people who didn’t work for Patrick knew he wasn’t the helpful type.
No sense in leading Janice on. Maybe she just didn’t have what it took. She sure didn’t have Camille’s killer closing line, and Camille wasn’t about to give it up. “Good luck in finding something else.”
Janice unfolded the foil covering her bologna and cheese sandwich. She took a slow, contemplative bite, then asked, with a bit too much food in her mouth, “Don’t you ever want to, like, do something that really matters with your life? Something really big and great?”
A laugh escaped Camille’s grasp. “I did do something really amazing, back in the day.”
Janice’s eyes widened. “Really? What?”
What could it hurt to tell Janice? “I used to sing with a girl group. We sold millions of CDs, toured the world. Limos, fancy hotels, all that.”
“Oh my gosh!” Janice took another bite, her eyes begging for Camille to go on.
“I mean, that was it. We did it.” Camille shrugged, balling up her candy wrapper.
“What do you mean, that was it? What happened?”
Sore territory. “We broke up.”
“Why?”
Camille pursed her lips. She’d asked herself that question countless times. Why did Sweet Treats break up? The answer depended upon which Sweet Treat responded. Since there was no one to refute Camille’s version, she replied to Janice, “Jealousy. I was the lead singer, everyone was after me. You know how that kind of thing goes.”
“So, you all were like Destiny’s Child?”
She had to give it to Janice. Maybe she was in this century after all. “You know your R and B groups, huh?”
Janice smiled. “I watch a little MTV now and then.”
“Well,” Camille continued, “we were better than Destiny’s Child. We sang better, we looked better, we had better music. The only difference between me and Beyoncé was that her dad watched out for her and made sure his daughter was always in the spotlight. If I’d had a dad like hers, I sure wouldn’t be working here right now.”
“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
