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Authors: Deborah Gregory
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the sidewalk while me and Chanel are fighting. “I hate when you act so stupid and you don’t listen to me!” I tell Chanel.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you chocolate-covered cannoli!”
No, she did not go there. So what if I was half Italian? She is Black and Latin. I never make fun of her. Well, almost never. I run all the way to the corner and put my arm up to get a taxi back home. It is my last ten dollars till Monday, but I don’t care. I just want to run far away.
Do’ Re Mi runs after me. “Y’all need to stop! Hold up, Galleria.”
“No. I’m going home. I need to chill for now. I’m sorry, Do’ Re, okay? I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Once I am inside of my safe cheetah palace, I grab a box of my mom’s Godiva chocolates. She keeps it hidden in the back of the kitchen cabinet. I don’t care if she gets mad at me. So what? Everyone else is.
I take the Godiva box and get as far as I can under my blanket I cry myself to sleep, slobbering on my leopard velvet pillow while I’m chomping on the candy. How could Chanel call me that? I feel like dragging her by her fake braids right down the street. I didn’t even know she knew what a cannoli was.
I miss Toto. He’s out at the dog groomer’s—finally. Oh, well. He’s probably just as glad I’m not suffocating him to death right now. Here I am, just fourteen years old, and my life is finished, I think, as I doze off into a deep sleep.
Chapter
8
What’s harder than hiding a spotted cheetah in the desert? Trying not to speak to your best friend when the two of you go to the same school! By the time I left homeroom to make a mad dash to my color theory class, I was seeing spots from trying to keep my eyes glued on my desk so I would never look up and make eve contact with Chanel.
As I walked down the hallway, I concentrated on the answers for my quiz on primary colors: Red and yellow make orange. Blue and red make purple.
Hmmph, I hiss to myself. Chanel No. 5 can get on the stage by herself and eat Meow Mix for all I care.
“Galleria, Galleria!” Chanel yells, puffing down the hallway. She finally catches up to me, even though I still try to ignore her. “I just wanna know. You still want me to do your hair today after school?”
I am so mad, I forgot all about that. My mom is finally gonna let me get a weave, and Chanel is supposed to put it in.
“
Ciao-ciao
, chinchilla, cheetah,” I snarl, shooing her away with my hand. “Pretend I’m not here. It’s a mirage.”
Breathing really hard, Chanel chokes on her words. “I had a bad dream last night, Galleria, for real. Please talk to me.
Per favore
, pleez.”
Cheez whiz, Chanel No. 5 has finally learned something in her Italian class. I open my mouth to begin reading her the riot act when all of sudden I hear the word “Okay” slip out of my mouth.
“I dreamed we were on the stage, and you were screaming at me to dance faster, and I was so scared that I was gonna fall because the heels were so high on my shoes,” Chanel says without breathing. “I tried to dance, but I fell so hard, and somehow—this is the weird part—I fell right into the people off the stage.
So I started screaming, right, and you, Do’ Re Mi, Aqua, and Angie kept on singing. You acted like you didn’t hear me scream. Then I tried to run because the people started chasing me and I just wanted to get away.”
By now Chanel is giving tears for fears—real drama. So we hug. This was supposed to be fun for us, and it is turning into a
Nightmare on Broome Street.
“My mom gave me fifty dollars for my weave. You think I could get two strands of hair for that?” I ask.
Chanel blinks at me. She can’t believe I’m letting her off the hook this easy. I’ve got to admit, it’s not like me. But I can’t be mad at her. She’s been my best friend forever, and I was acting kinda bossy and mean.
“Three at least!” she says, giggling. Then she gets serious. “I’m sorry for what I
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, you chocolate-covered cannoli!”
No, she did not go there. So what if I was half Italian? She is Black and Latin. I never make fun of her. Well, almost never. I run all the way to the corner and put my arm up to get a taxi back home. It is my last ten dollars till Monday, but I don’t care. I just want to run far away.
Do’ Re Mi runs after me. “Y’all need to stop! Hold up, Galleria.”
“No. I’m going home. I need to chill for now. I’m sorry, Do’ Re, okay? I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
Once I am inside of my safe cheetah palace, I grab a box of my mom’s Godiva chocolates. She keeps it hidden in the back of the kitchen cabinet. I don’t care if she gets mad at me. So what? Everyone else is.
I take the Godiva box and get as far as I can under my blanket I cry myself to sleep, slobbering on my leopard velvet pillow while I’m chomping on the candy. How could Chanel call me that? I feel like dragging her by her fake braids right down the street. I didn’t even know she knew what a cannoli was.
I miss Toto. He’s out at the dog groomer’s—finally. Oh, well. He’s probably just as glad I’m not suffocating him to death right now. Here I am, just fourteen years old, and my life is finished, I think, as I doze off into a deep sleep.
Chapter
8
What’s harder than hiding a spotted cheetah in the desert? Trying not to speak to your best friend when the two of you go to the same school! By the time I left homeroom to make a mad dash to my color theory class, I was seeing spots from trying to keep my eyes glued on my desk so I would never look up and make eve contact with Chanel.
As I walked down the hallway, I concentrated on the answers for my quiz on primary colors: Red and yellow make orange. Blue and red make purple.
Hmmph, I hiss to myself. Chanel No. 5 can get on the stage by herself and eat Meow Mix for all I care.
“Galleria, Galleria!” Chanel yells, puffing down the hallway. She finally catches up to me, even though I still try to ignore her. “I just wanna know. You still want me to do your hair today after school?”
I am so mad, I forgot all about that. My mom is finally gonna let me get a weave, and Chanel is supposed to put it in.
“
Ciao-ciao
, chinchilla, cheetah,” I snarl, shooing her away with my hand. “Pretend I’m not here. It’s a mirage.”
Breathing really hard, Chanel chokes on her words. “I had a bad dream last night, Galleria, for real. Please talk to me.
Per favore
, pleez.”
Cheez whiz, Chanel No. 5 has finally learned something in her Italian class. I open my mouth to begin reading her the riot act when all of sudden I hear the word “Okay” slip out of my mouth.
“I dreamed we were on the stage, and you were screaming at me to dance faster, and I was so scared that I was gonna fall because the heels were so high on my shoes,” Chanel says without breathing. “I tried to dance, but I fell so hard, and somehow—this is the weird part—I fell right into the people off the stage.
So I started screaming, right, and you, Do’ Re Mi, Aqua, and Angie kept on singing. You acted like you didn’t hear me scream. Then I tried to run because the people started chasing me and I just wanted to get away.”
By now Chanel is giving tears for fears—real drama. So we hug. This was supposed to be fun for us, and it is turning into a
Nightmare on Broome Street.
“My mom gave me fifty dollars for my weave. You think I could get two strands of hair for that?” I ask.
Chanel blinks at me. She can’t believe I’m letting her off the hook this easy. I’ve got to admit, it’s not like me. But I can’t be mad at her. She’s been my best friend forever, and I was acting kinda bossy and mean.
“Three at least!” she says, giggling. Then she gets serious. “I’m sorry for what I
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