Good-bye, Dor-i-n-d-a!” That makes me feel like, well, “God’s gift,” if you know what I’m sayin’. She’s so nice!

As we are led back out by the giant in tights, I’m feeling dope about how the audition went. I worked it, Dorka liked me, and they all laughed at my joke. They won’t forget my name, either.

Then, just like that, I feel like a wanna-be. I wonder why that is … Galleria and Chanel aren’t like that at all—they never think of themselves that way. Even Aqua and Angie aren’t exactly shy A lot of times, I feel like I don’t really belong with them at all. Like, with all my skills, I still don’t feel like I got it like that.

Sometimes, I dream how they’ll find out I’m twelve, and they’ll think I’m wack, and a liar, and a fake, and they’ll kick me out of the Cheetah Girls, and not be my crew anymore….

As I come back out into the hallway I can’t believe there is still a long line of girls waiting to audition. They’ll be here till the break of dawn.

Who am I kidding? There is no way I’ll get picked for the Mo’ Money Monique tour—no matter how dope I think my moves were. I’m only twelve. Look at how gorgeous these girls all are! Why did I even come here?

And then, I answer my own question. “I came here to prove to myself I could do it,” I say. “And I did. I’m not a wanna-be—I’m a really good dancer, just like Ms. Truly said. Even though I have no chance at this job, I was great in there. And I’m as good a dancer as any of those other girls.
Better
.”

I take a deep breath and exhale, smiling. All of a sudden, it doesn’t matter anymore whether I get the job as a backup dancer, because right now, I feel like dancing till the break of dawn.

“Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee, all the way to the library,” I hum to myself as I step outside onto Lafayette Street.

Maybe Ms. Truly is right. Maybe I should give up singing, which I’m just okay at, and stick to dancing. I do like singing though, even if I’m not that good. And I am getting better at it, thanks to Drinka Champagne’s lessons.

Sitting down at a library desk, I settle down with the fattest name book I can find—
Boo-Boos to Babies Name Book
. Word. They have so many names in it from all around the world—and most of them I’ve never seen before.

Starting with the “A’s,” I decide to look up Arba’s name, but I don’t see it listed. Then I think, What about Topwe’s name? I look it up … Here it is: “In southern Rhodesia, the topwe is a vegetable.” I’d better not tell Twinkie, I think, ’cuz then she’ll tease Topwe, and call him “Hedda Lettuce” or something. She is smart like that.

Then I see my name. Ms. Dorka is right. “Dorinda” means “God’s gift.” Ooh, look—the English variation of the name is “Dorothea.” That’s Bubbles’s mom’s name! Wait till I tell Bubbles that I have the same name as her mom!

Suddenly I get a pang in my chest. I
can’t
tell Bubbles, because then she’ll ask me how I met Dorka! It hits me full force that I’ll never be able to tell my crew anything about my big audition! Ill never be able to say how Ms. Truly praised my dancing, or how I was brave enough to show up, and how I came through when it counted most. They’ll never hear about Dorka.

It’s a good thing I haven’t got a chance at this job, I think with a laugh, ’cuz what would I tell them then? “Hey, y’all, I’m going on a ’round the world tour with Mo’ Money Monique. See you later, cheetah-gators!”

I laugh at the thought of it. “Fat chance,” I say, thinking of the hundreds of girls trying out for the job.

Hmmm … but there
is
a job I
can
possibly get, I think, remembering what Abiola told me.

Walking out of the library, I decide not to go home just yet. If I could get up the courage to go on the audition, then I can go downtown to see if I can get a job in the University Settlement’s after-school program.