Wishing on a Star by Deborah Gregory

Chapter
1
    Toto must think my toes are dipped in Bark-B-Q sauce, the way he’s trying to sneak a chomp-a-roni with his pointy fangs. I have just painted my toenails in a purply glitter shade called “Pow!” by S.N.A.P.S. Cosmetics and am lying on my bed with my feet dangling to the winds so they can dry.
    “Guess what, big brother, you’re gonna have to get your grub on somewhere else,” I coo to the raggedy pooch with dreadlocks whom I love more than life itself. “I, Galleria Garibaldi, supa divette-in-training, cannot afford to have Toto-tugged tootsies.”
    Mom isn’t sure what breed Toto is, because she and Dad adopted him from the ASPCA before I was born. But when all the hair-sprayed ladies on the street stop and ask me, I say that he is a poodle instead of a “pastamuffin” (that’s what I call him). It sounds more
hoity-toity
, and trust: that is a plus on the Upper East Side, where I live.
    I stick the bottle of nail polish in my new cheetah backpack. I hold up my hands, and it looks like a thousand glittering stars are bouncing off my Pow!-painted tips. “Awright!” I tell myself. “This girlina-rina is gonna get herself noticed by first period, Toto. High school, at last!”
    Tomorrow is my first day as a freshman at Fashion Industries High School, and I’m totally excited—and scared. I figure it can’t hurt to make a big first impression—but painting my nails is also a way to get my mind off being so nervous.
    I’m real glad Chuchie is coming over for dinner tonight. That’s Chanel Simmons to you—she’s my partner-in-rhyme (aka Miss Cuchifrita, Chanel No. 5, Miss Gigglebox, and about a gazillion other names I call her). We’ve known each other since we were in designer diapers. Chuchie, her brother, Pucci, and her mom, Juanita, ought to be here any minute, in fact.
    Chuchie’s going to Fashion Industries High, too. Thank gooseness—which is my way of saying thank you. She’s about the only familiar face I’II be seeing come tomorrow morning.
    Chanel is a blend of Dominican and Puerto Rican on her mother’s side, Jamaican and Cuban on her father’s side—and sneaky-deaky through and through! She lives down in Soho near my mother’s store, Toto in New York … Fun in Diva Sizes. It’s on West Broadway off Broome Street, where people are a lot more “freestyle” than in my neighborhood.
    Down there, you can walk on the sidewalk next to a Park Avenue lady, or someone with blue hair, a nose ring, and a boom box getting their groove on walking down the sidewalk. Up here, hair colors must come out of a Clairol box. It’s probably written in the lease!
    “Galleria?” I hear my mom calling me from the dining room. “You ’bout ready, girlina? ’Cause your daddy’s getting home late, and I’m not playing hostess with the mostest all by myself!”
    “Coming, Momsy-poo!” I shout back. But I don’t move. Not yet. Plenty of time for that when the doorbell rings.
    Thinking about Chanel has put me in mind of my music. I start singing the new song I have just finished writing in my Kitty Kat notebook: “Welcome to the Glitterdome.”
    I have to get my songs copyrighted so no one will bite my flavor before I become famous—which is going to happen any second. I have a drawer full of furry, spotted notebooks filled with all the words, songs, and crazy thoughts I think of—which I do on a 24-7 basis. I will whip out my notebook wherever I am and scribble madly. There is no shame in my game.
    I pick up my private notebook, on which my name—Galleria—appears in peel-off glitter letters, and turn to a blank page. I start writing notes to myself and working on the “Glitterdome” song some more.
    What I love the “bestesses of all” (as Chanel would say) is singing, rhyming, and blabbing my mouth. It’s as natural to me as dressing for snaps (that means, for compliments). I can make up words and rhymes on a dime. Not rap, just freestyle flow. I also spell words “anyhoo I