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

Garibaldi, I can assure you this contract is pretty standard,” Mr. Johnson says, smoothing down his bright red tie. “We’re only talking about production costs.”
    “According to my lawyer, at the royalty rate you have written in this clause, the only game the Cheetah Girls are gonna be able to afford for the next ten years is jumping jacks!” Dorothea snaps at Mr. Johnson, then leans over his desk.
    Bubbles looks at me and puts her finger over her mouth. I can see that I have walked right into another soap opera.
    “I am footing the cost of the demo tape, wheeling and dealing to make everything happen for the Cheetah Girls, so it’s only fitting that
I’m
sitting on the throne and seeing my girls become stars,” Mr. Johnson says, slamming his hands down on his desk.
    “You’re going to be seeing ‘stars,’ all right—right after I clunk you with my purse!” Dorothea says, her dark brown eyes getting squinty. “You are no longer going to manage
my
girls. And, if you ever come sniffing around them again, Mr.
jackal
, or if you try to release any of those songs with their vocals on it, I’m gonna come back and be so shady the sun is gonna go down on you. Do you understand?” Dorothea says in that scary voice she gets when she is mad. Leave it to my
madrina
to throw her weight around and show who is the conductor on this choo-choo train.
    “What about the girls’ gig at the Apollo? I hooked it up so Mr. Hyena can be there. I mean, I’m digging your concern, Mrs. Garibaldi, but I think you’re making a big mistake,” Mr. Johnson says, swiveling in his fake leather chair. There are little beads of sweat on his forehead, like I get when I’m scared.
    “The only mistake I’m making is that I don’t hit you over the head with my pocketbook, you hungry scavenger!” Dorothea says, then motions for us to get up with her.
    We all walk out of the office behind Dorothea, and bigmouthed Bubbles says to Mr. Johnson, “See ya around like a doughnut!”
    Why can’t I think of the kinds of things that Bubbles says? I start smiling and looking at my crew, but Angie and Aqua look sad.
    “It would have been nice to perform at the Apollo. What are we gonna do now?” Aqua says, popping her gum.
    “Don’t pop gum in public, darling, you’re too pretty for that,” Dorothea says, then puts her arm around Aqua.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs.—I mean
Ms.
Dorothea. I was just kinda nervous in there,” Aqua explains. She puts the pink blob of gum in a tissue and throws it in the garbage receptacle by the elevator.
    “Now we don’t have a demo tape. We don’t have a show. We don’t have nothing. What
are
we gonna do, Ms. Dorothea?” Angie says, crossing her arms and pouting like a Texas Tornado cheerleader.
    “Maybe we missed our last chance, last dance. Was the contract really that bad, Ms. Dorothea?” Do’ Re Mi asks, looking up at my
madrina
, who is more than a foot taller than her, especially with her high heels on. They are bright-red patent-leather pumps that look good enough to eat.
    Eat? Suddenly, I realize that I’m hungry.
    “Some Dominican-style
arroz con pollo
would be great right about now,” I say to Bubbles.
    “Darlings, I know this fabulous Moroccan restaurant we can go to around the corner. My treat!” Dorothea says, pulling out her compact. “Listen, Cheetah Girls, don’t get so nervous you’re ready to pounce at the first opportunity that comes along. We’re gonna figure out something, okay? It takes more than one shifty jackal to chase us out of the jiggy jungle, am I right?”
    Dorothea looks at us, extends her hands, and does the Cheetah Girls handshake with all five of us.
    “You got that right, Momsy poo—we are gonna do what we gotta do!” Bubbles says, egging her on. “Even if we did miss the opportunity of a lifetime, and even if it takes us longer, we’re still gonna get diggity, no doubt. It’s just a matter of time.”
    “I hear that,” Do’ Re Mi says, then sighs.