Falling Into Grace (8 page)

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Authors: Michelle Stimpson

BOOK: Falling Into Grace
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“That's exactly what I said! I am not going to pay that,” LaNetra echoed. “Now, I know my credit is jacked, but it ain't
that
jacked to where I gotta slap almost a thousand dollars a month on the table for a ride that ain't even all that. I mean, they got good trade-in value, but let's be for real.
“Anyway, that was all because we drove up on the lot in his car. The next day, I took my momma's old Chevy Cavalier. Got the exact same Honda Accord car for
way
less, plus I got a warranty, so, I feel you, Miss Robertson. If people try to get over on me because of a Cadillac, I can't imagine what they try to do to you.”
Whether through the adoration or the long-winded chronicle, LaNetra's gabbing had singlehandedly disarmed Camille. “So, you want your package? I love getting packages. Makes me feel like I really done something, even when I know all I did was just order something online.”
Fluffy's dialysis wouldn't account for too much more missed time this morning. He might have to die if this girl kept rambling.
LaNetra bent down to retrieve the shoebox-sized parcel. “Here you go.”
Camille looked at the return address.
Alexis?
Suddenly, she remembered the impromptu promise of a birthday gift. The last time someone relished her birthday was when her former supervisor had the baker include Camille's name on the monthly employee birthday celebration cake they dumped in the break room.
Just the thought of unwrapping a present that wasn't from the near-mandatory corporate Secret Santa system made Camille tuck both lips between her teeth to keep them from trembling.
“Are you okay?” LaNetra asked.
“I'm fine. Thank you.”
Tears trailed down Camille's face as she sat in her car opening the precious cardboard container. Beyond the tape and foam peanuts, she discovered a beautiful scented candle and a book entitled
A Woman's Wisdom from Proverbs
. She read the heart-shaped sticky memo attached to the cover.
Now that you're thirty, a proverb for each year. You probably can't see too good at your age, so I got you a candle, too. LOL! Happy Birthday!
—Alexis
The joke sent a wave of laughter through Camille as she leaned back on her headrest. Alexis's sense of humor has always been refreshing. There was always something about her that drew people, made people feel good in her presence. No doubt, Alexis was probably one of the best teachers on campus because she had a way of bringing out the best in people. Even people like Camille.
CHAPTER 10
“H
ello, Camille, this is Ronald Shepherd, minister of music at Grace Chapel, returning your phone call.”
She turned down the volume on her radio, a futile attempt to hide her mysterious penchant for T.I.'s music. Rap wasn't really her forte, but something about his style pulled her into his world.
“Yes, umm, thank you,” Camille prattled through, hoping Ronald hadn't heard too much. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“Is this a good time for you to talk? Sounds like you're on the road,” he cautioned.
She sidestepped his concern. “Oh, I'm okay. Go ahead.”
“Let me first apologize for not getting back to you before now. I was out of town at a funeral.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” she stated with a tinge of curiosity.
“Thank you.” He welcomed her sympathy but didn't offer additional information. “How can I help you?”
It had been more than forty-eight hours since Camille last practiced her mighty testimony. Frankly, she had given up on Ronald and decided to seek out that friendly drummer instead. Musicians were like a family. Get to know one, and you got to know all of them.
Again, she scuffled through her words. “I joined the church Sunday. And. Your music was amazing. It really moved me.”
What am I saying?
“I enjoyed the praise team. And the choir, But the praise team ... what a team.”
“Thank you. To God be the glory. You mentioned something about ministering through song in your voice message?” Ronald kept the conversation moving.
“Mmm-hmm. I used to sing in the choir. Well, actually, believe it or not, I was almost unable to sing because I had asthma as a child.”
That's not the segue! That's not even the right story!
Ronald said, “Praise God you've been delivered.”
She hadn't counted on the fact that Ronald wouldn't ask questions about her miraculous healing. His prodding was
supposed
to lay out the red carpet for a staggering account of how God zapped her with abilities that could only be fully appreciated if she were immediately placed on the praise team.
Instead, Ronald's silence pressed her to steer toward a point. Soon.
“So, anyway, I just wanted to know how I can be a part of the music ministry.” There it was. He'd yanked it out of her in less than sixty seconds.
“Do you play an instrument? Sing? Write music?”
“I sing. Soprano.”
“Great. Well, descriptions of all our choirs and their rehearsal schedules are on the church's Web site, but just to let you know, the church has several choirs, but I'm guessing you wouldn't be interested in the men's choir.”
He expelled a slight chuckle. Camille was careful to follow his humor with a breathy snicker of her own.
He continued, “We have the women's choir, the children's choir, youth choir, young-adult choir, adult choir, senior choir, and the unity choir, which is a combination of people in existing choirs who are available to sing on fifth Sundays. The choirs' rehearsals vary because they rotate serving on Sundays and Wednesdays. Really, the only way to keep up is to check the Web site. Sometimes, even I have to consult the Web site to figure out who's doing what.”
Again, she trailed his laughter. “Okay. I'll be sure to check the Web site.”
“Great. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Camille wondered if maybe she should wait until she'd attended a few practices before springing the praise-team question on him. But time was of the essence, and he seemed to be a straightforward guy. He could take it. “Is there information about the praise team on the Web site as well?”
“No, not right now. We do hold open auditions twice a year, but we generally end up selecting our most faithful members of the various choirs to serve on the praise team because it requires a higher level of commitment in terms of time and dedication,” Ronald explained.
Yada, yada, yada.
“I understand. So, when's the next praise-team audition?”
“Let me see,” Ronald drawled. “Second Saturday in August.”
“This
fall
August?” flew up from Camille's heart and out of her mouth.
I could have stayed my happy behind at The King's Table! This is false advertising!
Ronald reiterated, “Yes. August, four months from now.”
Other words had to be suppressed. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I look forward to meeting you at choir rehearsal,” Ronald said.
“Definitely. Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
August!
Good thing Camille was already parked between the white lines when he delivered that blow. Stunned, she slowly exited her car and transported herself and her gym bag up the staircase to her apartment, on autopilot.
Would she be able to prove herself “faithful” in four months? Exactly how faithful is faithful? How was she supposed to keep John David waiting a third of a year for this demo CD? And why was everything working against her?
After showering and eating her last ration of rabbit food for the day, Camille consumed three hours of reality talk shows. Though pay day had come again, there was no reason to celebrate. Whatever money she had left over would go toward the citation, which she still hadn't investigated. The ticket showed she had thirty days to contact the clerk. She'd call them at the last minute.
Right now, Camille felt like singing the blues. Literally. “A lady at the casino,” she recited the first line of Johnnie Taylor's “Last Two Dollars” and instantly sensed the song's dismal vibes course through her. It was good to know somebody else understood what it meant to lose everything by means of gambling.
Though Camille hadn't lost everything in Shreveport or Vegas, she wondered if she might have had better odds on a slot machine. Nights like this, when she realized she was just as broke on Friday as she was on Thursday, she could just kick herself for betting against family.
She closed her eyes and pushed the mental “replay” button on the night before the Sweet Treats's debut album went on sale. All four of the group members were bunking in a Comfort Inn just outside Durham, NC. Stripped of wigs, heavy makeup, and glamorous stage costumes, they looked as though they could have been college roommates. By this point, they had all grown comfortable enough with each other to share a single bathroom with ease.
Courtney was in the adjacent room, and he'd called the girls' room more than once, asking them to stop all the racket, but they couldn't help it. The prerelease buzz and promotion had positioned them to make a significant boom in the industry. It wasn't every day that a group of nineteen-year-olds fell asleep penniless but woke up the next morning with six figures each to their names.
Hunkered over a pizza they'd ordered at midnight, the girls gibbered and made up songs as they ate.
Tonya started off another groove to the tune of the happy birthday song. “We're gonna be rich.”
Alexis added, “Tell your momma 'nem this.”
Camille snatched the featured line, “Tomorrow starts our future.”
They'd waited for Kyra to round out the melody. Her silence sent them all to the floor, rolling in laughter. That girl was not one for thinking on her feet.
“Wait. Wait, I got it.” Kyra cleared her throat and topped off with, “So you betta recognize.”
Alexis, Tonya, and Camille had laughed even harder, leaving Kyra confused. “What's wrong?”
The fact that she didn't get it only made things worse.
Kyra grew angry. “What? Y'all don't think I can sing as good as y'all?”
Alexis, the peacemaker, gained her composure long enough to enlighten Kyra. “You need to end with something that rhymes with ‘rich' and ‘this.'”
Kyra had crossed her arms. “Oh, I
got
a word that rhymes with rich, but I don't think y'all want to hear it.”
“Kyra, calm down,” Tonya scolded. “Why you always gotta take everything to the streets? Here. Eat some more pizza.”
Offended but hungry, Kyra obeyed. The others reclaimed their spots on the bed as they found their wits.
The phone rang again.
“You answer it this time,” Camille told Alexis. “I don't want to hear my brother's mouth anymore.”
“Hello.” Alexis had giggled. Her expression dulled. “Oh, we're sorry. Okay, we'll lower our voices. Good night.” Eyes wide, she faced her comrades. “That was the manager. He said one of the guests complained about us. We've got to keep it down for
real
now.”
The girls, sobered by the warning, ate in silence for a moment.
Camille was the first to speak again. “I'll be glad when we can stay in
real
hotels. The kinds where we have our own suites, or maybe the whole floor could be ours.”
“Not me.” Tonya shook her head. “Courtney says that's how artists go broke.”
Camille countered, “I know Courtney is my brother and all, but sometimes he acts like he doesn't want us to spend
any
money. He's so cheap. I mean, Sweet Treats is not broke. We deserve to splurge on
some
things. What would our fans think if they saw us in this cheap hotel? We have an image to keep up, you know?”
“That's probably the same thing TLC said before they filed bankruptcy,” Alexis took sides.
“And Toni Braxton, and MC Hammer, too” Tonya added.
Camille rolled her eyes. “They were just stupid. I mean, how do you make, like, ten million dollars one year and then you're broke the next year?”
“'Cause if you make ten million dollars, you basically owe five million dollars in taxes,” from Alexis, whose parents were both educators. Sometimes that girl was too smart.
“Okay, but still. How do you go in debt in
one year
when you have
five million dollars
?”
“Easy,” Alexis chirped, “spend five million and one.”
Unconvinced, Camille had smacked her lips. “I don't care what y'all say. All of them should be set for life with that money. They stupider than a mug.”
“I know, right?” Kyra jumped in Camille's corner.
The fact that Kyra agreed with her should have been Camille's first clue that she was off track. Turns out, five million dollars flies away quite easily, especially after all the help gets paid and what's left over has to be split four ways.
When Courtney was the manager, he had done his best to keep the girls grounded, make them realize this money wouldn't last forever. He even tried to get them to invest in different stocks and options. Tonya listened. Alexis listened because her parents agreed with Courtney. Kyra told him to kiss her where the sun didn't shine, she'd do what she pleased with her money.
Camille never felt she had a choice. Courtney and Bobby Junior all but insisted she had to stash some in some fund she couldn't even touch until she'd reached the ripe old age of twenty-five. It was like having your parent be your teacher. Double supervision, double punishment.
Courtney's real-life “big brother” heavy-handed tactics quickly forced Camille to push a Sweet Treats vote. The group was split down the middle about keeping Courtney as a manager. But when Camille proposed a management deal with the smooth-talking, good-looking Aaron Bellamy, who promised them the moon, Alexis and Tonya gave in. Courtney was terminated—with Aaron's help, of course, because none of the girls actually knew how to fire somebody.
Looking back, more than a decade later, Camille realized that severing Courtney's contract was perhaps the most stupid decision she'd ever made. Stupider than spending five million and one dollars in a year. Sweet Treats lost the one person who believed in them enough to take out a title loan on his car to pay for their first costumes.
Worse, Camille lost the one person who shared memories of making Rice Krispies treats and dying Easter eggs with their mother. The only one who laughed every time Jerdine had chanted the silly banna-fanna-fo-fanna rhyme.
Melancholy sank deeper into her aching body now. At the gym, she'd done thirty-eight minutes on the elliptical rider, burning two hundred calories according to the machine display. But her temporary soreness paled in comparison to losing the only person she'd ever be able to call brother.
As she hoisted herself off the couch, a saying from the old church suddenly thrust itself into the forefront of her mind.
At least I have my health and strength.
How many times had she heard
that
one growing up? And every time she heard it, she thought about how silly it was to be thankful for something as intangible as “health and strength” or “a sound mind” and “the activity of my limbs.” They should have added twenty dollars to that list, as far as Camille was concerned. Money couldn't buy health, but it probably could have bought some pretty good doctors for Momma.

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