Falling Into Grace. Michelle Stimpson
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 Wi-Fi 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
Alexis 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