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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

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BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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“I gotta go, Camille. Text me your address. And call me when you get the package.”
Strike two and three at the same time. If she couldn't talk Alexis, who was by far the most forgiving of the Sweet Treats, into rekindling the fire, she sure wasn't going to be able to get through to Tonya, even though she lived less than twenty miles away and was in the best position to meet.
Camille set her phone on the coffee table and focused on the nightly news. A reporter blared the misfortune of an old man who'd lost his lottery jackpot to a store clerk who stole and cashed his winning ticket. Camille had seen his story on television before, but now, after talking to Kyra, she could feel his pain. Her own future had been stolen by ... well, according to Kyra and Alexis, by Camille herself.
In their version of the split, Camille was to blame. Could she help it if the fans wanted her upstage? And how could Darrion have been Tonya's man if he didn't agree?
“I'm not going out like that.” Camille closed her eyes, leaned over, and laid her head on the couch's pleather armrest. She pulled her feet under her behind and grabbed the remote control. She flipped to her favorite cable channels, courtesy of someone in the building's box-rigging skills.
Where would she be without all the hookups available in the hood? Humph. Probably someplace better, in a position to afford the authentic versions of all the free, reduced, and slightly inferior products she haggled for just outside the iron-barred beauty-supply house.
Enough, enough, enough.
Camille jumped off the couch and fixed herself a bowl of cereal so she could think. Plan A, the reunion scheme, hadn't worked. She needed another idea. Well, actually, Alexis had already given it to her. A solo career. Yes, she was dirt old as far as the industry went, but every once in a while, a miracle happened for an older singer. It happened for that British woman, Susan Boyle.
Somebody had to break the age ceiling in American music. Might as well be Camille.
Cap'n Crunch hit the spot, and the recreation center's WiFi would soon light the way toward an agent. Camille grabbed her no-questions-asked laptop she'd traded for three autographed CDs and a hundred dollars cash at the barber shop. The serial number had been completely scratched off, and she could sign on to her laptop only as a guest. Truth be told, she didn't tap into too many systems because she wondered if, someday, the computer might get traced through an Internet connection and she'd have to surrender it to authorities for prosecution purposes.
The Medgar Evers center, however, was probably a safe place for tapping in. Dallas police officers had far better things to do than chase down hot laptops. She hoped.
Camille claimed an empty table near an outlet and logged on. She googled B-list artists' names along with the word “agent.” She guessed most industry professionals who were already working with famous clients didn't need her. They weren't desperate for real talent. They'd already discovered their cash cows. The B-listers, however, were still hungry. They were wheelin' and dealin', hustlin' to be noticed, bringing fresh artists to producers and label executives. These people were probably ripe for the picking.
Next, she googled the agents' names and started a list of phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and physical addresses for possible leads. She managed to collect fifteen names of potential agents before the most rude bunch of teenagers ever, two boys and two barely dressed girls, plopped themselves down at the next table and started rapping, complete with table drums and a low whine from one of the girls.
“I know you think you got swag, you think you got game, but I just rolled through your hood, nobody know your name. They said who that is? He live on our street? He must be a hermit 'cause he and I never meet.”
Camille gave them a bit of leeway for at least knowing the meaning of the term “hermit.” But when the next boy spouted off his vulgar lyrics, Camille had to speak up. They owed her a little respect, seeing as she was thirty and all. “Excuse me, could you all hold it down just a little bit? I'm having a hard time concentrating.”
“Aw, miss,” one of the girls pleaded, “they already made us move from over there by the computers. Seems like people don't want us anywhere. We just singing.” Her innocent appeal was echoed by the group.
Camille smiled. “Sweetheart, what's your name?”
“Diamond.”
“Diamond, I can assure you that what you all were singing was
not
music.”
“Oh, snap,” one of boys said while clapping his hands. “Old-school went off on you.”
Before anyone could get seriously offended, Camille continued, “This stuff you call music today is nothing compared to what music used to be. I know. I used to sing with a group called Sweet Treats.”
“Sweet Treats? What was that—a group of suckers?” the other girl asked. She was the smaller of the two but obviously had the bigger attitude and much bigger braids swooping across her forehead.
Undaunted, the diva raised an eyebrow. “Come here. I'll show you exactly what Sweet Treats was all about.”
The teens gathered over Camille's shoulder as she googled images of her former fame. She clicked to maximize the picture of Sweet Treats sitting next to Destiny's Child at the American Music Awards. “See, right there. That's me.”
“Ooh! You was sitting right next to Beyoncé!” Diamond yelled in utter amazement.
“Correction. Beyoncé was sitting right next to
me
,” Camille bragged.
“Okay, sing something,” a boy challenged.
Instantly, Camille sang her favorite line from the ballad Teddy Riley wrote specifically for their group. “If I leave tonight, you don't have to change the locks on the door. You won't see me anymore.”
All doubts about Camille's authority as a singer disappeared as three out of four gave her props. “Dang! You can sang!”
“Can you do it again so I can put it on my cell phone?”
“I want to take a picture with you.”
The last, of course, accosted Camille with another stinging question. “Okay, so if you was all sitting next to Destiny's Child and Mariah Carey, how come you ain't in Hollywood or somewhere right now with the rest of the rich people?”
Camille had to submit. “You know what? I've been asking myself that same question. That's why I'm here tonight. Tryin' to get back in the game.”
“Well, you can sing,” the girl finally admitted, “but don't be actin' like you better than everybody else. That's all I'm sayin'.
“Come on, y'all, let's go.”
Diamond grabbed her purse. “Good luck, miss.”
CHAPTER 4
A
lexis dropped the phone into her backpack and breathed a heavy sigh. “Thank You, Lord.” Hearing from Camille after all these years brought both relief and a burden. Not like she didn't have enough stones around her neck already, but—like her parents—Alexis bore them with thanks. This was her season's assignment, and she would gladly endure.
“Who were you singing to, baby?” Momma asked from the couch.
Daddy, who had reclined dangerously beyond the chair's intended range, answered for his daughter. “Ain't none of your business, now, Mattie. 'Lexis got a life of her own.”
Momma piped up, “I can ask my daughter whatsoever question I want to ask her!”
“I was talking to Camille, from our old singing group,” Alexis ended the argument.
“Oh, yeah,” Daddy recalled, “Camille called here earlier today looking for you. I gave her the number to your car phone.”
“
Car
phone,” Momma mumbled. “
Cell
phone is what they callin' it now. And mighty fine of you to tell her now. Maybe she didn't want Camille to have her number, you ever thought about that? Act like you the telephone operator or something.”
Time for another intervention. “It's okay, Momma. I don't mind Camille having my number.”
“See there?” from Daddy.
“What else can she say, Willie? Damage already done now.”
Though Momma was never one to let anyone else get the last word in, she wasn't usually so vicious. Alexis hoped that her mother's doctor would soon be able to determine the optimal dosage of blood-pressure medicine, because if not, her parents would have to move to separate corners of the house.
“I never did like that Camille girl,” Momma continued with her tirade. “She always tried to steal the show from the rest of the group.”
This, of course, was the latest of Mattie's pharmaceutically induced confessions. Not that she was wrong, just that she usually had enough wisdom to keep her mouth shut and pray about such negative observations unless sharing them was absolutely necessary. Rather than listen to her mother rattle off everything she disliked about Camille and the next five people who might come to mind, Alexis stood from the kitchen stool and grabbed her keys from the counter. “I'm out. See you two tomorrow.”
She crossed the living room threshold and kissed both parents on their cheeks. The house hadn't changed much in her lifetime except for this converted garage where her parents spent sixteen hours a day eating, watching television, and debating politics. Two lounge chairs, a forty-inch screen, a lamp for each one, and a nightstand between the recliners.
Dutifully, Alexis closed the blinds so that, once the sun sank, passersby wouldn't have a view into the house. She'd asked her older brother to buy solar screens for their parents, but he didn't have the money. Sometimes, Alexis had to remind herself that Thomas was fifty-one, statistically approaching the last quarter of his life with little in retirement, thanks to a failing economy and a son whose drug addiction ate up any and all liquid assets. If Thomas Junior (T. J.) wasn't robbing his parents, Thomas Senior and his wife were still spending funds on lawyers, rehabilitation clinics, T. J.'s restitution, and finally helping raise T. J.'s plenteous offspring.
Alexis had tried to tell Thomas to let T. J. go down his own road—wherever that might lead. But Thomas's heart was too big. She laid off, knowing that if it had been her own child, she probably wouldn't have done anything different. Though her parents fussed and fought more often than not, they were fiercely loyal to family and friends.
As she let herself out the front door, Alexis could hear her parents arguing about which one of them had driven her to leave. All she could do was shake her head. Momma and Daddy were made for each other, really.
Once in her car, Alexis waited for the Bluetooth signal to appear on her dashboard, then she commanded the system. “Call Tonya.”
Three rings later, her best friend answered. “Hey.”
“You'll never guess who I just talked to,” Alexis gushed.
“No time for guessing, girl. Who?”
Alexis announced, “Camille Elizabeth Robertson,” in graduation-commencement style.
“Serious?” Tonya quipped.
“Yep.”
“What did she want?”
“Nothing, really. Well, she did want to get the group back together, but Kyra already put an end to that,” Alexis said.
“Wow,” Tonya remarked. “Did she say why?”
“No,” Alexis confided, “but sounds like she might not be doing so well. No friends, a job she hates. And apparently she's broke. We need to pray for her.”
“I'll add her to my prayer list,” Tonya agreed. Then she asked, “Did you tell her?”
“No. I couldn't.”
“Mmm,” Tonya moaned with concern. “I've gotta go. I'll call you later.”
“Okay. Bye.”
CHAPTER 5
S
leep eluded Camille most of the night. The excitement of starting over, grabbing what should have been hers all along, pumped a steady stream of adrenaline through her system, causing her to toss and turn. Somewhere in the previous hours, her body had managed to snatch a few moments of peace. Her lively dreams, however, still poked at her ambitions.
In one scenario, she met and fell in love with Kanye West at a barbecue for New York City public schools. The next dream involved a concert with an artist she didn't recognize. She and the artist danced to the edge of the stage, and then, seemingly in slow motion, Camille fell off the edge into a sea of fans who all started kissing her. At first, it was an adorable scene. But then Camille began to feel afraid because some of the fans were groping her. The mob grew increasingly aggressive and, finally, someone in the crowd drew back a hand to slap her.
Camille's eyes popped open, bringing her back to the real world just before impact. The dream was over, but an unrealistic fear lingered as she took deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. She swiped heavy beads of sweat off her nose. Not since her wild days with Sweet Treats had she experienced such a physical reaction to an imaginary circumstance.
Back then, she had at least been able to blame it on the pills Kyra snuck onto their bus. “Here, try this,” Kyra had offered one evening after Camille complained of exhaustion.
“What is it?” Camille asked.
“That new boy who plays drums gave it to me. It gives you energy,” she claimed.
“Did you ask Priscilla if it was okay to take them?”
Kyra snarled her nose. “Priscilla ain't my momma. Plus, even if she was, I'm nineteen years old. I do whatever I want, and the law can't stop me, either.”
The way Kyra reasoned through things scared Camille enough to stay away from the pills for a while. Four concerts, two days, and seven hundred miles later, Camille changed her mind. “Let me try one.”
Giddy, probably from an overload of uppers, Kyra had led Camille down the bus's aisle to her bunk, just beneath Alexis's empty spot. Kyra drew back the curtain and they both ducked to take a seat on the bed. Kyra pulled a black pouch from inside her pillowcase and poured a few of the pills into Camille's hand.
“Just drink it with water. Don't ever mix it with beer or alcohol,” she warned.
“You know I don't drink,” from Camille.
A smile slithered across Kyra's face. “Not yet.”
Whatever mess was in those pills kept Camille on point during the next week's performances, but the side effects—crazy nightmares, sleeplessness, constant itching—convinced Camille to quit. Then, she slept for almost two days straight after the drug's effect wore off.
She was back in a similar position now (minus the itching) since she'd gotten herself high on life's possibilities. This was a good thing, of course. Problem was, there was no way she could make it through the workday without conking out on her desk. Furthermore, she had more important things to do today than set up meetings between sales guys and office managers. She needed to get a few meetings of her
own
arranged.
Camille grabbed a towel, practiced her cough a few times, and called her boss. “Sheryl, I'm not coming in today.”
Cough, cough.
“I think I've got some kind of bug. Hopefully, it's just a twenty-four-hour thing.” Of course Camille already knew the fake bug virus would only last twenty-four hours because the next day was payday. Even if she
were
sick on a payday, she'd never miss.
“We really need you to come in today. Your team's quota is down this month. They need your numbers,” Sheryl admonished.
The whole team concept had never really caught on at Aquapoint Systems, least of all with Camille. The prize for winning the thirty-day challenge was always something silly anyway, like a free lunch coupon or a movie ticket. Nothing anyone would actually work hard to earn.
Cough, cough
. She cleared her throat. “I'm sorry. I just can't make it in today.”
Sheryl suggested, “You think maybe you could come in early tomorrow? I could set your terminal to East Coast mode and let you work that territory.”
Camille coughed again, this time for real.
Is she crazy?
“I ... I don't think so. I have to take my ... cat to ... my cousin's house so she can take him to ... dialysis three mornings a week.” She had to give it to herself—she could make up a good lie at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, no,” Sheryl gasped. “Is she going to make it through?”
“Prognosis is pretty good.”
What about my prognosis?
“Whew! I got goose bumps when you said that! What's your cat's name?”
“Her name is ... Fluffy.”
“Awww,” Sheryl sang, “what kind of cat?”
Cats have kinds?
“Huh?”
“Is she pedigree or just domestic?”
“She's ... it's a mutt,” Camille said.
Sheryl laughed heartily. “You crack me up. Well, I certainly understand your situation with Fluffy. My little Yorkie, Valectra, had to do chemotherapy for a while, but it didn't do the trick. We had to put him down last summer.”
The word “chemotherapy” stabbed Camille's heart. “I'm sorry to hear that.”
“He's in a better place now,” Sheryl conjectured. “You know what they say—all dogs go to heaven.”
A weak laugh escaped Camille.
Sheryl continued, “Why didn't you tell me your morning schedule was so busy?”
“I guess I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me,” Camille said.
“Well, I've walked in your shoes. If you need to come in late and make up for it at lunch, that's fine with me. We have to do what we have to do in order to care for our helpless friends. I'm willing to work with you,” Sheryl empathized.
“Thank you.”
“Take care. Hope to see you tomorrow.”
For the record, she did feel a little guilty about lying. Sheryl's heartfelt offer to be flexible with scheduling, however, opened up yet another door for the lifestyle Camille wanted. Freedom, freedom, freedom. Who knew this sick-cat invention could buy a piece of the pie?
I'm a genius.
After dozing off once more, Camille got to the business at hand. She originally thought cold calling music agents would be a piece of cake compared to pestering people who were more interested in making a little profit from a Coke machine than the water-purification systems her employer tried to sell.
Time to make her own cold calls. She had her elevator speech ready to rip:
Hi, my name is Camille Robertson. I sang with the R&B group Sweet Treats and I'm looking for an agent who can take my solo career to the top.
The first two agents' secretaries did nothing more than take her name and number and say the agent would get back with her if he was interested.
Yeah, right.
One assistant advised Camille to send in a demo. “Once you make the investment in presenting yourself well, we're ready to make an investment in you.”
Almost sounded like a reprimand. Camille double crossed them off the list.
She refined her approach. “Hi, this is Camille. I just missed Stanley's call. Could you put me through?” The old he-called-me-first trick, a staple in her current profession.
At least she'd gotten past the screen for the next agency and actually spoken to a real live artist representative. But when Stanley figured out that he didn't actually know Camille, he transferred her back to the secretary, who again took her contact information and put her name in file thirteen with the rest of the losers trying to get a break.
Three hours later, she was still at square one. No leads. Nothing. Worse, there was only one agent left to call. Why weren't people listening to her? She had experience. She was still sexy enough to sell at least twenty thousand CDs with just her face alone. And once people heard her voice, the rest would be history.
That's it!
This agent needed to sample her singing.
After squeaking past the administrative assistant with another lie, Camille found herself on hold for an agent named John David McKinney. His biggest client to date had been featured in
USA Today
and appeared on one cable television show to speak of. He obviously had some connections but not enough to put him in the top tier. If he had any sense, he would realize that he needed Camille as much as she needed him.
Her stomach twisted with anticipation. What should she sing? What if he hung up on her? What if he had some kind of hearing problem and she messed up his hearing aid?
“John David here.”
Camille took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and belted out the same chorus she'd sung to the kids at the recreation center. She added a twist at the end—one of those Mariah Carey high notes, straight from her gut.
Then she waited. Three seconds had never been stretched so wide.
“Quite a range you've got there,” John David remarked.
“Thank you.” Camille could feel the blood rush to her face. “I need an agent to help me share my voice with the world.”
“You got a demo?”
“No.”
She heard a sigh on his end and figured she had better say something before she lost this live one. “But I can get one.”
“Have you worked in this industry at all? Seriously, a demo is your calling card.”
Camille explained her background, exaggerating the group's fifteen minutes of fame into a half hour. She fabricated the CD sales figure, and ended with, “We parted due to artistic differences.” She'd read that somewhere online.
“So, basically, you had one hit song, some residual success on a second CD, and then the group split up because its members couldn't get along,” John David surmised.
No sense in playing around with this man. “Right.”
“Then just say so. I'm a busy man, I don't have time for games, but I do appreciate your boldness and I can't deny your talent. Can you meet tomorrow? One o'clock?”
She smothered a squeal. “Yes.”
“Bring some headshots and a copy of your previous CD.”
“Okay.”
“And another thing,” John David added, “don't ever lie to me or anyone on my team again.”
“Gotcha.”
Camille jumped on her bed like her momma hadn't taught her any better. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed.
Then, just like in her dream, she slipped off the corner. She landed straight on her butt and yowled in laughter. That hurt. In a good, funny way. Camille cracked up even more now as she rubbed her backside. “Shoot!”
Bang, bang, bang.
Her downstairs neighbor communicated his dismay. Camille knocked on the floor and yelled, “Sorry.”
She couldn't wait to move out of this apartment complex someday. Someday soon.
BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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