CHAPTER 16
F
riday morning looked more like a Friday evening. Cloudy skies and damp air promised a hefty downpour. The campers made it through breakfast unscathed. The midmorning worship service was held inside the gym, so there was no threat of problems there. After lunch, however, the rainstorm put a stop to the day's remaining outdoor events.
Camp leaders tried their best to supplement activities, to no avail. Teams spent the afternoon in their cabins, bummed by the ongoing rain.
“Can we get our MP3 players back?” Shaki whined.
“Or at least tablets,” seconded Michaela.
Mercedes stomped. “No, no, no! Don't you people know how to have fun without gadgets or some kind of screen in your face?”
“Uh, no,” Brittney said, bearing a benign smile.
Mercedes shook her head. “Y'all ever sit around telling stories?”
Group head-shake no.
“Ever played charades?”
Unanimous verbal no.
Mercedes put a hand on her hip and sighed. “It's a shame what Bill Gates has done to you people.”
Camille tried, “How about singing?”
Sierra consented, “Now
that
we can do, seeing as this
is
the girls' choir cabin.”
The girls piled onto their leaders' beds. Brittney stole the spot next to Camille.
“What are we gonna sing?” Chrisandrea asked.
Camille laughed. “I don't know. What do y'all wanna sing?”
“Let's do some old-school songs,” Mercedes suggested. “Y'all know âRespect'?”
“Yeah!” they squealed.
Sierra snatched a brush from her backpack to serve as a microphone, and the show was on. Shaki took over Aretha Franklin's role for the first song. Michaela mimicked Diana Ross for a simplified version of the Supremes's “Stop! In the Name of Love.” Michaela knew only the chorus, so she had to make up the other words, which caused a wave of laughter to flow around the room.
Their giggling was interrupted by a knock at the door and hysterical demands. “Fly girls! Let us in! It's raining!”
Quickly, Mercedes opened the door and allowed the Beautifuls into the cabin. Their leaders, a short woman with a natural afro that had obviously drawn up with the air's moisture, and a girl barely old enough to be out of the youth group, hugged Mercedes, then Camille.
“Ooh! We were bored to death. We heard y'all singing and decided to come over, if that's all right with y'all,” the woman said, shaking out their umbrellas and setting them on the porch.
“Sure. Come on in,” Mercedes welcomed. “Brittney is about to sing us some Stevie Wonder.”
The Beautifuls climbed on the empty beds and clapped to get the ball rolling.
Brittney, holding the makeshift microphone, told her audience, “Bear with us. We don't actually know all the words. Y'all got that?”
The small crowd roared. “Go 'head!” “Don't let nobody turn you 'round!” “Swing low, sweet chariot!”
“What in the world?” Mercedes bellowed. She rolled her eyes at Camille. “These girls are too loony.”
Brittney and her backup had to compose themselves three times before singing. Despite not knowing the words, she knew the tune. “Something, something, something stayed too long. And something, something, love is gone.” Shaki and Sierra knew exactly when to come in. “Here I am. Signed, sealed, delivered, I'm yours.”
Impressed that they even knew this song, Camille stood and got the crowd dancing. She and Mercedes led the bump. Next, one of the Beautifuls' leaders broke out with the robot dance, prompting a soul train line. The girls imitated moves from previous generations. The running man, the cabbage patch, the snake, the mashed potato, and stuff no one had even seen or heard of on the planet.
Camille couldn't remember laughing so hard in all her life. Stomach-cramping, tear-jerking amusement.
“Hey! Let's have a singing contest!” one of the Beautifuls exclaimed.
Mercedes chided, “It wouldn't be fair. I mean, this
is
half the youth choir.”
“Just 'cause I ain't in the choir don't mean I can't sing,” their older leader proclaimed. “I'm down.”
The Beautifuls jeered, “Ooh, she told you!” “Fly Girls might not be fly enough!”
“Miss Mercedes and Miss Camille, don't let them roll up in our cabin and try to play us!” Sierra hawked, complete with gangster-style arm movements. “Y'all gotta represent!”
“All right. All right.” Mercedes bobbed her head confidently. She grabbed Camille's arm and led her to the back corner of the room.
“What you wanna sing?” she whispered.
Camille's eyes widened. “I don't know. Some kind of duet?”
“Let's bust out with some Michael Jackson,” Mercedes suggested.
“
Old
Michael Jackson,” Camille said. “âWho's Loving You'?”
“Yes! En Vogue style. You got the lead, Camille?”
She ain't said nothing but a word.
Meanwhile, Shaki and Sierra came up with ground rules. The leaders had exactly one minute to sing a portion of a song, to be timed by Mackenzie's watch. The song also had to be old school. Nothing recorded in this century. These girls had obviously been watching too much
American Idol
.
The Beautifuls cheered for their representatives. The one who claimed she could sing had a few tricks up her sleeves for “Shop Around.” Too bad they didn't make it to the chorus in a minute's time. A huge argument broke out about whether or not they should be disqualified since only one member sang.
“Go ahead and let them stay qualified. That way we can beat them fair and square,” Mercedes teased.
The Beautifuls booed Mercedes, of course, but that was all fine and dandy. Camille had something for them.
“Now, we're about to sing a song that you all probably think is sung by Mariah Carey. But, in my opinion, the best version of it was recorded by a group called En Vogue in the nineties. Even before that, Michael Jackson and The Jackson Five sang this song,” Camille lectured.
An opposing cabin member yelled out, “Sing the song already!”
This was, of course, right up Camille's alley, who busted out, “Whe-eee-eeen I.”
Mercedes followed, “When I.”
“Had you.”
“Had you.”
“I treated you ba-aaa-aaa-aaa-aad and wrong, oh my dear.”
Simultaneously, the Fly Girls hopped off their beds, cheering and shouting, giving each other high fives. “Snap!” “Miss Camille can sang!” The Beautifuls sat in their pool of defeat, spellbound by Camille's voice, knowing they didn't have a snowball's chance in hell.
When Camille killed the highest note, even the Beautifuls came undone. “That don't make no sense!” “Aw, man! I wish I had my phone!”
Camille and Mercedes ended the introduction to their song in perfect harmony as Mackenzie called, “Time!”
No need for a vote. The Fly Girls' team declared triumph and broke out with a silly impromptu chant: “Fly Girls in tha house, don't need no swatter. Fly Girls in tha house, go get me some water.” Sierra rubbed salt in the wound by hoisting the volleyball trophy, pumping it in the air with each beat.
One by one, the Beautifuls stood. “We're outta here,” one of their team yelled over the chanting.
Brittney waved at them.
“We'll see y'all on the basketball court tomorrow,” another one said.
The Fly Girls continued their chant while Mercedes and Camille hugged their fellow chaperones and sent them on their way.
“You have a beautiful, powerful voice,” the older one complimented Camille. “Too bad you're on the Fly Girls' team.”
Camille laughed and thanked her for the kind words.
With the Beautifuls out of hearing distance, team Fly Girls collapsed on their beds in victory.
“Wow! You sing better than Beyoncé and Fantasia put together,” Brittney said.
“For real!”
“How come you don't lead every singsong the choir sings?” Sierra asked.
“No offense, Miss Mercedes, but Miss Camille is, like the best singer I have ever heard in person. Ever.”
Mercedes sucked in her chin. “None taken. They're right. Camille. God has blessed you with an extraordinary voice.”
“You ever thought about being, like, a
real
singer?” Shaki asked.
Camille smirked shyly. “I used to be one, actually.”
Mercedes jumped in. “You guys are spoiling the surprise. I specifically asked Camille to be in our cabin because I know you all love to sing, and she has experience in the music business. Hopefully, sometime this weekend, we'll be able to pick her brain.”
Sierra jumped the gun. “Ooh, what kind of music did you sing?”
“R and B.”
Michaela pressed, “By yourself or with a group?”
“There were four of us. We were called the Sweet Treats.”
Face in a scowl, Chrisandrea asked, “Who picked
that
name?”
“My brother made up the name, and it was wonderful, if I don't say so myself,” Camille snapped.
Sierra cut to the chase. “Are you rich?”
Shaki smacked Sierra on the knee. “You don't ask people stuff like that.”
“I just want to know. Maybe she can hook me up with a new ride,” Sierra teased.
Camille confessed, “I was rich at one point. But I was a little hardheaded.” She sighed. “If I had listened to the people who actually cared about me, I'd be a lot better off right now.”
“You sound just like my daddy,” Brittney testified.
“Mine, too,” Michaela echoed.
Mercedes glanced at her watch. “This sounds like a very interesting story. Why don't we all go to the dining hall, eat, and then come back, listen and learn from Camille's experiences.”
“Yes. I can't wait.” Shaki clapped.
Quickly, they donned raincoats, grabbed umbrellas.
“Miss Camille, I'll share my umbrella with you,” Brittney offered.
“Love to.” Once outside, Camille locked arms with the young girl so they could lean in closer, avoiding as many raindrops as possible.
Fried chicken with rice hit the spot any day, in Camille's book. She ate a little too much, probably, and waddled back to the cabin under Brittney's cover. Everyone decided they should wait until all showers were complete before Camille told them the story. No one wanted to miss this worldly tale.
Cleaned and full, they settled back into Bible-study formation, beds drawn together. Mercedes got the group to agree that they'd cover the prescribed scriptures in the morning, before worship, then she gave Camille the floor again.
“Like I said, we were the Sweet Treats,” Camille began. She told them all about the life-changing audition with Courtney, the tours, the star-studded awards shows, the limos, the money. They all wanted to know what she'd bought with her cash. She listed the Lexus, a condo, Gucci bags, extravagant trips. “The only thing I still have is my car. Everything else is gone.”
“What happened?” Shaki asked.
“Had to sell everything.”
Chrisandrea dove deeper. “What about drugs? Did you ever try drugs?”
Camille nodded softly. “I did. One of the girls in my group had them. The first time she asked me if I wanted them, I said no. But then, when I saw she had a lot of energy and seemed to be doing fine, I decided to try them.”
Wide-eyed, Brittney asked, “What happened?”
“I hated them!” Camille exclaimed. “They made me nervous, I couldn't sleep. It was terrible and I would not recommend them to anyone. Period.”
“One time I smoked weed with my boyfriend,” Shaki confided. “I felt like everything was moving in slow motion. And everything was ... stupid. Funny-stupid. I swear, I don't know why people keep getting high. It makes you slow.”
“Nuh-uh. My grandmomma said ain't nothin' wrong with smokin' weed,” Sierra countered. “She's smoked weed every day of her life. She's fifty-two years old, and nothing's wrong with her.”
Except she's the fifty-two-year-old grandmother of an eighteen-year-old girl.
Camille kept her mouth shut.
“I heard President Obama smoked weed when he was in college,” Michaela added.