Free Dorinda's Secret by Deborah Gregory Page B

like that’s the end of the conversation.
    The big bulb from above goes off in my head again. “Yo, check it, remember what Aqua said? Maybe we should throw money on the stage for ‘It’s Raining Benjamins’—like the Cash Money Girls did at the New Talent Showcase,” I suggest. “We could come up with some dope choreography and everything, right?”
    â€œDo’ Re Mi has a point. That sounds like the joint,” Galleria says, looking at Chanel like, “Give it up,
mamacita
.”
    â€œ
Está bien
,” Chanel says, twirling her hair, then breaking out in a mischievous grin. “You’re right. We should wait.”
    That grin reminds me of Tiffany. It’s the same exact look! I’m about to burst out laughing. But then, the chill comes back, and I force myself to get my mind on the game plan at hand.
    Galleria hugs Chanel, and I can see they have squashed their beef jerky for now. Then Galleria lets out a rally like she’s in Cali: “We’re not having a ‘Nightmare on 125th Street’ again—this time, we’re bringing the noise, ’cuz we’re poised!”

Chapter 8
    W hen I get home, Mrs. Bosco tells me that Tiffany phoned and asked for me. “Dorinda, what’s the matter, baby? You didn’t like her?” Mrs. Bosco asks, because she sees the troubled look on my face.
    â€œNo, she was nice,” I reply. I don’t want to bad-mouth Tiffany for no reason. She
is
nice, and I feel sorry for her, ’cuz she
needs
a big sister or something. I could tell that she was kinda lonely. “I just feel strange about the whole situation.”
    What I don’t want to tell Mrs. Bosco is the truth—that I’m mad at her. I know it’s not all her fault—she can’t read or write, so she probably doesn’t know what’s in my records—but I
feel
like it’s her fault anyway.
    â€œMrs. Tattle says my mother is white,” I blurt out.
    â€œI guess so,” Mrs. Bosco says. I try to figure out if that means she didn’t know, or that she can’t believe it—like me.
    Mrs. Bosco starts coughing—
badly
. I get scared that she’s getting sick again. She was hospitalized for acute bronchitis last summer, and she hasn’t really recovered from it. I don’t want to get her upset now or anything.
    She sits down on the couch in the living room, keeping the tissue held up to her mouth. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt you to spend some time with that child,” she says, talking through the tissue.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “But I can’t this week. I have rehearsals every day for the competition on Saturday.”
    â€œYou got another show?” she asks, her eyes getting brighter.
    â€œYes,” I say, smiling because I’m so excited about it. At least the Cheetah Girls are still in the running, in more ways than one, you know what I’m saying? “It’s called ‘Battle of the Divettes’ competition,” I explain.
    That makes Mrs. Bosco chuckle, and that makes her start coughing again. I decide to shut up, but she keeps egging me on. “Where’s it gonna be?” she asks.
    â€œIt’s at the Apollo Theatre,” I say, and then wait for her response. Mrs. Bosco felt so bad for me when the Cheetah Girls lost the Amateur Hour contest.
    â€œNever mind what happened last time,” she says, reading my mind again. “Remember what I told you then—one monkey don’t stop no show.”
    I smile, because I know how she loves me. I just hope she doesn’t get sick. If I ever lost Mrs. Bosco, I don’t know what I would do—not to mention all the other foster kids in our house.
    â€œThey ain’t gonna have that Sandman fool onstage again,” Mrs. Bosco says, her eyes twinkling. The Sandman is the one who pulls groups offstage when the Amateur Hour crowd boos them.
    â€œNo, I don’t