CHAPTER 33
T
he severance package would get her through the rest of the month easily. She might even be able to survive on unemployment if she let go of her cell phone, but that wasn't an option. Communication was nonnegotiable. Besides, Camille wasn't quite in the mood for a handout. In addition to purposefully losing control of her singing career and the situation with Ronald, she'd asked God to take the rein in this “regular-people” job arena. Up until her jail day, she'd seen every nine-to-five job as temporary, a means to her extraordinary superstar end.
Now that she was learning to stomach the idea that she was normal, that the world wasn't here to shine the spotlight on her, she'd asked God to give her a job she actually liked so working wouldn't feel like a waste of forty hours every week, one third of every weekday of her life.
A week after getting laid off indefinitely, as Sheryl had restated in the release paperwork, Camille still hadn't so much as landed a factory gig to tide her over until whatever God had in mind happened. He needed to put His holy foot on it.
Meanwhile, Camille took a break from the choirs. Took a break from Sunday services, too. She knew it wasn't totally the right thing to do, but it was just too awkward being in Ronald's presence in the choir room, too painful seeing him on stage during praise and worship. Truth be told: She couldn't concentrate when she saw Ronald. By no fault of his own, that intensely brown face of his reminded Camille of the self-serving person she used to be. How could she stand in his presence after misleading him?
She also began to wonder if people in the choir knew about what had happened between the two of them. Who had brought him to the apartment to drop off her car? What explanation had Ronald given the person about why he was in possession of Camille's car and keys? He must have told them something close to the truth. What if they'd had a meeting about her and kicked her out of the choir before she had a chance to quietly resign?
Okay, she was getting carried away. It wasn't in Ronald's character to badmouth people. Wasn't like most men period, come to think of it. And if they hadn't kicked Faison's Romeo-wannabe behind out of the choir yet, they still had more than enough room for Camille.
This wasn't about Faison, though. Bottom line, she was flat embarrassed. Yes, God had forgiven her. He'd even changed her. But how could she fix all she'd done wrong to the people she'd deceived?
The second Sunday of church avoidance, Camille figured that maybe she should just join a different church and start over. Sit in the audience for about a year and just listen to the preacher until she got herself right before she started singing in the choir again.
Leave it to Mercedes to send out a text message to the voluntarily shut-in. Hey, C! Where you been? Missing you! Mentors and Models tomorrow @ 9. Girls been asking about u. U coming?
Great. Just great.
Now she
had
to go to Grace Chapel again. She'd played church with a lot of folks, but she'd been true to the teens. And assuming none of them had been tainted by whatever rumors might be floating around about Camille, they would still accept her for who she was.
Camille responded. I'll be there.
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Brittney was the first to nearly strangle Camille's neck in a super-tight hug. “Oh my gosh, Miss Camille, where have you been? I wanted to call you, but my dad's being super mean lately.” Her bright, twinkling eyes hinted at no trace of animosity. She obviously knew nothing of Camille's faults.
Next, Shaki slung a million questions, asking why Camille hadn't come to the pastor's wives' conference.
“Uh, because I'm not a pastor's wife.” Camille laughed.
“So! You could be like the real housewives of Atlanta. Most of them ain't housewives, but that don't stop them from coming on the show,” Shaki joked.
“For real,” Michaela cosigned.
“They had, like, a little teen workshop for girls during the conference,” Sierra drawled. She stuck her finger in her mouth, pretending to gag. “It was so lame and fake. We were all saying they should have had you up talking, then we would have paid attention.”
Like one of the kids, Mercedes flocked into the Miss Camille fan club to share her thoughts as well. “Camille, you gotta talk to them about how they work with us. We need more
real
ness, you hear me? Somebody who's made mistakes, you know what I'm saying?”
“Well, I certainly qualify, if that's what it takes.” Camille laughed at herself.
The meeting began with a prayer and some announcements. Then someone fired up the LCD projector and displayed the day's topic: godly dress. Since Camille was modest by nature, she had no qualms with the way the main speakers presented the information. The girls, however, balked as though Mary Poppins herself had flown in under her umbrella and begun singing a childish chant with a British accent.
After a few Bible verses and a quick YouTube video about making first impressions, a slideshow of appropriate attire began. On the left, pictures of low-cut blouses, high skirts, and too tight, midriff-exposing knit shirts. These, of course, were the no-nos. On the right, tents and nun-ish clothing got the thumbs-up from the older sisters.
Whispers of “I ain't wearin' that” and “That's just wrong” spread throughout the audience.
Next, a picture of Beyoncé on stage wearing something equivalent to a bikini. The girls piped up in obvious admiration.
“Young ladies, this is not the way to dress for respect,” the leader announced to them all.
Finally, Chrisandrea spoke up. “I'm not tryin' to be funny, but Beyoncé gets much respect. They pay her, like, millions of dollars even when she's not dressed like that. She was in
Dreamgirls
; she models for Covergirl. She doesn't always dress crazy.”
“That's what I'm saying,” Brittney agreed.
“And I feel like the reason some people don't dress better is because they're fat,” Shaki added. “I mean, if you've got it, flaunt it. If you don't have it, hide it.”
A burst of laughter from the girls sent the leaders into a frenzy, scrambling for even more scriptures to counter the girls' comments.
Another girl Camille didn't recognize added fuel to the fire. “I feel like as long as God knows your heart, it don't matter what you wear.”
“That's the problem,” one of the larger older women struck back, her face riddled with indignation. “When God
has
our hearts, He teaches us better than to walk around dressed as floozies!”
The girls looked at each other in confusion. Clearly, they had never even heard the word “floozy,” let alone been all but accused of dressing like one.
One of the teens yelled out, “But the Bible says come as you are.”
“Come as you are, but don't leave as you are. Be changed by the Word of God!” from the grown-up side.
The room rumbled with more dissention. “They tryin' to make us look old.”
“I'll bet they didn't dress like that when they were in high school.”
Mercedes nudged Camille. “Girl, you betta say something.”
“What?” Camille whispered. “Both sides have valid points.”
“You know what we're trying to get across, but these girls are taking it the wrong way,” she said. Then she stood and called everyone's attention. “Um, I think we should hear what Miss Camille has to say.”
Alrighty, then!
“What do you think, Miss Camille?” Mackenzie asked.
All eyes landed on Camille now. She cleared her throat as she tried to think of what her own mother would say and temper the most holy advice with her own experience as an entertainer and a young woman who appreciated an occasional whistle on the streets just to let her know she still had it.
“Ummm. Well, everyone here has some good arguments. I mean, fashion changes from one generation to the next. I mean, where I went to church, women didn't even wear pants like they do here at Grace Chapel. If my grandmother were here, she'd say everyone in the room who's wearing pants or makeup, or who isn't wearing stockings or has the crowns of her shoulders exposed is being disrespectful to the church this very moment.”
Camille turned to the adults, seated mostly on the right side of the room. “Raise your hand if you grew up thinking that women who wore pants were on their way to hell.”
Reluctantly, a few of the women obediently elevated an arm. “Okay, so you understand where these girls are coming from. What your mother or your grandmother thought was inappropriate, you now believe is okay. Somebody who had your hand up, tell me why it's okay for you now but it wasn't okay for your grandmother?”
Mercedes offered her own explanation. “I think it's because times have changed. As long as the pants aren't tight, they're okay. I mean, a lot of stuff just depends on how you wear it.”
She got a few nods from the grown-ups.
Next, Camille turned to the left side. “And how many of
you
know that just because the world says something is okay doesn't mean it's okay?”
All of the girls raised their hands.
“So, give me an example of what's not okay to wear, in church or anywhere, in your opinions.”
Immediately, the girls raised their hands. Camille instructed Mercedes to station herself at the laptop and create a new slide that would list all the girls' comments. Quickly, the left side churned out a list of their own self-determined no-nos: pants so low your panties show; breasts hanging out; belly button showing; panty-shorts; panty lines; sagging, transparent shirts without a camisole underneath; bra straps showing.
“That bra-strap thing has nothing to do with church, that's just tacky, period,” Shaki remarked.
After they exhausted the list, Camille asked another question. “Now, somebody tell me why you all think these things are a problem.”
“Because it shows you have no respect for yourself,” Brittney said. “And if you don't respect yourself, no one else will, either.”
Agreement from both corners.
“I really don't care what anybody thinks about me,” Sierra declared. “If I see something cute and I want to wear it, I'll wear it. The way I act shows I have respect for myself.”
“But isn't how you dress a part of how you act? How you present yourself?”
No response.
“Okay. I'm gonna do this because we're all ladies. Watch.” Camille hiked her skirt, tied a knot in her knit shirt, and pulled her neckline down so low that her breasts almost spilled out into the crowd. “Look at me. If I walked into a room full of people, what's the first thing they'd notice about me?”
“Your breasts,” Chrisandrea noted.
“What else?”
“Your legs, your body. I mean, you look hot,” Michaela said.
“Right,” Camille agreed. “Everyone in the room would be concentrating on my sex appeal. They would have a hard time hearing the words coming out of my mouth.
Especially
the men, because that's how they're wired.
“All we're trying to say in this meeting is ...” Camille searched her heart for the right words. Then she blurted out the weirdest line. “If you want people to see Christ in you, don't show them your boobs first.”
The adults clapped. Next thing she knew, the original Fly Girls started a chant, complete with a human beat box and chest-pointing: “Show Jesus, not these. Show Jesus, not these.”
Mercedes typed in the word “STOP” on the screen, sending the entire group into a fit of laughter. Somehow, in the few moments Camille stood in front of them all, she'd managed to divert the strife, put everyone on the same page, and get both points across in a way that put Jesus front and center.
When she sat down again, Mercedes pinched Camille's shoulder. “Girl, you must have been to President Barack Obama's charm school, 'cause that was smooth! You really have a gift for reaching young people. You should think about applying for one of those jobs they have listed on the church Web site.”
Camille made a mental note to follow up on Mercedes's suggestion. If God blessed her with a job that made a difference, working would be so much easier.
After the meeting dismissed and the girls squashed Camille in good-bye hugs, Mercedes practically begged Camille to join her at a literary fest. “It'll be fun. You need to get out and do something since you obviously haven't been coming to church, ahem, ahem.”
“I have my reasons,” Camille said without explanation.
Mercedes followed Camille to her car, watching like a detective. “Mmm-hmmm.” She hooked her arm around Camille's elbow. “This is an intervention. I am pulling you out of your funk whether you like it or not. Whatever happened between you and Ronald cannot be the end of you and God.”