relatives in Jamaica, but my dad says he misses his father every day He misses the smell of the grass, too, and more than anything else, the water. There are no beaches like the ones in Havana, my dad says.
In that way, he and Princess Pamela have a lot in common. She had to leave Romania as a child when the Communists took over there, too. They both know what it’s like to lose everything you have and never see your home again. They both have that sadness in their eyes sometimes.
Princess Pamela says when she saw my dad it was “love at first bite.” He came into the shop for a reading and I guess he fell under her spell. Princess Pamela is a
bruja
—a witch—who can see the future. Mom hates her, but I think she is a good witch, not a bad one.
“Let me see how it looks with the headband!” I exclaim excitedly, and jump out of the beauty salon chair, hitting myself in the forehead with the red crystal bead curtains that divide the psychic salon from the beauty salon in the back.
“Ouch,” I wince as I separate them to go to the front. See, thanks to my dad, Princess Pamela’s Psychic Palace on Spring Street is now
muy grande
and beautiful. He built the whole place with his own two hands. He also helped Pamela install her Psychic Hotline, where she gives advice over the phone.
And thanks to her nimble fingers (and me), she now has a hair salon in the back. She even changed her name to Princess Pamela—because “it is a very good name for business—Pamela rhymes with stamina. It can unleash the secret energy into the universe.”
Princess Pamela also loves music with flavor—
con sabor
—reggae music, rap, salsa. Sometimes I bring her cassettes, and we dance around if there aren’t any customers. She likes Princess Erika, Nefertiti, and Queen Latifah the best. “Why not the Black people here should be like royalty? They can make their own royal family,” she jokes, her accent as thick as ever.
My dad also built two other stores for Princess Pamela—Princess Pamela’s Pampering Palace and Princess Pamela’s Pound Cake Palace— both on 210th Street and Broadway.
The New York Times
rated her pound cake “the finger-lickin’ best in New York City.”
I am proud of her, and I think Princess Pamela is going to be Pamela
Trumpa
one day, and take a huge bite out of the Big Apple!
“Which headband do you think I should wear, the pink one or the green one?” I yell back to her, as I pull them out of my cheetah backpack. I just got these headbands from Oophelia’s catalog—my favorite un-store in the entire universe.
Pink is my favorite color. Or sometimes red is. I like them both a lot. So does Princess Pamela—her whole place is covered in red velvet. Leopard, which is a “color” the Cheetah Girls use a lot, is my third favorite.
“
Ay, Dios mío
, what time is it?” I shriek. “I’ve got to get home!”
Bubbles, Dorinda Rogers, and Aquanette and Anginette Walker—the other members of the Cheetah Girls—are coming over to my house at seven o’clock so we can practice table manners for our
lonchando
meeting with Mr. Johnson. It may be the most important meeting I ever have. My mom is making dinner for us, and she doesn’t like it if I’m not around to help—even though she won’t let me get near the kitchen when she’s working in there.
See, my mom is very
dramática
. She likes to have her way all the time—and know where I am
all the time
, which is right about now, so I’d better get home.
“I have to go!” I yell to Princess Pamela, who is on the phone fighting with someone.
“No! For that money, I can order flour from the King of Romania, you
strudelhead
!” she huffs into the phone. Then she wraps herself in her flowered shawl and comes toward me, with a little blue box in her hand. “Before you run off—this is for you, dahling,” she says, smiling.
My heart is pounding. It is a present from Tiffany’s!
“Chanel, this will bring you good luck with your
In that way, he and Princess Pamela have a lot in common. She had to leave Romania as a child when the Communists took over there, too. They both know what it’s like to lose everything you have and never see your home again. They both have that sadness in their eyes sometimes.
Princess Pamela says when she saw my dad it was “love at first bite.” He came into the shop for a reading and I guess he fell under her spell. Princess Pamela is a
bruja
—a witch—who can see the future. Mom hates her, but I think she is a good witch, not a bad one.
“Let me see how it looks with the headband!” I exclaim excitedly, and jump out of the beauty salon chair, hitting myself in the forehead with the red crystal bead curtains that divide the psychic salon from the beauty salon in the back.
“Ouch,” I wince as I separate them to go to the front. See, thanks to my dad, Princess Pamela’s Psychic Palace on Spring Street is now
muy grande
and beautiful. He built the whole place with his own two hands. He also helped Pamela install her Psychic Hotline, where she gives advice over the phone.
And thanks to her nimble fingers (and me), she now has a hair salon in the back. She even changed her name to Princess Pamela—because “it is a very good name for business—Pamela rhymes with stamina. It can unleash the secret energy into the universe.”
Princess Pamela also loves music with flavor—
con sabor
—reggae music, rap, salsa. Sometimes I bring her cassettes, and we dance around if there aren’t any customers. She likes Princess Erika, Nefertiti, and Queen Latifah the best. “Why not the Black people here should be like royalty? They can make their own royal family,” she jokes, her accent as thick as ever.
My dad also built two other stores for Princess Pamela—Princess Pamela’s Pampering Palace and Princess Pamela’s Pound Cake Palace— both on 210th Street and Broadway.
The New York Times
rated her pound cake “the finger-lickin’ best in New York City.”
I am proud of her, and I think Princess Pamela is going to be Pamela
Trumpa
one day, and take a huge bite out of the Big Apple!
“Which headband do you think I should wear, the pink one or the green one?” I yell back to her, as I pull them out of my cheetah backpack. I just got these headbands from Oophelia’s catalog—my favorite un-store in the entire universe.
Pink is my favorite color. Or sometimes red is. I like them both a lot. So does Princess Pamela—her whole place is covered in red velvet. Leopard, which is a “color” the Cheetah Girls use a lot, is my third favorite.
“
Ay, Dios mío
, what time is it?” I shriek. “I’ve got to get home!”
Bubbles, Dorinda Rogers, and Aquanette and Anginette Walker—the other members of the Cheetah Girls—are coming over to my house at seven o’clock so we can practice table manners for our
lonchando
meeting with Mr. Johnson. It may be the most important meeting I ever have. My mom is making dinner for us, and she doesn’t like it if I’m not around to help—even though she won’t let me get near the kitchen when she’s working in there.
See, my mom is very
dramática
. She likes to have her way all the time—and know where I am
all the time
, which is right about now, so I’d better get home.
“I have to go!” I yell to Princess Pamela, who is on the phone fighting with someone.
“No! For that money, I can order flour from the King of Romania, you
strudelhead
!” she huffs into the phone. Then she wraps herself in her flowered shawl and comes toward me, with a little blue box in her hand. “Before you run off—this is for you, dahling,” she says, smiling.
My heart is pounding. It is a present from Tiffany’s!
“Chanel, this will bring you good luck with your
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