“Wow.” Janice beamed in amazement. “You could have really been somebody.”
Camille smacked. “Yepper.”
“I mean, you are somebody. Everybody’s somebody in their own way. You know what I mean?” Janice tried to backtrack.
“I know what you mean.” Camille sighed. “But you’re right. I could have been, like, a real somebody.”
“I always wanted to be a teacher,” Janice confided.
For the rest of the lunch break, Camille pretended to listen to Janice’s secret career aspirations that would probably never come to pass, because, according to Janice, she was too far in debt to consider paying for college. Plus there was some nonsense about a boat that she and her husband had purchased with three other couples.
Camille nodded dutifully, asking trite questions whenever appropriate, but Janice’s problems were regular-people problems—issues Camille wouldn’t have had to deal with if Sweet Treats were still together like Destiny’s Child. Okay, maybe Destiny’s Child wasn’t really together together anymore, but at least they weren’t working alongside the general public, eating candy bars for lunch under the buzz of a bad tubular lightbulb.
No, those girls still had a lot going for them. It wasn’t fair. Why did they get to keep making music when Sweet Treats, Brownstone, En Vogue, and SWV were out of business? Especially when Tom Joyner himself had said that Sweet Treats was the “best total package.” And he wasn’t the only one to point out Sweet Treats’s potential. So why weren’t they still on top?
Camille stewed over these nonstop questions all afternoon in her work space. All the shoulda, woulda, couldas replayed themselves in a matrix of never-ending possibilities, none of which resulted in Camille working as a telemarketer for Aquapoint Systems.
Bobby Junior finally busted through Camille’s flashback by calling her cell phone.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Happy birthday, Camillie. This is the big one. Thirty. You grown now,” he teased.
“Thank you. You got a present for me?”
Of course, Camille already knew the answer before he responded. “Naw, your daddy’s got some bills to pay. I was hoping maybe you could send me some money.”
“But it’s my birthday.” Camille laughed to mask her disappointment.
“The way I see it, you wouldn’t have a birthday if it wasn’t for me.”
For all his drinking, Bobby Junior was still fast with his sharp replies. “So, you gonna let your old man hold twenty dollars?”
“I would if I could, but I can’t so I ain’t,” she threw one of Bobby Junior’s favorite excuses back at him.
“You still driving that Lexus, right?”
“Yeah,” Camille affirmed, wondering where her father was headed with this line of inquiry.
“Ain’t nobody who’s driving a Lexus broke.”
“My car is ten years old. Almost two hundred thousand miles on it,” Camille spelled it out for him.
“All I know is, I ain’t never had leather interior in none of my cars,” her father reiterated. “You gonna help your daddy out or what?”
“I can’t. You and I are in the same boat right now.”
“Aw.” He tsked. “Don’t give me that. You forget you’re talking to somebody who knows the music business inside out. I know Lenny’s still got royalties coming in.” Bobby Junior never failed to reference his one musical connection—Lenny Williams—who allowed Bobby Junior to sing backup on one song. Depending on how far Bobby Junior took the story, Lenny was also a distant cousin.
“Lenny’s still getting checks because people are still playing ‘I Love You’ and using it in new ways,” Camille reasoned. “If somebody wants to use one of our songs for a commercial or a movie, I’ll get a cut, too. But until then, I’m a regular person living from paycheck to paycheck just like you, Dad.”
Actually, in Bobby Junior’s case, it was more like woman to woman. Since her mother died, leaving Bobby Junior a widow, he hadn’t been able to hold a relationship or a job steady. Lucky for him, there was never a shortage of foolish ladies who would take her father in, feed him, and make sure he had a decent pair of shoes in exchange for his good looks and company. The woman would usually buy him a cell phone, too, so she could keep up with him. But the relationship wouldn’t last long. Sooner or later, Bobby Junior would get busted fooling around with his next victim. Then he’d move in with her, get a new phone number. Beg Camille for money until he built up enough trust with the new beau to get the ATM code.
“Humph,” he chided. “Well, happy birthday anyway. You talked to your brother?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t make no sense, brother and sister grew up in the same house with the same momma and daddy don’t even talk to each other no more.”
“I don’t have a problem with Courtney. He has a problem with me.” Camille said the same thing every time Bobby Junior broached the subject.
“Just don’t make no sense. Look like to me you ought to want to hold on to whatever family you got left, ’specially after what happened with your momma. But y’all grown. I can’t make y’all play with each other.”
“All right, well, I’ve got to get back to work.” Camille pressed the red “end call” button before her father could launch a campaign for ten dollars . . . five dollars . . . something he could pawn.
She threw the phone back into her purse and put her headset back in place for the last fifty calls of the day. Glad for the sales script, Camille plodded through the afternoon with her mind only half engaged in work. The other half was in LA. London. On stage with a microphone taped to her body. Four women standing six feet behind her.
Or should she go solo? That way she wouldn’t have to split the money. If the group’s second manager, Aaron, hadn’t convinced the record label to keep Kyra in the group despite her blatant drug problems, Camille might still have some funds left in the bank. Dividing by three instead of four makes a huge difference when millions of dollars are on the line.
When Camille really thought about it, she could almost strangle Aaron now for saving Kyra’s butt. All Kyra ever did was moan on most of the songs anyway. Granted, it was a sexy moan—one that she’d probably practiced many a night in Aaron’s hotel room. Yeah, there was a reason he wanted to keep that butt around.
And Kyra was . . . slow. Not slow like she was born with a medical problem. Slow like she’d been smoking weed since the seventh grade. She just could not process information well, let alone read people.
Camille paused the dialer and maximized the Facebook window on her screen. She searched for Kyra Copeland and scrolled down until she found the familiar face. Jealousy pinged through Camille’s chest as she explored Kyra’s open photo albums. She was obviously married, living in Phoenix with three boys in a two-story brick home with a pool. A pool! Dozens of mobile-uploaded pictures documented family gatherings and vacations. But that pool took the cake.
Not to mention the fact that Kyra looked like she hadn’t gained an ounce. In fact, she looked better than back in the day. Kyra always had that handsome beauty. She was probably one of those girls who was the spitting image of her father, which, at a young age, was a huge problem, but as she grew older and filled out (and shaved the moustache), her features actually came together well. Yep, that was Kyra.
She seemed happy. But who can really tell by Facebook? Camille checked Kyra’s info page and nearly busted out laughing. Kyra was a photographer? Seriously! Who would entrust Miss Moan-a-thon to capture precious memories on film? Camille copied