Growl Power! (The Cheetah Girls Book 8) by Gregory Deborah

Author:Gregory, Deborah [Gregory, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9781497677531
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-08-11T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter

7

We can’t believe how people are pushing and shoving out here on Kemah Boardwalk. It’s just like in New York!

“All this commotion for a gig that’s not paying one red cent,” grumbles an older man with several missing front teeth. He is standing on the out-of-control line directly in front of us, with his somewhat younger crony, who is a good-looking man wearing a red baseball cap and dark sunglasses.

“Don’t get me wrong, though,” the toothless man says. “It’s not often old-timers like us get the opportunity to show our chops. Everybody wants to see you young folks.” He grins shamelessly, then accidentally jabs Angie with his beat-up instrument case.

Ma winces and takes control of the situation. “Sir, maybe you should move that case off your shoulder,” she says nicely.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mr. Toothless says, apologizing sincerely, but turning and hitting Angie again with the case.

“Ouch,” Angie says, making a comical grimace.

We look at his baseball-capped friend with pleading eyes, hoping he’ll help his manner-impaired crony.

“Fred,” the man says, “take Bertha off your arm and hold her in front of you, before you poke that poor girl’s eye out!”

Bertha. Lord, don’t tell me they are carrying body parts in that case! As if reading my mind, the man with the dark glasses says, “That’s Fred’s banjo—he calls her Bertha, ’cuz she’s been with him for thirty-five years.”

“That’s right—longer than any other woman,” the man called Fred says, chuckling at his own joke.

“Y’all in a group together?” Angie asks, folding her arms to protect herself from any more attacks from moving instruments.

“Yes, indeed, young lady,” the younger one says. “We’re Fish ’N’ Chips. He’s Fred Fish. I’m Chips Carter.” Mr. Carter adjusts his sunglasses and looks up at the bright, blue sky. “Young people don’t listen to the kind of music we play—heart-thumpin’ blues,” he says.

“What instrument do you play?” Angie asks Mr. Chips Carter. It’s hard to tell by the shape of his duffel bag—which he is smart enough to hold in front of him.

“I play the tambourine—shakin’ up the blues.”

“We always used to listen to blues music at our grandfather’s house when we were little,” I inform Fish ’N’ Chips.

“Muddy Waters and B. B. King—Grand-daddy loved them,” Angie adds, grabbing on to Ma’s arm.

We don’t remember much about Grandaddy Selby Jasper—Ma’s daddy—but we’ll never forget his music. “Nothing like the blues,” he used to say, playing it loud enough on the stereo so he could hear it sitting out on the porch, sipping his lemonade and watching us play in the backyard. Uncle Skeeter would bang out beats on a crate, while Angie and I hummed along, making up our own melodies.

“I guess we are the oldest fools out here,” Mr. Fred Fish says to his partner.

Finally, we hear one of the security guards yelling into a bullhorn. “Listen up, people. Everybody is going to get to audition for the Montgomery Homeless Shelter Benefit. But it would help us a lot if you would just form one line against the left railing.

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