for the holidays.”
“Ah, yes,” the cowboy hat lady says. “You girls are from Houston though, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, we are,” I say proudly.
“Good—because ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ is the name of the benefit concert, as you may have heard by now,” the lady continues.
“Yes, ma’am, we know.” I nod again.
A man with thick glasses and a bright red tie clears his throat. He seems to be getting impatient. They are probably tired and irritated after seeing hundreds of people all day.
“Well, would you mind singing for us now?” the lady asks.
“You mean, just a capella?” I ask.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“Oh.” I nod, then move toward Angie so we can begin our two-part harmony. Why didn’t we rehearse a gospel song? I wonder, shrieking inside. Maybe our kinda of music isn’t appropriate for a homeless benefit! No, that’s ridiculous, I assure myself.
Angie is looking at me, waiting to begin. So are all the auditioners. We sing “It’s Raining Benjamins,” and by the time we get to the second verse, they all seem to be smiling. Some of them are even keeping time with their hands and feet. That gives us confidence, and we really lay into the chorus:
“
It’s raining Benjamins
For a change and some coins
It’s raining Benjamins
I heard that, so let’s join
It’s raining Benjamins
…
again!
”
The volunteer lady starts clapping, then the others join in. “Wonderful, girls. Well let you know,” she says enthusiastically. “We’ve got to move along now, but it was great meeting you.”
“How many groups are they gonna pick?” I ask as we’re leaving.
“Well, we want to give as many groups a chance as we can,” the nice volunteer lady rambles on.
“Each group will get to do one song,” the man in the glasses and red tie explains, getting more to the point. “We plan on having about three to five warm-up spots.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” I gush, even though I’m not exactly sure what he means. Then, remembering my manners, I ask the lady her name, so I can say good night to her properly.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I’m Mrs. Fenilworth, and this is Mr. Paddlewheel.”
“Good night, Mrs. Fenilworth. Good night, Mr. Paddlewheel.”
Once we’re outside, Angie asks, “When he said warm-up spots, that’s what we were auditioning for, right?”
“I guess so. Thank goodness, we’ve got spots to spare!”
We see Ma standing by the railing with Fish ’N’ Chips, a little way from the crowd. We are so happy to see them that we hug all three of them one after another.
Ma wants to know all about the audition, but Angie and I have only one thing on our minds right now. “Let’s go eat!” we scream at Ma in unison. We’re always hungry after we perform—just like real cheetahs!
Chapter
8
B ig Momma calls first thing in the morning, and this time we can really hear the strain in her voice. “I’m praying for Skeeter,” she says, sobbing. I can just see her wringing her good handkerchief in her hands—the one she keeps balled up in her skirt pocket and takes out for “sneezing and wheezing.”
“Big Momma, don’t you have any idea where he could be?” I ask, getting so anxious I can hardly contain myself.
“I’ve called everybody that knows that boy, and nobody has seen hide nor hair of him,” Big Momma says sadly.
“What about, um, a lady friend?” I ask gingerly.
“You know he never brought her around here—which means she ain’t no Christian woman,” Big Momma says gruffly.
“We’re praying for him, Big Momma,” I say, sniffling into the phone. “We love you.”
Ma comes over to me, sits down at the table, and puts down her coffee mug. She takes the phone from my hand. “No news?” she asks, then listens. “Hang on, Momma—that’s my other line beeping. Someone’s trying to get through. Yes, I
have
to get it. Just hold on for a minute.”
That makes Angie smile. Big Momma hates call waiting. “If the line is busy, let
“Ah, yes,” the cowboy hat lady says. “You girls are from Houston though, right?”
“Yes, ma’am, we are,” I say proudly.
“Good—because ‘Houston Helps Its Own’ is the name of the benefit concert, as you may have heard by now,” the lady continues.
“Yes, ma’am, we know.” I nod again.
A man with thick glasses and a bright red tie clears his throat. He seems to be getting impatient. They are probably tired and irritated after seeing hundreds of people all day.
“Well, would you mind singing for us now?” the lady asks.
“You mean, just a capella?” I ask.
“Yes, that would be fine.”
“Oh.” I nod, then move toward Angie so we can begin our two-part harmony. Why didn’t we rehearse a gospel song? I wonder, shrieking inside. Maybe our kinda of music isn’t appropriate for a homeless benefit! No, that’s ridiculous, I assure myself.
Angie is looking at me, waiting to begin. So are all the auditioners. We sing “It’s Raining Benjamins,” and by the time we get to the second verse, they all seem to be smiling. Some of them are even keeping time with their hands and feet. That gives us confidence, and we really lay into the chorus:
“
It’s raining Benjamins
For a change and some coins
It’s raining Benjamins
I heard that, so let’s join
It’s raining Benjamins
…
again!
”
The volunteer lady starts clapping, then the others join in. “Wonderful, girls. Well let you know,” she says enthusiastically. “We’ve got to move along now, but it was great meeting you.”
“How many groups are they gonna pick?” I ask as we’re leaving.
“Well, we want to give as many groups a chance as we can,” the nice volunteer lady rambles on.
“Each group will get to do one song,” the man in the glasses and red tie explains, getting more to the point. “We plan on having about three to five warm-up spots.”
“Oh, well, thank you,” I gush, even though I’m not exactly sure what he means. Then, remembering my manners, I ask the lady her name, so I can say good night to her properly.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I’m Mrs. Fenilworth, and this is Mr. Paddlewheel.”
“Good night, Mrs. Fenilworth. Good night, Mr. Paddlewheel.”
Once we’re outside, Angie asks, “When he said warm-up spots, that’s what we were auditioning for, right?”
“I guess so. Thank goodness, we’ve got spots to spare!”
We see Ma standing by the railing with Fish ’N’ Chips, a little way from the crowd. We are so happy to see them that we hug all three of them one after another.
Ma wants to know all about the audition, but Angie and I have only one thing on our minds right now. “Let’s go eat!” we scream at Ma in unison. We’re always hungry after we perform—just like real cheetahs!
Chapter
8
B ig Momma calls first thing in the morning, and this time we can really hear the strain in her voice. “I’m praying for Skeeter,” she says, sobbing. I can just see her wringing her good handkerchief in her hands—the one she keeps balled up in her skirt pocket and takes out for “sneezing and wheezing.”
“Big Momma, don’t you have any idea where he could be?” I ask, getting so anxious I can hardly contain myself.
“I’ve called everybody that knows that boy, and nobody has seen hide nor hair of him,” Big Momma says sadly.
“What about, um, a lady friend?” I ask gingerly.
“You know he never brought her around here—which means she ain’t no Christian woman,” Big Momma says gruffly.
“We’re praying for him, Big Momma,” I say, sniffling into the phone. “We love you.”
Ma comes over to me, sits down at the table, and puts down her coffee mug. She takes the phone from my hand. “No news?” she asks, then listens. “Hang on, Momma—that’s my other line beeping. Someone’s trying to get through. Yes, I
have
to get it. Just hold on for a minute.”
That makes Angie smile. Big Momma hates call waiting. “If the line is busy, let
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