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 Camille having my number.”
“See there?” from Daddy.
“What else can she say, Willie? Damage already done now.”
Though Momma was never one to let anyone else get the last word in, she wasn’t usually so vicious. Alexis hoped that her mother’s doctor would soon be able to determine the optimal dosage of blood-pressure medicine, because if not, her parents would have to move to separate corners of the house.
“I never did like that Camille girl,” Momma continued with her tirade. “She always tried to steal the show from the rest of the group.”
This, of course, was the latest of Mattie’s pharmaceutically induced confessions. Not that she was wrong, just that she usually had enough wisdom to keep her mouth shut and pray about such negative observations unless sharing them was absolutely necessary. Rather than listen to her mother rattle off everything she disliked about Camille and the next five people who might come to mind, Alexis stood from the kitchen stool and grabbed her keys from the counter. “I’m out. See you two tomorrow.”
She crossed the living room threshold and kissed both parents on their cheeks. The house hadn’t changed much in her lifetime except for this converted garage where her parents spent sixteen hours a day eating, watching television, and debating politics. Two lounge chairs, a forty-inch screen, a lamp for each one, and a nightstand between the recliners.
Dutifully, Alexis closed the blinds so that, once the sun sank, passersby wouldn’t have a view into the house. She’d asked her older brother to buy solar screens for their parents, but he didn’t have the money. Sometimes, Alexis had to remind herself that Thomas was fifty-one, statistically approaching the last quarter of his life with little
