Dorinda's Secret Read Online Free PDF

Chanel’s dad) styled Mrs. Bosco’s wig for my so-called adoption party. Princess Pamela is a dope hairdresser, and a psychic, too! Now, Mrs. Bosco keeps the wig in a net in her wig drawer, and only takes it out for special occasions. I wish she would wear it all the time, because the other ones look, well, kinda fake, if you know what I’m saying.
    â€œCan I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Bosco asks Mrs. Tattle, but I know she will probably say, “No, thank you.” She always does. Mrs. Tattle is usually in a hurry. Mrs. Bosco says the caseworkers who work for the city—as opposed to private foster care agencies—always have too big a caseload, and they don’t get paid enough to deal with all the headaches that come with the territory. Mrs. Bosco must be right, ’cuz Mrs. Tattle has bags under her eyes that look more like suitcases!
    â€œHow are you today, Dorinda?” Mrs. Tattle asks me, reaching over to open her briefcase, which is right next to her on the floor.
    I’m trying not to stare at the railroad run in her panty hose. I wonder how high up her leg it goes? When I’m older, I’m going to carry a briefcase like Mrs. Tattle, so I can look important, too.
    Mrs. Tattle seems kinda uptight. The way she is sitting so straight on the couch, you’d think she was in the Oval Office in the White House or something. The couch in our living room is covered with faded yellow-flowered tapestry, and the seat cushions are well worn. I think more people have sat on our couch than in the Oval Office, if you know what I’m saying.
    â€œI’m fine,” I say, smiling and showing off my dimples, so Mrs. Tattle will feel more comfortable. I want her to think everything is “hunky chunky.” I’m also anxious to find out why she’s visiting us on a Saturday.
    â€œMrs. Bosco told me the good news about your record deal,” Mrs. Tattle says, trying to sound cheerful.
    â€œWell, it’s not exactly a record deal, but we’re going to get to cut a few songs for a demo tape for the record company,” I explain carefully. I’m always trying to be honest about the Cheetah Girls situation—like I said earlier, we may have “growl power,” but so far, we are still a bunch of wanna-be stars in the jiggy jungle.
    â€œWell, it must have been exciting for you to go to Los Angeles,” Mrs. Tattle says, trying to make everything seem really hunky chunky, too.
    â€œIt was the dopest dope experience I ever had in my life!” I say, because I don’t want to let Mrs. Tattle down. It
was
pretty dope—but there were ups and downs, if you want to know the honest truth.
    â€œWell, now that’s more like the Dorinda I know!” she says, her voice screeching because she is talking too high. (Now that I’m taking vocal lessons, I notice
everything
about people’s voices. It’s really kinda strange.)
    Mrs. Tattle keeps smiling at me and Mrs. Bosco. Twinkie is smiling at Mrs. Tattle, and sitting in the armchair with her hand under her chin. “And how are you, Rita?” Mrs. Tattle asks, her face brightening up. Twinkie makes everybody smile.
    â€œI’m okay,” Twinkie responds, without moving her hand from her chin. Kenya just sits on the couch looking down at her shoes. I’m proud of Twinkie, because at least she got Kenya to wear matching socks. Topwe, Chantelle, Khalil, and Nestor look nice, too.
    â€œDorinda, can you sing something for me?” Mrs. Tattle asks, catching me off guard.
    â€œNot right now,” I say, getting embarrassed. None of the other caseworkers have ever asked me to sing for them before.
    Kenya throws me a look, like, “Why don’t you just do what Mrs. Tattle wants?” For someone who whines so much, Kenya gets awfully quiet when the caseworker visits.
    I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to sing for Mrs. Tattle. Maybe she thinks I’m just making