It's Raining Benjamins by Deborah Gregory

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.
    â€œChanel!” 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.
    â€œCome, 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
.
    â€œ
Dahling
, you like?” Princess Pamela asks, her big brown eyes opening wide.
    â€œYeah,” I say, giggling. “Salty.”
    â€œPleez, 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.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œWhen 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhiskers?” I ask, giggling.
    â€œRiight,
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.
    â€œ
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
?
    â€œHow is your mother, anyway?” Princess Pamela asks, while she twists my hair in sections.
    â€œWell, I guess it’s raining tycoons,” I giggle.
    â€œIt’s raining tycoons—what does that mean, Chanel?” Princess Pamela asks, amused.
    â€œI don’t know—I guess