’cause that’s what it’s going to take to get them to listen. They are so hardheaded sometimes. They question everything the doctors tell them.”
Camille remembered how many promises Priscilla had to make before Alexis’s parents agreed to let their only daughter tour all over the world. The Nevilses were old-school parents who’d been pleasantly surprised with a bouncing baby girl in their late thirties. Even though Alexis had been, legally speaking, old enough to make the decision about touring with Sweet Treats, she wouldn’t step on the bus without her parents’ blessing.
Alexis’s life, good and bad, clearly wasn’t conducive to singing again.
And then there were two. “Do you think Tonya would consider reuniting with me?”
“I’m gonna say, um, H-E double hockey sticks no.”
Camille laughed. “Why don’t you go ahead and say the word?”
“You know I don’t cuss. Never did.”
“Anyway. Is Tonya still mad about Darrion?”
“Girl, naw,” Alexis squawked. “She knows he was just a dog sniffing out the first one he could find to give it up.”
That would be me. “Alrighty, then. So why do you think she won’t do it?”
“’Cause she’s already got a good thing going with Liza Sticcoli.”
Camille pointed out, “Can’t be that good. I listen to music all the time and I’ve never heard of any Liza other than Liza Minnelli.”
“Liza Sticcoli is a Christian artist,” Alexis stated.
“Oh.” The realization hit Camille and she mused, “Christian?”
“Yep.”
No recourse for that one. “Well, if she’s only singing Christian backup, I’m sure she could use more money.”
“Probably so. But trust me on this one, Camille, she’s not going to sing with you. You burned a lot of bridges when you left the group, you know?”
“Fine. I’ll just have to do it solo,” Camille snapped.
“I’m not trying to be funny, but you should have marketed yourself as a solo artist in the first place,” Alexis concurred. “That’s what you really wanted to be anyway. And, for what it’s worth, I think you could have been good.”
“Thanks, Alexis. Hey”—Camille fumbled for the words—“do you think, maybe, we could keep in touch? I know this will sound crazy, but I don’t really socialize with too many females, you know? Too many divas.”
Alexis laughed. “You know you’re the queen diva, right?”
Camille had to agree. “I’m just sayin’, it’s nice to talk to someone who’s not into the jealousy thing.”
“I don’t think I follow you. I mean, what are they jealous of?”
Camille huffed. “Don’t you watch those real housewives shows?”
“Nuh-uh. I mean, every once in a while I might see an episode, but I have better things to do with my time than sit up and watch grown women argue,” Alexis said. “Work, Momma, and Daddy keep me all tied up. But I’ve got your number now and you’ve got mine. No excuses.”
“While you’re recording information, write down today’s date. It’s my birthday,” Camille sassed.
“Aaah! That’s right! March twentieth!” Alexis added a quick rendition of the happy birthday song.
Camille listened in wonder of Alexis’s low melody. Simply beautiful. What a shame they couldn’t blend vocals again.
“Thanks, girl. I haven’t had anyone sing that song to me in a while.”
“Well, text me your address so I can send you a present.”
“Awww, you don’t have to do that,” Camille purred.
“I know, but I’m thinking if you haven’t had a birthday song in a while, you sure haven’t received a gift in a while, either.”
She didn’t know the half of it. After her mother’s death, Camille’s family seemed to have disintegrated. Jerdine Robertson had been the Robertsons’ glue. Without her, no one knew how to hold the family together. So when Camille hit it big with all that fame and money, things naturally got worse. Money only magnifies relationship problems.
“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 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
