CHAPTER 22
C
amille's first meeting with the Mentors and Models went very well. She introduced herself, told the girls about her former life as a “star” at Brittney's request. The sponsors thanked Camille for “keeping it real” with the young ladies.
There was something about this whole “being real” concept that seemed almost foreign to these people. Yet, this was the very quality that caused the teen girls to direct most of their questions toward Camille during the question-and-answer session about boyfriends and dating.
“I want to ask Miss Camille if she ever dated someone who didn't believe in God,” a girl who barely looked old enough to shop in the juniors' section asked. A boyfriend should have been the last thing on her mind.
Always, Camille answered truthfully but responsibly. “When I was your age, I didn't even care if they believed in God or not. All I cared about was how good they looked. Once their looks got old and I found somebody cuter, that was the end of the relationship.”
Another one delved further, “Do you ask guys
now
about their relationship with God?”
Ronald came to mind. Even if she didn't know him from church, who he was and what he stood for probably wouldn't have been hard to determine. “No. I don't ask because people can lie and say whatever they think you want to hear. The way you really know what a guy believes is by how he acts.”
Miss Abernathy, one of the older sponsors, quickly stood and initiated a round of applause after Camille's answer. “Young lady, you ain't tellin' nothin' but the truth!”
Before they dismissed, Camille made yet another plea in front of a crowd, as she'd done at the end of almost every choir rehearsal for weeks now. “Does anybody want a free kitten?”
A collective “awww” encouraged her to describe Cat in depth. “He's gray with blue eyes, for now. He doesn't tear up stuff. All he does is eat and sleep.”
But after the initial cooing, no one stepped forward to relieve her of Cat. He was still on the market, which wasn't a loss entirely because she'd hoped he would eat up all the food she had had to buy him before he left. Wasting money was not an option.
Mercedes, Camille, and the rest of the Fly Girls held a spontaneous minireunion after the meeting. Mercedes invited them all to her cousin's movie theater to watch some movie about escaped lab rats. It sounded corny, but Camille joined them anyway. Broke people don't turn down free stuff.
Afterward, she took Brittney home and switched partners, heading back out again with Ronald for an outing he wouldn't explain ahead of time. Since their first unofficial official buffet date two weeks earlier, Camille and Ronald had seen each other only once more outside of church. They texted here and there. Talked casually. Whether he was trying to keep things quiet with the church folk or still hadn't made up his mind about Camille, she wasn't sure. Either way, she liked the pleasant distance between them. Close enough to suggest opportunity, far enough to preclude disappointment should one person suddenly decide to stop returning calls.
Brittney, however, had given Camille plenty to ponder about the relationship on the way back from Mercedes's place. “Miss Camille, I'm not tryin' to get in grown folks' business, as my daddy would say, but I think he likes you.”
Awkward!
“Hmm. That's nice to know. I think your father is a likeable person, too.”
“No, I mean
likes
you likes you. And I like you, too.”
Camille had made light of Brittney's remarks. “Well, I like that you like me and you like that your daddy likes me, too. Sounds like there's a whole lotta likin' goin' on, right?”
Now, as she secured herself in Ronald's truck for the second time, Camille wondered if she should say something about Brittney's comment. Knowing Ronald, however, he would scold his daughter for interfering. He probably fussed at Brittney for everything already, as parents of teens tended to do. No need adding another reason to the list.
She decided to tackle another issue. “When do you plan on telling me where we're going?”
Ronald winked. “When we get there.”
She crossed her arms. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
“Immensely.”
“I don't like surprises.”
“Neither do I,” he said, “unless I'm the one doing the surprising. Just sit back and relax. You're acting like I'm some kind of axe murderer you met on the Internet who's about to make you his next victim.”
“You might be,” Camille shrieked.
“A bishop's son who's an axe murderer and a widower, heavily involved in ministry, with a fifteen-year-old daughter?”
Camille answered, “Axe murderers pride themselves on blending into society.”
Ronald laughed fully. “Aw, Camille, you crack me up. I always know I'm going to laugh when I'm with you.”
“I never know what's going to happen when I'm with you,” she teased. “I might get a sermon, might get a lecture. Might not even know where I'm going.”
Ronald's refusal to let Camille in on their destination proved a wise move. “Nuh-uh,” Camille fussed when he parked in a spot outside what appeared to be a small art gallery labeled Paintings by U. “I know we did not drive clear across town to go look at art by somebody with a one-letter name.”
“We're not
looking
at art. We're
making
art,” he clarified as he helped her out of the truck. “
U
stands for
y-o-u
.”
She objected, “I can't draw anything except stick figures.”
“We're in the same boat, but you don't have to be able to draw. They'll teach you,” Ronald said. He unlatched the back cabin door and produced a grocery sack.
“What's in there?”
“Our food. Hope you like my specialty, grilled ham and cheese.”
“Sandwiches?”
“Don't worry,” he taunted, “I cut yours up into triangles.”
He closed and locked the doors. “Ladies first.”
Camille looked him upside his head. She'd been real with him so far. Why stop now? “Ronald, this really isn't my speed.”
“Hey, I've never done this, either.” He shrugged. “One of my friends told me about it, said it was fun, said I should try it some time. I've never had anyone to try it with until now.”
Softened only by his vulnerability, she took the first step toward the building and into a new experience. Turned out, Paintings by U was a make-and-take art studio. The instructor, a young man named Wess with a mess of brown hair on his head, explained the concept to the first-timers. He would give them precise direction on how to create the night's painting: a fruit bowl on a pedestal. The canvas, paint, and aprons had already been provided. All they had to do was listen and paint. And, of course, they were welcome to enjoy food, wine, and whatever else they'd brought to snack on.
Camille took one look at the picture and whispered to Ronald, “I can't.”
“Yes, you can. Stop being such a wimp.”
She slapped his arm. “No, you didn't. You know what? Since you called me a wimp, my painting is going to be better than yours.”
“Bet?” he challenged.
“Bet.”
For the next two hours, Camille and Ronald, along with twelve other amateur artists, created their own versions of the master illustration.
“Keep your arm steady, now,” Ronald said as he attempted to sabotage Camille's masterpiece by jiggling her elbow slightly.
“Stop.” She laughed. The distraction had actually reminded her to swallow. She'd been paying such close attention to Wess's direction, she'd almost forgotten she was on an afternoon date with Ronald.
She took a brief recess in order wash her hands and eat her sandwich. Ham and cheese wasn't exactly her favorite main entrée, but Ronald had been right about his special skills. High-quality, deli-sliced ham, just enough mayonnaise, bread buttered slightly and toasted to perfection.
“This is good,” she had to admit. “You could open a ham-and-cheese sandwich store and be set for life.”
“Thank you. Secret family recipe.”
“And thank you for my triangles.”
“My pleasure.”
Camille snacked on a few chips, took a swig of apple juice, and got back to work on her painting, which was shaping up quite nicely. She could tell by Wess's directives that he had coached plenty of art-challenged subjects toward success.
As she added the finishing touches, Camille began to declare victory. “My brother, I do believe I've outdone myself today.”
Ronald leaned over, got a look at the canvas perched on her easel. She snuck a glance at his work. Not too shabby, but his pedestal was a tad bit squatty. Could have easily been mistaken for a stool. Ronald must not have been watching closely when Wess showed them all how to measure from the bottom with their paint brushes.
“I do believe I've won the bet,” he declared.
“How you gon' win the bet with that tiny pedestal? Look at Wess's, look at mine, and look at yours. Please!”
“That's why mine is better. Yours is a cookie-cutter image. Where's your sense of style, Camille? Your flair?” he flirted. “This here, what you've done, is almost an exact replica.”
“Isn't that the idea?” A smile wiggled free from her grasp.
“No.” He couldn't hold a straight face, either.
“Let's ask somebody to be the judge,” Camille suggested.
“No way.” Ronald removed his smock. “I'm not showing this thing to anybody.”
Camille squealed in victory but quickly recanted when she saw Ronald slide his work into the ventilated box. “Ronald, it's not that bad.”
“It's hideous.”
“No, it's not.”
“So ... you're saying it's better than yours?”
She backed up, suddenly aware of his psychological scheme. “I ain't said all that.”
They drove home with the smell of fresh paint filling the car. Ronald rolled down the windows so they wouldn't suffer adverse reactions, in accordance with Wess's caution. The breeze swishing through the truck thwarted any real conversation. Camille simply caught on to what she could hear coming from the speakers. Another gospel song. She recognized Yolanda Adams's voice, hummed along with a few bars.
As soon as the front wheels of Ronald's truck rolled onto the driveway, a boy hoisted his sagging pants, dashed off the front porch, and ran across the lawn while the front door simultaneously slammed shut.
“What's going ...” Ronald's voice trailed off before he could finish the phrase.
Ronald had barely parked before his foot hit the pavement. “Stay in the car. Call nine-one-one.” Then he bounded toward the door, hollering, “Brittney! You okay!”
Camille sat dumbfounded. Ronald was clueless. Here he was thinking Brittney was under attack. Camille, on the other hand, was certain about what she'd just witnessed. Brittney was either saying good-bye or hello to a male friend, and her father had returned home just in time to see it all go down. No need to get the police involved. Not yet, anyway.
Next thing she knew, Ronald tore out of the house, tracing the boy's escape route.
Unsure of what to do next, Camille let herself out of the truck and grabbed her painting. She sat the box in her trunk, threw her purse in the front seat, and locked the door again. She stood in the driveway. What else could she do? She didn't want to just take off like, “I'm outta here,” but this really wasn't her business.
Ronald appeared at the edge of the yard, huffing and puffing, anger etched in every nook of his sweaty face. Camille thanked God he hadn't caught the boy, because Ronald's mind was obviously far from Jesus right now.
“I've got to deal with Brittney.”
“Okay.”
She watched him enter the house again and slam the door almost as hard as Brittney had earlier. She heard Ronald yell his daughter's name and knew there was nothing she could do to save her young friend. Sweet little Brittney had been exposed. Camille could only hope their arrival had interrupted a bad decision, prevented Brittney from doing something stupidâassuming this was her first time contemplating company in her father's absence.
Probably not, though. In Camille's experience, you never got busted the first time you did something stupid because, initially, you were careful. It wasn't until the fourth or fifth time you'd gotten away with something that you stopped watching your back.
She ought to know. She'd snuck her fair share of friends into the house back in the day. Courtney was usually at work, Bobby Junior at some other undisclosed location when Camille returned from school. The only person she had to dodge was Miss Gracie from across the street.