It's Raining Benjamins (7 page)

“Don't be mad at your mom, Chanel,” Dorinda says, trying to console me, as we cross the intersection of Forty-second Street and First Avenue.

I look over at the United Nations building, with all the hundreds of countries' flags blowing in the wind. They look so pretty…. I look for the flags of the Dominican Republic and Cuba—Abuela's and Daddy's countries.

Then I turn away, and think about what I'm going to get Pucci for his birthday “I can't think of anything else to get him,” I moan to Dorinda. “No more of those stupid Whacky Babies, that's for sure. If he gets one more of those things, I'm throwing them all out of the window!”

“You're buggin',” Dorinda says, smiling because she understands. I don't know how she puts up with all those foster brothers and sisters of hers. I would go
cuckoo
for Cocoa Puffs. I guess having just one brother isn't so bad—even if that brother is as big a pain as Pucci!

Chapter
6

A
fter Dorinda goes home, all the way “uptown, baby,” I shower and change into some clean clothes, but I'm still fuming about Mom and her selfishness. She was just trying to show off in front of
Madrina
and my crew that day in the store. Why else would she have said she was gonna let us get a Chihuahua if she didn't really mean it?

I put on my favorite red wool skirt with the big gold safety pin, a red turtleneck, and tights. I pick up the receiver of the red princess phone in my bedroom and call my dad's girlfriend, Princess Pamela, to let her know I'm on my way to her Psychic Palace.

She's taking the braids out of my hair tonight, even though my mother doesn't know it. By the time I hang up the receiver, I'm giggling my head off, because Princess Pamela always makes me laugh. She's so sweet to me.

That's when I decide to wear the Tiffany diamond earring studs Princess Pamela gave me as a present. Mom almost cracked her facial mask the first time she saw them sparkling in my earlobes. She made me swear that I would
never
take any more presents from Princess Pamela.

Well, maybe I will, and maybe I won't. I mean, Mom doesn't keep her word, so why should I,
está bien
? She promised to get me—I mean Pucci—a Chihuahua, and now she won't even get him a pygmy hedgehog!

I go to my musical jewelry box, and take out the little blue box I keep hidden in the bottom. Inside the little box are the tiny diamond studs. I hold them up to the light, admiring them—the most beautiful things I own—then I stick them in my ears.

Just because
Mom
doesn't want a pet, why shouldn't
Pucci
have one? Mom uses the excuse that she's “allergic to animals,” and that she'll have to take care of it all by herself—but I don't believe her about either one. She's just being selfish. I'll bet if Mr. Tycoon bought her a poodle or something as a present, she would be cooing like a coconut, all the way from here to Paree—aka Paris, France!

I go into the kitchen to get some orange juice. I don't even care if Mom sees that I'm wearing the diamond studs.

Pucci bounces into the kitchen. “You'd better not drink my Burpy Soda,” he says, flinging open the refrigerator and grabbing a can.

“I don't even want your stupid soda,
burphead
,” I grumble. Mom lets Pucci order Burpy Soda off the Internet, but what he really needs is a muzzle. I hope she gets him one for his birthday!

“Daddy's coming on Saturday for my birthday,” Pucci brags, then starts dancing around.

“Aren't
you
lucky?” I say, grimacing. What I wish is that Princess Pamela could come over here with Daddy and Abuela—but that's never gonna happen, because Mom would get so upset her face would crack, and she'd have to get a face-lift!

“I wonder what
Papí
got me for my birthday,” Pucci says, raising his eyebrows like
el diablo
and making faces.

“I'm sure it's something
muy preciosa
, Pucci,” I say, putting away the orange juice before I pour it over his head. “Bye,
Mamí
, wherever you are,” I yell, as I head out the door, and over to Princess Pamela's Psychic Palace, which happens to be just around the corner. (That's how Dad met her—he went over there for a haircut and a palm reading one day when he was sick and tired of fighting with Mom.)

Now I feel like a
babosa
. Why was I feeling guilty about going to Princess Pamela's to get my braids taken out?

Well … that's not exactly why I'm going, actually. I'm going to Princess Pamela's because I love her, and because she makes me feel happy about everything that I'm trying to do with the Cheetah Girls.

“Chanel!” Princess Pamela coos when I come in the door. That is what I love about my dad's girlfriend—she always makes me feel like she has won the lottery when she sees my face.

“Come, sit. I
brought
just for you the best caviar I can find,” Princess Pamela coos in her syrupy, heavy Romanian accent, which I love. She shoves a little silver spoon filled with little black alien eggs at my face. “Come, try,
pleez
.”

I put the teeny-weeny alien goofballs on my tongue. Caviar tastes really different, kinda like cold
bacalao
—salted Spanish codfish—but not
exactly
.

“
Dahling
, you like?” Princess Pamela asks, her big brown eyes opening wide.

“Yeah,” I say, giggling. “Salty.”

“Pleez, eat some
polenta
, too,” she commands me. “What I could get for this food on the Romanian black market, I cannot tell you! But, ah, those were the days.”

“What do you mean?” I ask curiously, sopping up some of the Romanian potato bread, which Princess Pamela says she makes just like her mother. I love when Princess Pamela tells me stories about “the old country,” which in her case is Transylvania, Romania—home of Count Dracula.

“When my country was Communist, we had such a black market—you could make a
k-e-e-l-i-n-g
if you had the right items to sell. Now, we have no Communism, no democracy, and everyone is
very
confused. Ah,
beeneh
, very well,” Princess Pamela says wistfully.

I sit in the beauty parlor chair, and listen to the Romanian gypsy music wafting in the background. I try to relax, even though I feel really tense.

“What is troubling you, my booti-ful Chanel?” Princess Pamela asks me, as she takes out my braids with her nimble fingers.

I tell her the whole pygmy hedgehog story, hoping that she will have a solution for me. After all, Princess Pamela
is
a psychic, and she knows how to tell if your dreams will come true.

“I don't see the furry creature with the—how do you say—” she says, scrunching up her face so I can understand what she's trying to say.

“Whiskers?” I ask, giggling.

“Riight,
beeneh
, good. I don't see the furry creature with the whiskers coming under your pillow while you sleep—but, ah, thiz is good, becuz, some of the furrrry creee-tures make you frightened, no?”

She smiles at me, and I try to smile back—even though I'm crushed that she doesn't see any cute little pygmy hedgehogs in my future.

“
Beeneh
, good, but, something better is coming for you. You don't have to worry, Chanel,” Princess Pamela says, her eyes twinkling the way they always do when she knows a secret.

I remember she told me once to watch out for the animals—and sure enough, Mr. “Jackal” Johnson, our so-called manager at the time, turned out to be a predator in a pinstriped suit,
está bien
?

“How is your mother, anyway?” Princess Pamela asks, while she twists my hair in sections.

“Well, I guess it's raining tycoons,” I giggle.

“It's raining tycoons—what does that mean, Chanel?” Princess Pamela asks, amused.

“I don't know—I guess everything is okay with Mr. Tycoon, alrighty, alrooty.”

“Ah,
beeneh
, I see,” Princess Pamela says. Then she starts humming to the music.

“I hope you're right, though, Princess Pamela. I hope something good is coming, because we haven't heard anything yet from the record company,” I say with a sigh.

Then I look in the mirror at my new hairdo. My hair is all wavy and loose now—it kinda looks like Bubbles's, but not as wild. “I like it,” I coo to Princess Pamela, then hug her good-bye.

“
La revedere, cara
,” she says. “You will hear something verrry soon, I promise.”

If Princess Pamela's predictions are anywhere near as good as her hairdos, then I won't be searching “somewhere over the rainbow” much longer. I practically float all the way home, daydreaming about us, the Cheetah girls, singing—and furry creatures with little whiskers.

When I lie down on my pillow that night, I drift into a dream. I see lots of money falling, falling from the sky. Bubbles is in the dream, too. She has an umbrella, and we are trying to grab all the money that is falling from the sky.

Then we start fighting over the money. Bubbles is trying to grab it from me, because, she screams, “You don't deserve it!”

Suddenly it starts raining, and we're both crying because we're getting all wet. The money is getting wet, too—and Bubbles starts screaming that our dreams are ruined, and how it's all my fault!

It starts raining so hard that we both give up grabbing for the falling money. We struggle to get under the same umbrella, to keep from getting wet. All of a sudden, the umbrella starts lifting us up off the ground, and we're flying through the air! I start getting scared, but Bubbles says, “Just hang on real tight, and we won't have anything to be afraid of anymore.”

Then there is this beeping noise … and it won't stop beeping….

I sit up in bed, and I realize that the beeping sound is coming from my beeper on the night-stand. I reach over and flash the light on the beeper screen. I see the 411 code after Bubbles's number. That's our secret signal. It means that Bubbles has something to tell me.

Sometimes Bubbles does that just to bother me. I mean, I'll get on the Internet to talk to her in the Phat Planet chat room, and she'll start talking about things that are
muy idiota
! You never know with Bubbles.

I look over at my clock, and I see that it is midnight. Quietly, I get up and go to my computer, and log on to the chat room to see what Bubbles wants.

I shake my head and rub my eyes.
Qué fantasía
. What a dream that was! Maybe I'd better carry an umbrella to school tomorrow, because after a dream like that, I know it's going to rain,

“We're in the house with the Mouse!” Bubbles types on the screen.

“Shouldn't Mickey be sleeping with Toto?” I type back. I'm going to get Bubbles good for this. Getting me out of bed for another one of her little jokes,
qué bromacita
! I'll bet you she's trying to tell me that the twins found another mouse in their closet—or maybe it's something to do with Abala Shaballa, that troublemaking witch.

“Not unless Toto is going to cut a
demo
with us, baby!!!” Bubbles types on the screen in response.

What is Bubbles talking about? I'm not in the mood for jokes. “Toto needs to be checking to see if you aren't going cuckoo,” I type back, yawning.

“
Mouse Almighty
is the name of the producer Def Duck Records is hooking us up with—to cut a demo!” Bubbles types back.

Suddenly I'm wide awake. “What happened?” I type excitedly.

“That's right,
mamacita
. They're gonna let us cut a few songs for a possible demo tape!”

“
Ay, Dios mío
—my goodness—Bubbles, why didn't you just say so?!” I type, gasping now for air. “Does that mean we got a record deal?”

“No, but it means they're willing to spend some development money to put us in the studio, and see what kind of chops we've got! We have to meet Mouse Almighty and Freddy Fudge—the A & R executive from Def Duck—at the record label office on Friday at four o'clock. What do you think about
that, mamacita
?!”

“I can't believe this is true!” I type on the screen. Then I tell Bubbles all about Princess Pamela's prediction—and about the dream I had.

“It's definitely gonna start raining Benjamins now,
mamacita
!” Bubbles replies.

“‘It's Raining Benjamins.' That would make a great song title, no, Bubbles?” I type excitedly.

“That is so dope, Chuchie! I'm gonna start writing it right now! Powder to the People!”

I sign off, too, and drop back down on the bed, smiling happily. And then I start thinking….

“Why does
Bubbles
always have to write the songs?” I ask myself. “How come she never lets
me
help write them?
I
wanna write the song ‘It's Raining Benjamins.' After all, it was
my
idea. I'm going to tell Bubbles, that's what I'm gonna do.”

I start getting so nervous about talking to Bubbles—because I already know that we are going to fight. Tomorrow night, we're all going to the Times Square Tabernacle Church to see Derek in the “Mad Millennium” Fashion Show. (Bubbles agreed to go, to make up for what happened with the chokers. And then she made us all promise to come with her for support!)

I'll tell her then
, I promise myself. On the other hand, maybe I
shouldn't
tell her…. Well, I'm sure not gonna tell her at school.

I toss and turn, praying that I have another dream, and float away on a magical umbrella. But nothing like that happens. Why did I have to come up with that song idea, anyway? Now I can't even be happy about the demo, because I'm so busy being upset—me with my
boca grande
!