test. You know I’m not good at it, and I’m gonna fail if I don’t study! So we can’t meet you today at lunch, okay,
Señorita
?” Chuchie gives me a hug. “Don’t be upset. We’ll see you at three o’clock.”
“I’m not trying to hear that, Chanel,” I say—with an attitude, ’cuz now I am getting a little upset. “I know you two. You’re up to something.”
“You never answered our question,” Bubbles says, butting in. “Where
were
you last night? How come you got home so late?”
“I, um, went to the library to study and I couldn’t take the books out ’cuz I owe too many,” I say, trying to act on the easy-breezy tip.
“Yeah, right. What were you studying?” Chanel asks me, trying to act like Bobo Baboso again.
“Shoe design books and, um, I was reading this book about names and stuff,” I volunteer.
“Names?” Bubbles asks, curious.
“Yeah,” I say, exasperated, “
Boo-Boos to Babies Name Book
.”
Chuchie and Bubbles fall over each other giggling, then Bubbles stops laughing on a dime, and asks, all serious, “Do’ Re Mi, is there something
you’re
not telling us?”
All of a sudden, I feel like a frozen Popsicle got stuck to my tongue. They’re just playing with me, ’cuz they already
know
about the Mo’ Money Monique tour! Or even worse—they know I’m only twelve! Mrs. Bosco must have slipped and told them!
When Chuchie pats my tummy and bursts out laughing, I suddenly realize what they
really
mean. They
are
playing with me.
“I’m not picking out baby names, silly!” I blurt out. If they only knew that I’m twelve, and haven’t even gotten my stupid period yet like they have, maybe they would stop laughing at me!
“Okay, Do’ Re Mi, but a little fishy told me that you were playing ‘hooky’ with Red Snapper or Mackerel,” Bubbles says, cackling just like a jackal!
Red Snapper and Mackerel are these two bozos who go to school with us, and seem to like Cheetahs, if you know what I’m saying. Their names are Derek Hambone and Mackerel Johnson, and they are ga-ga for Bubbles and Chanel.
They don’t pay too much attention to me, which is good, ’cuz I’m not interested in them either. But that doesn’t stop Bubbles and Chanel from teasing me about it.
“Yeah, well those fish had better keep swimming upstream, if you know what I mean,” I say, playing back with Bubbles.
“Now
that’s
the flava that I savor,” Bubbles says, winking at me.
The three of us do the Cheetah Girls handshake. Then Bubbles and Chanel run off, screaming, “See ya at three, Do’ Re Mi!”
I wave after them, my secret still a secret. But for how much longer?
Chapter
8
It’s “five after three” and I’m trying not to “see what I see.” My foster mother is standing right outside my school, right next to troublemaker Teqwila Johnson and her posse! What is Mrs. Bosco doing here, anyway? Something
must
be wrong.
I’m ’bout to bounce, but Mrs. Bosco sees me before I can make my move. “Hi, Mrs. Bosco,” I say with a smile, trying to act normal.
I always call her Mrs. Bosco, even when we’re in public, so kids don’t make fun of how she looks. The first time she came to my school, I was in the first grade, and kids teased me the whole year, saying, “That’s not
really
your mother! She’s ugly!”
“What you are doing here?” I ask my foster mother nicely. Mrs. Bosco doesn’t really like huggy, kissy stuff, especially in public, but I would really like to smooth the wrinkles down on her hot pink dress, which is shaped just like a tent.
“I just wanted to surprise you,” Mrs. Bosco says, grinning from ear to ear.
Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach. I remember the day when I was almost five years old, and Mrs. Parkay was
really
nice to me for the first time. That was the very day the caseworker, Mrs. Domino, came to take me away.
“You’re going to live with really nice people,” she had said, as she held my hand and we crossed the street
Señorita
?” Chuchie gives me a hug. “Don’t be upset. We’ll see you at three o’clock.”
“I’m not trying to hear that, Chanel,” I say—with an attitude, ’cuz now I am getting a little upset. “I know you two. You’re up to something.”
“You never answered our question,” Bubbles says, butting in. “Where
were
you last night? How come you got home so late?”
“I, um, went to the library to study and I couldn’t take the books out ’cuz I owe too many,” I say, trying to act on the easy-breezy tip.
“Yeah, right. What were you studying?” Chanel asks me, trying to act like Bobo Baboso again.
“Shoe design books and, um, I was reading this book about names and stuff,” I volunteer.
“Names?” Bubbles asks, curious.
“Yeah,” I say, exasperated, “
Boo-Boos to Babies Name Book
.”
Chuchie and Bubbles fall over each other giggling, then Bubbles stops laughing on a dime, and asks, all serious, “Do’ Re Mi, is there something
you’re
not telling us?”
All of a sudden, I feel like a frozen Popsicle got stuck to my tongue. They’re just playing with me, ’cuz they already
know
about the Mo’ Money Monique tour! Or even worse—they know I’m only twelve! Mrs. Bosco must have slipped and told them!
When Chuchie pats my tummy and bursts out laughing, I suddenly realize what they
really
mean. They
are
playing with me.
“I’m not picking out baby names, silly!” I blurt out. If they only knew that I’m twelve, and haven’t even gotten my stupid period yet like they have, maybe they would stop laughing at me!
“Okay, Do’ Re Mi, but a little fishy told me that you were playing ‘hooky’ with Red Snapper or Mackerel,” Bubbles says, cackling just like a jackal!
Red Snapper and Mackerel are these two bozos who go to school with us, and seem to like Cheetahs, if you know what I’m saying. Their names are Derek Hambone and Mackerel Johnson, and they are ga-ga for Bubbles and Chanel.
They don’t pay too much attention to me, which is good, ’cuz I’m not interested in them either. But that doesn’t stop Bubbles and Chanel from teasing me about it.
“Yeah, well those fish had better keep swimming upstream, if you know what I mean,” I say, playing back with Bubbles.
“Now
that’s
the flava that I savor,” Bubbles says, winking at me.
The three of us do the Cheetah Girls handshake. Then Bubbles and Chanel run off, screaming, “See ya at three, Do’ Re Mi!”
I wave after them, my secret still a secret. But for how much longer?
Chapter
8
It’s “five after three” and I’m trying not to “see what I see.” My foster mother is standing right outside my school, right next to troublemaker Teqwila Johnson and her posse! What is Mrs. Bosco doing here, anyway? Something
must
be wrong.
I’m ’bout to bounce, but Mrs. Bosco sees me before I can make my move. “Hi, Mrs. Bosco,” I say with a smile, trying to act normal.
I always call her Mrs. Bosco, even when we’re in public, so kids don’t make fun of how she looks. The first time she came to my school, I was in the first grade, and kids teased me the whole year, saying, “That’s not
really
your mother! She’s ugly!”
“What you are doing here?” I ask my foster mother nicely. Mrs. Bosco doesn’t really like huggy, kissy stuff, especially in public, but I would really like to smooth the wrinkles down on her hot pink dress, which is shaped just like a tent.
“I just wanted to surprise you,” Mrs. Bosco says, grinning from ear to ear.
Suddenly I feel sick to my stomach. I remember the day when I was almost five years old, and Mrs. Parkay was
really
nice to me for the first time. That was the very day the caseworker, Mrs. Domino, came to take me away.
“You’re going to live with really nice people,” she had said, as she held my hand and we crossed the street
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