Free Shop in the Name of Love by Deborah Gregory

solo.

Say what?

I want Gucci or Pucci.

Say what?

It’s Prada or nada.

Yeah—you got that?

Uh-huh, I got that.

Excuse me, Miss, does that dress come in red or blue?

Oh, no?

Well, that’s alright ’cuz the cheetah print will always do!

The Cheetah Girls are large and in charge

but that don’t mean that we charge up our cards!

The Cheetah Girls are large and in charge

but that don’t mean we charge up our cards!”
    We finish with a big dance flourish, and all of a sudden, people all around us on the street are applauding, whooping it up, and shouting for more!
    “I don’t care how many pound cake remixes Pumpmaster Pooch did for Sista Fudge, nobody writes
más coolio
songs than my Bubbles,” I exclaim.
    “Yeah, but how are we gonna get in a studio and do the songs
we
love?” Do’ Re Mi adds, hitching up her backpack.
    “Yeah, ’cuz we sure don’t have songs-we-love money for no studio time,” Bubbles says sadly.
    “Maybe I could ask Princess Pamela,” I say excitedly.
    “Sure, Chuchie, as if you aren’t in enough trouble for two lifetimes!” Bubbles says, then pulls my braids. “Excuse me, does that dress come in red or blue?”
    We are laughing, right up until we see my father standing by the door. He is obviously waiting just for us, and I can tell he is grass-hopping mad.
    “
Ay, Dios mío
, Chuchie, his eyes are breathing fire hotter than his Dodo Mojo Salsa Picante,” Bubbles says, trying to make a joke. Nobody laughs, though. We all get real quiet.
    “Hi,
Papí
,” I say, squeaking. I have a little knot in my stomach, even though I want to hug him. I decide not to say one more word. I’m in enough
agua caliente
—hot water—as it is.
    Then I see the anger go right out of his eyes. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his forehead. “You girls are late. I was getting worried. I don’t like you walking around the city at night,
tú entiendes?
”
    “
Sí
,” I say softly.
    He takes us inside, and we sit down in one of the red plastic booths. Both he and Princess Pamela have red chairs in their stores—hers are velvet, though. Dad looks right at me. His eyes look very sad. Then he reaches into his pocket, takes out my copy of Mr. Johnson’s agreement, and lays it on the table.
    “Now, listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “I don’t have an opinion one way or the other. But I just got off the phone with Pamela, and she says you girls shouldn’t sign this agreement.”
    “Why doesn’t she want us to sign?” I ask.
    “You mean because she got a psychic feeling, or something?” Do’ Re Mi asks.
    “Yes, I guess that’s what you could call it,” he says, pulling on his salt-and-pepper goatee. “But if I know one thing about Pamela, her premonitions are not to be played with,
entiendes?
”
    We all look at each other like we’ve just seen a monster.
    “Pamela said, ‘Tell the Cheetah Girls to stay away from the animals.’ She said Chanel would understand,” my dad explains, looking at me again.
    “What animals?” I respond, acting all innocent, nervous that the spotlight is now on me. I realize she must have known it was me on the phone all those times. How embarrassing!
    All of a sudden,
la lucha
—the light—goes on inside my head, and I see what Princess Pamela was trying to tell me over the phone. “Beware of predators who run in packs,” I remember her saying to me. “They will prey on your good fortune. They will circle around you like vultures and steal what is yours.”
    It wasn’t the Cheetah Girls she was trying to warn me about! “Oh, snapples—Mr. Jackal Johnson and Mr. Hyena!” I gasp. “Jackals and Hyenas.
Those
are the animals!”
    “What should we do?” Angie asks, nibbling on one of her Pee Wee Press-On Nails, then tapping her hand on the table nervously. “I mean, it’s only a premonition … and we’ve got this big gig comin’ up at the Apollo….”
    “Let me see what my mom thinks,” Bubbles says, acting