Free Shop in the Name of Love by Deborah Gregory Page A

large and in charge, and taking her cell phone out of her backpack. These days, we are depending on Dorothea
más y más
—more and more.
    “My mom can’t see the future, but she can smell an okeydokey from the OK corral a mile away!” Bubbles quips. Over the phone, she explains the situation to her mom.
    When she hangs up, Bubbles has a satisfied smile on her face. She says, “Mom says she has a call in to Mrs. Eagle, her lawyer, to see what she thought about the agreement. Shell let us know as soon as she gets a peep.”
    “So,” Dad says, turning to me like a secret agent. “Did you at least
win
that Prada bag?”
    “Nope,” I say, looking sheepish, because my dad obviously knows everything, thanks to the Mummy, aka my mom. “Can you believe Derek Hambone did—and he only bought one ticket!”
    Shaking his head, Dad asks, “What about that date with Krusher?”
    Ay, Dios!
He really does know everything.
    “Nope,” I say, all sad, so at least my dad will feel sorry for me. “Can you believe some DJ from WLIB radio won? It’s so unfair!”
    All of a sudden, Dad lets out a roar of a laugh, showing his big, big teeth. “That contest must’ve been rigged!”
    “And you
know
Chuchie made more calls to that 900 number than the rest of us make in a year!” Do’ Re Mi says.
    We all laugh. Then me and my dad do something we haven’t done in a long time. We hug each other real tight, and I start crying. “I love you,
Papí
.”
    “I know,
mía princesa
,” he says, stroking my head as I lean against his shoulder. “I love you, too—but you really can’t ‘shop in the name of love.’”
    I look at my dad in surprise.
    “I heard you girls singing outside,” Dad says, raising his thick eyebrows. “A deaf man could hear you down the block. I think Pamela is right, though—the Cheetah Girls are gonna make a lot of people happy—especially
my
Cheetah Girl!”

Chapter
9
    I am humming to myself on the way out my front door, when I stub my toe really hard on a case of Pucci’s Burpy’s soda that is sitting in the hallway. “Pucci, could you put this box in the kitchen,
por favor
!” I yell out. “It’s in the way! I just tripped right over it!”
    “I don’t care, just do it yourself!” Pucci says, running into his room. He has been mad at me all day because I got to see Dad and he didn’t.
    “You know, for all that money I spent on ballet lessons for you, you are
clumsy,”
Mom yells at me from the kitchen. She is wearing a turban on her head with a big diamond broach in the middle, and is all dressed up to go meet Mr. Tycoon at the airport.
    “Mom, how come Pucci gets to order Burpy’s soda from the Internet?” I yell back at her.
    “Your ordering days are over till you can buy it yourself, that’s why!” she says.
    “Mom, I’m going to the meeting at Mr. Johnson’s,” I say. Bubbles’s mom has called the meeting, but she won’t say why. Only that her lawyer called her back, and she wants to straighten things out with Mr. Johnson. I’m worried about it—I know Princess Pamela warned us about him, but he’s the only manager we’ve got—and we’ve got our demo coming out, and the gig at the Apollo—if it doesn’t work out with Mr. Johnson, what are we gonna do?
    All Mom says is “Be back in time for dinner, Chanel. And tell Dorothea the Dolce & Gabbana sample sale starts at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
    “Está bien.”
Too bad I won’t be going to the sample sale, I think to myself as I close the door. But these days, and until I pay off what I owe my mom, shopping and me are total strangers.
    Everyone is quiet when I walk into Mr. Johnson’s office, and they all turn to look at me. They must be early, because I know I’m not late, I think. Nervously, I look at my Miss Wiggy! watch.
    “Let’s cut to the paper chase here, Mr. Johnson. This contract is not going to work,” Dorothea says, looking up from her leopard brim and right into Mr. Johnson’s eyes.
    “Mrs.