T. J.’s restitution, and finally helping raise T. J.’s plenteous offspring.
Alexis had tried to tell Thomas to let T. J. go down his own road—wherever that might lead. But Thomas’s heart was too big. She laid off, knowing that if it had been her own child, she probably wouldn’t have done anything different. Though her parents fussed and fought more often than not, they were fiercely loyal to family and friends.
As she let herself out the front door, Alexis could hear her parents arguing about which one of them had driven her to leave. All she could do was shake her head. Momma and Daddy were made for each other, really.
Once in her car, Alexis waited for the Bluetooth signal to appear on her dashboard, then she commanded the system. “Call Tonya.”
Three rings later, her best friend answered. “Hey.”
“You’ll never guess who I just talked to,” Alexis gushed.
“No time for guessing, girl. Who?”
Alexis announced, “Camille Elizabeth Robertson,” in graduation-commencement style.
“Serious?” Tonya quipped.
“Yep.”
“What did she want?”
“Nothing, really. Well, she did want to get the group back together, but Kyra already put an end to that,” Alexis said.
“Wow,” Tonya remarked. “Did she say why?”
“No,” Alexis confided, “but sounds like she might not be doing so well. No friends, a job she hates. And apparently she’s broke. We need to pray for her.”
“I’ll add her to my prayer list,” Tonya agreed. Then she asked, “Did you tell her?”
“No. I couldn’t.”
“Mmm,” Tonya moaned with concern. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Bye.”
CHAPTER 5
Sleep eluded Camille most of the night. The excitement of starting over, grabbing what should have been hers all along, pumped a steady stream of adrenaline through her system, causing her to toss and turn. Somewhere in the previous hours, her body had managed to snatch a few moments of peace. Her lively dreams, however, still poked at her ambitions.
In one scenario, she met and fell in love with Kanye West at a barbecue for New York City public schools. The next dream involved a concert with an artist she didn’t recognize. She and the artist danced to the edge of the stage, and then, seemingly in slow motion, Camille fell off the edge into a sea of fans who all started kissing her. At first, it was an adorable scene. But then Camille began to feel afraid because some of the fans were groping her. The mob grew increasingly aggressive and, finally, someone in the crowd drew back a hand to slap her.
Camille’s eyes popped open, bringing her back to the real world just before impact. The dream was over, but an unrealistic fear lingered as she took deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. She swiped heavy beads of sweat off her nose. Not since her wild days with Sweet Treats had she experienced such a physical reaction to an imaginary circumstance.
Back then, she had at least been able to blame it on the pills Kyra snuck onto their bus. “Here, try this,” Kyra had offered one evening after Camille complained of exhaustion.
“What is it?” Camille asked.
“That new boy who plays drums gave it to me. It gives you energy,” she claimed.
“Did you ask Priscilla if it was okay to take them?”
Kyra snarled her nose. “Priscilla ain’t my momma. Plus, even if she was, I’m nineteen years old. I do whatever I want, and the law can’t stop me, either.”
The way Kyra reasoned through things scared Camille enough to stay away from the pills for a while. Four concerts, two days, and seven hundred miles later, Camille changed her mind. “Let me try one.”
Giddy, probably from an overload of uppers, Kyra had led Camille down the bus’s aisle to her bunk, just beneath Alexis’s empty spot. Kyra drew back the curtain and they both ducked to take a seat on the bed. Kyra pulled a black pouch from inside her pillowcase and poured a few of the pills into Camille’s hand.
“Just drink it with water. Don’t ever mix it with beer or alcohol,” she warned.
“You know I don’t drink,” from Camille.
A smile slithered across Kyra’s face. “Not yet.”
Whatever mess was in those pills kept Camille on point during the next week’s performances, but the side effects—crazy nightmares, sleeplessness, constant itching—convinced Camille to quit. Then, she slept for almost two days straight after the drug’s effect wore off.
She was back in a similar position now (minus the itching) since she’d gotten herself high on life’s possibilities. This was a good thing, of course. Problem was, there was no way she could make it through the workday without conking out on her desk. Furthermore, she had more important things to do today than set up meetings between sales guys and office managers. She needed to get a few meetings of her own arranged.
Camille grabbed a towel, practiced her cough a few times, and called her boss. “Sheryl, I’m not coming in today.” Cough, cough. “I think I’ve got some kind of bug. Hopefully, it’s just a twenty-four-hour thing.” Of course Camille already knew the fake bug virus would only last twenty-four hours because the next day was payday. Even if she were sick on a payday, she’d never miss.
“We really need you to come in today. Your team’s quota is down this month. They need your numbers,” Sheryl admonished.
The whole team concept had never really caught on at Aquapoint Systems, least of all with Camille. The prize for winning the thirty-day challenge was always something silly anyway, like a free lunch coupon or a movie ticket. Nothing anyone would actually work hard to earn.
Cough, cough. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make it in today.”
Sheryl suggested, “You think maybe you could come in early tomorrow? I could set your terminal to East Coast mode and let you work that territory.”
Camille coughed again, this time for real. Is she crazy? “I . . . I don’t think so. I have to take my . . . cat to . . . my cousin’s house so she can take him to . . . dialysis three mornings a week.” She had to give it to herself—she could make up a good lie at the drop of a hat.
“Oh, no,” Sheryl gasped. “Is she going to make it through?”
“Prognosis is pretty good.” What about my prognosis?
“Whew! I got goose bumps when you said that! What’s your cat’s name?”
“Her name is . . . Fluffy.”
“Awww,” Sheryl sang, “what kind of cat?”
Cats have kinds? “Huh?”
