“The thing is”âMercedes steered the discussion back on trackâ“any mind-altering substance can be detrimental or even deadly. It's not worth the risk. Thank God your grandmother hasn't suffered, as far as you know.”
“Well,” Sierra acknowledged, “she does kind of act slow sometimes, but I think it's because she's old.”
“Fifty-two is
not
old,” Camille clarified.
Michaela grinned. “What about parties?”
“Is that all you care about?” Mackenzie accosted her sister.
“Yes!”
Camille shook her head. “There were parties, Michaela. Parties in LA, New York, Miami, Chicago, London. Mostly at clubs or someplace somebody rented outâor owned. We danced, we ate. People got drunk and threw up. People ate too much and threw up. There's a whole lotta vomiting going on amongst celebrities, believe it or not.”
The girls eewed and made nasty faces.
“Any one-night stands?” Shaki asked nosily.
“Thank God, no,” Camille denied. “But it's almost scary how people sleep around on the road. Some of the guys in our band had different girls every night. I wouldn't be surprised if they had all kinds of diseases and ten kids each.
“Crazy thing was, the girls they had sex with didn't really want a relationship. They just wanted to be able to say they slept with somebody famous, I guess.”
“Groupies,” Mackenzie snarled.
“When did it all end?” Chrisandrea wondered. “I mean, you did all that. Then what?”
“This is where things get complicated. There was this guy.”
“Should have known,” Shaki remarked. “There's always a man somewhere in the problem.”
“He actually wasn't the problem.” Camille took a cleansing breath and admitted, for the first time, “I was the problem. I shouldn't have listened to him. He said he could get us a better record deal, more money, better producers. So ... we ... fired my brother.”
Mackenzie put a hand on her heart. “Oh my gosh! You fired Courtney!”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“But he was the one who set the whole group up!” Sierra noted.
“I know. I got greedy. We
all
got greedy.”
Brittney asked, “So what happened to the other guy you hired in Courtney's place?”
Camille tsked. “He hooked us up with some other major artists, but he charged us so much, Sweet Treats ended up owing
him
when it was all done. He's the reason I had to sell almost everything I owned.”
“That's messed up,” Michaela whispered.
Shaki yawned. The action grew contagious and spread around the room. Mercedes took the cue to wrap up the conversation. “So, what lessons did you learn from your experiences?”
She had to think about the question for a moment. She hadn't even told them about Darrion and Tonya. Bad enough what they already knew. “I think the biggest lesson for me was that old saying, everything that glitters isn't gold. People aren't always what they seem to be. In the entertainment business, everyone's in it for themselves.”
“That's sad,” Chrisandrea slurred. She laid her head on her outstretched arm. “Are you glad to be out of it now? You know, living a regular life?”
“You ask tough questions.” Camille paused again.
Mackenzie yawned again. “I don't want to be around fake people. Not for all the money in the world.”
“Me, either,” Brittney resolved.
“What happened between you and your brother?” Mackenzie carried on despite heavy lids.
“We don't really talk anymore.” An understatement.
Michaela wondered aloud, “At all?”
“Nope. He's married now. Has two kids. I haven't even seen my niece and my nephew. I think they're one and three years old. I'm not sure. I'd have to ask my dad.”
“Sadder than sad,” murmured Chrisandrea.
Mercedes stood and stretched. “All right, ladies. Let's get these beds back in their places.”
Groggy and finally descending from their twenty-four-hour adrenaline highs, the girls helped each other arrange the room properly. Shaki double-checked the blanket under the door.
“'Night everybody,” Sierra began the roll call.
“'Night,” seven times over.
After they were all settled in, Chrisandrea asked, “Anybody in here got basketball skills?”
“Not me.”
“Nope.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“The Beautifuls are going to get real ugly with us on that court tomorrow.”
“I know, right?”
Even with her eyes closed, Camille knew exactly which Fly Girl was speaking. They had already etched their individual personalities into her heart. Smart-mouthed Sierra, the mini-Kyra. Mackenzie and Michaela, good twin and wild twin respectively. Shaki, the boy magnet. Chrisandrea, the thinker. And Brittney, with whom she shared a special connection because they had both lost their mothers at an early age.
Somehow, she'd landed herself in a cabin full of impressionable girls who had no idea why she was even a member of their church, that she was the epitome of the type of person they needed to avoid. A user. Someone who was only in it for herself.
They were right about Courtney. They were all too nice to voice what was written on their faces: She deserved whatever she got after ousting her brother from Sweet Treats. That fame was gone forever.
But didn't she also deserve another chance to redeem her career? Even people with bad credit got to start over after seven years.
Still, Camille couldn't help feeling like she was starting over the wrong way. Especially now that she'd given the girls the big moral talk.
I shouldn't have come to this stupid camp.
She laid there for a while, listening to the girls' soft snores and crickets' mating calls.
“Camille?” Mercedes whispered.
“Yeah?”
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I'll be praying that God will intervene in your family. Restore the broken relationship between you and your brother.”
“Thank you.”
Â
Brittney had been right about the Beautifuls. They knocked the Fly Girls out of the basketball tournament in round one, forty to twenty-two. They held their bragging rights high, teasing the Fly Girls throughout the day.
Thankfully, the sun reappeared Saturday, providing several options for entertainment. After taking a turn to lead praise and worship during the morning gathering, Camille and Mercedes hiked the campgrounds. Mercedes's fascination with nature proved too serious at one point as she guided a garden snake off the trail with a tree branch.
“That was gross,” Camille stated for the record.
Mercedes said, “He was just a little guy. Needs some help learning the ropes.”
The nature walk landed them back at the cabin a little before lunch. Camille could take the stench of wildlife no longer. Her skin screamed for a shower, and her hair said it was time to get back to civilization.
By Saturday night, Shaki and Chrisandrea had somehow gotten into an argument over a towel. Michaela was getting on everyone's nerves whining about the fact she would have over a thousand text messages to check. Mackenzie told her sister to shut up. Sierra had to put an end to their subsequent shouting match. Mercedes led a prayer for good attitudes the remainder of their stay.
Needless to say, the Fly Girls were the first to board the bus back to Dallas Sunday morning. Camille couldn't help but laugh at the attitudes, though. Her experience with Sweet Treats taught her all too well that God never meant for women to stay together for long periods of time. Particularly not when they had to share a bathroom.
Retreat organizers did a good job of planning their arrival to coincide with the dismissal of worship service. The youth traipsed off the bus and into their smaller chapel just in time to wait for parents, who were pouring out of the main building. Camille hugged her cabinmates, thanked Mercedes for inviting her, then flew back home for a much-needed nap.
Those girls had broken her down. In a good way.
CHAPTER 17
C
amille didn't know what was worse: lying about Fluffy's ailments, or faking his death. Either way, it was time to let him go. This illustrious falsehood had worn itself out.
She rapped on Sheryl's door.
“Come in.”
“Hey.” Camille gave a halfhearted smile, her lips intentionally dry. “I just wanted to thank you for all your thoughts and concern. Fluffy is ... in a better place now.”
Her boss wheezed. “What? What are you saying?”
“He ... sh ...” Camille couldn't remember if the cat was male or female. “Fluffy died this weekend. Peacefully.”
“No!” Sheryl panted, “No, no, no!”
“It's going to be okay.” Camille comforted her with a hug.
Sheryl's shoulders shook with grief. “This is awful.”
Camille repeated, “It'll be okay.” Whose cat was this anyway?
“Look at me, crying all over you.” Sheryl wiped her eyes and gazed at Camille. “Oh my gosh, look at you. You ... you look perfectly normal. You must be in shock.”
Camille shrugged. “I guess the loss isn't ... real to me yet.”
Never will be
.
“I understand. We walked around in a daze for weeks after Valectra died.”
Enough already. “Thanks, again, for caring. I should be able to get to work on time now.” She started toward her little cubicle.
Sheryl asked, “Where will she be buried?”
Hadn't thought of that one. “I ... donated the body to science. Hopefully they can find a cure for other cats.”
“You are sooo selfless.”
The adoring look on Sheryl's face dumped a load of guilt on Camille's heart. She couldn't take it. She had to come clean. “I can't do this anymore.”
“I know.” Sheryl embraced her subordinate.
“No. Fluffy's not dead,” Camille tried.
“Yes, she
is
. I know, it's hard to move on.”
Camille broke the hug, looked her boss in the eyes. “Fluffy was never alive.”
Sheryl spoke as though in a conversation with a kindergartner. “Don't say that. I mean, these last few days might have
seemed
like she didn't have much quality of life, but you mustn't focus on the bad days.”
Who says “mustn't” these days?
“Why don't you go ahead and take the day off to think about all the wonderful times you had with Fluffy, okay? I'll let human resources know you're using some personal time.” She wrapped her arm around Camille's shoulder and led her toward the office entrance. “Everything will be fine.”
Now that she'd accidentally enacted a mini mental breakdown, there was no turning back. “Thank you, Sheryl. I'll be in bright and early tomorrow.”
“We'll see you then.”
The longer this lie lived, the worse it got. Now this thing had begun eating into her precious reserves. Camille had to pull her story together and get beyond Fluffy. No way could this unreal animal cost her any more anguish or guilt.
Rather than waste a day in phony mourning, Camille decided to drop by John David's office and do a little schmoozing. She didn't want him to forget her face or their agreement, albeit informal.
Timber must have recognized the face despite shorter, slicked-down hair. “Do you have an appointment?” she mocked. “Perhaps returning a visit?”
Payback has jokes.
“No, I don't, but I would really appreciate the opportunity to see him.”
She flipped her bangs back. “Have a seat.”
Camille sat. And sat. Finally, after a forty-five-minute wait, Timber showed some mercy and paved the way to John David's office.
“The pretender is back,” Timber announced.
“I was desperate, okay?” Camille retorted.
People get so sensitive about little white lies these days.
“Thank you, Timber. Have a seat, Camille.”
At least someone was calling her by name. “Don't take it personal. It's just that we prefer honesty from our potential clients.”
Camille sat across from him, pleased that he acknowledged the possibility of their professional relationship. “I can't be the first person to have used dishonest means toward an end.”
“No, you're not,” he granted. “But the fact that you're sitting in my office despite your dishonesty doesn't sit well with Timber. I usually don't give such people the time of day, but your voice is golden. I've made an exception in your case.”
Was she supposed to be flattered or insulted?
“You got a recording?” he asked before she could decide.
“Not yet. But I'm working on it. I've joined a church, I'm in the choir.”
“Good.” He bobbed his head. “When can I expect to have the demo?”
“Soon,” she promised.
He opened his palms toward the ceiling. “So ... why are you here?”
Because my fake cat died
. Speechless, she smiled.
John David stood and escorted her to the door. “I'm leaving for LA tomorrow. I'll be back in a few weeks. I hope we'll have something to talk about then.”
“Gotcha.”
She left the office feeling like a complete idiot. John David wasn't interested in small talk. He was all about business. She should have known better than to waste his valuable time.
Blinking back tears, she maneuvered out of the parking lot a little more carefully this go-round and waited until she had a clear view of the road before gunning it to the recreation center for a midday workout.
Her muscles ached fiercely all through young-adult choir practice. Mercedes forked over two Advil after practice and warned, “You better take it easy. You might be a Fly Girl, but you ain't no young warrior.”
Camille laughed. “How is the rest of our team anyway?”
“Fine. Asking about you,” she said.
“When?”
“I don't usually hear from them until third Saturday at the Mentors and Models sessions, but Brittney sent me a text asking for your e-mail address and Shaki wanted to know if you could sing at her parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party in the fall. I told them I'd talk to you tonight.”
They stopped shy of the exit doors to exchange numbers so Mercedes could text the girls' contact information.
“They really enjoyed talking to you, Camille,” Mercedes stressed. “They listen to me a little bit, but I've always been a goody-two-shoes, tattletale type, so I can't tell them what it's like to try this or that. When someone who's been there and done that warns them, the advice takes on whole new meaning.”
This wasn't news, of course. “Glad I could help.”
Mercedes followed Camille to the car. She raised her eyebrows and squinted her eyes. “You think maybe you could help more?”
“Help more how?”
“Come to Mentors and Models. Pretty please?”
“I don't know about all that.” Camille unlocked the driver's side. “I'm pretty busy these days.”
“It's just one day a month. Plus you'll get to see the Fly Girls again. Don't need no swatter? Bring me some water?”
Tickled by compassion, Camille signed herself up for yet another item on her plate. This mega-church business was turning out to be darn near a full-time job. And a non-paying job at that. Still, what could it hurt to hang out with the Fly Girls every now and then? And what better role model than someone who was actually living out her dreams?
Someone like me. Kinda.
Â
A flip of her wall calendar ushered in a somber mood. May. Momma's birthday on the fourth. Mother's Day soon thereafter. The month's corresponding photograph, water lilies, seemed almost planted in this moment. They reminded her of Momma's favorite song.
Sweet Jesus. Lily of the valley, bright and morning star
. Almost automatically, the tune flowed from Camille's mouth and filled her bedroom with its gentle fragrance.
The melody carried her to work, where she signed in a few minutes early, then quietly logged on to her computer. Coffee drinkers hadn't quite downed enough cups for “hellos” yet, which suited Camille just fine. She didn't feel like talking to anyone. Didn't feel like being around people, for that matter.
The first year after her mother passed, Camille could hardly smile on holidays. But, as time went on, she'd managed to limit her funk to these first two weeks in May. If she could make it past the second Sunday, she could exhale and enjoy the rest of her year. She wondered if other people who'd lost loved ones had days, weeks, or months like this.
Though she had come to actually enjoy choir rehearsal, she wished she could forgo tonight's. Mercedes would probably call to check on her, though. For as much as Camille had tried to stay aloof, none of that worked with Mercedes. She was good people. Nothing to fear, nothing to lose. Someone to call on if she ever got a flat tire and couldn't get in touch with Bobby Junior.
Camille noticed fewer cars when she parked and wondered if she'd missed a memo canceling rehearsal. She checked her texts. No messages from Mercedes or Ronald. She entered the choir room cautiously, announced herself to the three people surrounding the piano. She recognized the two men from youth camp. The woman from the alto section.
“Hello! Are we having rehearsal tonight?”
Ronald peeked through the small assembly. “Hi, Camille. No choir practice. Tonight is praise-team practice.”
“Oh, sorry to interrupt. I must have misread the schedule online,” she said, stepping back into the corridor.
“Wait!” one of the men called to her. He held up his index finger while he addressed Ronald. Then, he faced Camille again. “Felecia usually sings with us, but she had to go out of town suddenly. We need another soprano. Would you mind?”
Would I mind? Hello, praise team! Don't walk too fast.
She moseyed on up to the piano, laid her purse down on a chair, leaned her waist against the weathered baby grand like an experienced cocktail lounge main attraction. The men introduced themselves as Nathan and Faison. The woman, Evelina.
“I hear you were quite the hit at youth camp,” Ronald teased with an uncharacteristic smile while stroking the ivories. Had he forgotten their last conversation?
“All the girls were talking about you,” Nathan commended.
Camille bowed. “We had a fun little singing contest. A good time.”
“You know the song âWhat a Mighty God We Serve'?” Ronald asked. If he couldn't do anything else, he sure could play that piano. Teeth whiter than the keys.
“Which version?”
He laughed. “I couldn't even tell you. It's old school. Just follow my lead.”
And follow she did. The good thing about church songs was every lyric said something about God or Jesus. Exact words were inconsequential, allowing Camille to jump right in and complement Ronald, note for note, line for line, in perfect harmony. She filled her lungs, expressed each iota of air with flawless execution. “What a Mighty God We Serve” never sounded so good this side of heaven.
Faison crossed his big arms and shook his head in awe. Evelina raised her arms as though she'd be caught up into the clouds any second now. Nathan smiled like he'd won the lottery. Twice.
“Hallelujah!” Evelina praised. “Praise be to God! That was glorious!”
Ronald tilted his head respectfully. Camille returned the gesture.
“Oooh-wee!” Faison exploded. “Ron, man, I think you've found your match!”
Awkward
.
“I mean, your
singing
match,” he clarified. “'Cause she can sing, and you can sing. You know what I'm saying.”
“Enough said,” Nathan rescued his buddy. “Camille's in for next Sunday.”
She questioned, “Mother's Day?”
“Yeah,” Rodney verified. “You'll be in town?”
She'd be in town. Hadn't planned on coming to church, though. All those tributes to mothers, all those poems and flowers would tear Camille up. Just looking at the program itself might do her in.
But this was her chance. Her one shot. And John David would return shortly, anticipating a recording.
“I can do it.”
“Great,” Ronald said.
Camille must have been visibly distracted the rest of the rehearsal because Ronald caught up with her after practice near the main exit door. “Are you all right?”