Camille jumped back into their mentor-mentee talk. She had to ask, “What about the boy?”
“Who, DeShawn?”
“Was that his name?”
Brittney admitted, “Yeah.”
“Well, did DeShawn tell anyone?”
“There was nothing to tell. He didn’t actually come into the house.”
“But you were about to let DeShawn in, right?”
“Right. Well, maybe. I don’t know,” she vacillated. “Either way, nothing happened, so why is my dad making such a big deal out of this?”
Camille tried to explain, “He’s afraid of what could have happened.”
She huffed one of those teenage know-it-all huffs. “But I’m not stupid. I mean, if I did let him in, it was only gonna be for, like, ten minutes. Can’t my dad trust me for ten minutes alone with a boy? Nothing’s gonna happen in ten minutes?”
Camille tsked. “A whole lot can happen in ten minutes. It can happen in ten minutes, Brittney.”
“Oh,” she gasped. “Well ... I mean ... on TV ... I thought it takes longer, doesn’t it?”
“Uh, no. Especially not at your age, but that’s TMI. Let’s get back to you and your dad.”
“Hold up,” Brittney said. “I just want to ask this one question.”
Now that the can of worms was open, Camille had to oblige. “What?”
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Sex.”
Alrighty, then. “Brittney, I don’t really think I’m the one you should be asking that question.”
“Who else am I gonna ask? I can’t ask my dad. And my mom’s gone.”
Ask the school nurse; shoot, I don’t know!
Brittney pressed, “I mean ... some people say it’s fun, some people say it hurts.”
Camille remembered asking a similar question when she was around Brittney’s age. It was after choir rehearsal. She and some of the other members of the youth choir were sitting on the front steps of the old church talking while the adults remained inside handling fund-raising business. Tammy Henderson, one of the oldest members of the youth choir, schooled Camille and four other younger girls on sex. Tammy said it felt so good it made you want to slap the judge, said the only reason grown-ups didn’t want them to do it was because no one who does it ever wants to stop. She also said it made your boyfriend love you more, kept him from other girls.
Brittney framed her questions better. “I know they did it before they got married because I saw their marriage certificate, and I was born, like, five months later. But every time I try to talk to my dad just about boyfriends—not even sex—all he does is start talking about the Bible, like him and my mom never broke the rules.”
“So why don’t you start by talking to him about the marriage certificate? Not in an accusatory way, but just let him know you want to keep the conversation real.”
She piped down a bit. “Because I don’t want to, like, make it seem like my mom was a bad person. But then I think, if they did it and he married her and they loved each other, what would be so wrong if me and DeShawn did it? He already said he loves me and he wants to marry me.”
“But he ran away and left you to face your father’s anger alone, right?” Camille asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Brittney, when people love you, they stand beside you when you get in trouble—especially if they’re part of the reason you got in trouble. If DeShawn runs at the sight of your father, what do you think he’d do if you got pregnant with his baby?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if you don’t know, you sure don’t have any business having sex with him. DeShawn ran like a little boy, which is exactly what he is right now. Maybe when he’s older, he’ll be a good husband to someone, but not right now.”
“So, you think I’m too young to have sex?”
“Definitely. And it’s not a matter of how young you are. It’s a matter of whether or not you’re—”
“I know,” Brittney butted in, “married. My daddy and my church people have told me that a million times.”
Camille was glad Brittney interrupted because that wasn’t exactly the word she was going to say. She was about to say something like “committed” or “in love,” which was pretty much the general public agreement. Hearing the word “marriage” tied to sex took Camille way back. But for the sake of consensus with Ronald, she concurred, “Right. Married.”
“Ugh!” Brittney fussed. “I’m so tired of everyone saying that when they didn’t wait!”
“How do you know everyone didn’t wait?” Camille countered. “Some people did. And, yes, sex can feel great to your body, but it also hurts—in more ways than one. I don’t recommend it to anyone who’s not married because, well, for one thing, we all know you could get pregnant. No matter what anybody says, boys always get off way easier when that happens.
“Second, no matter how much he loves you or you love him, when it’s over between you two, your heart will be completely broken. Smashed to smithereens, seriously, and it could take a long, long time to get over that. Don’t commit your heart and your body to someone who hasn’t committed himself to you in front of the whole world.”
How ’bout that? Nice, neat, and not too much. Camille was proud of herself. She’d spoken the truth to Brittney and, somehow, she knew Brittney would listen to her if not anyone else. At least for a little while.
“Huh. Okay,” Brittney said. “I hear you. You’re the first grown-up to actually admit that it feels good.”
Is that all she heard?
“I said it can feel good. But I can tell you from experience, it’s hard for anything to feel good when you’re sneaking around behind your parent’s back to do it. You’re a church kid. You know better. You’ll never feel good about doing stuff you know you shouldn’t be doing. Other people might, but not you.”
Brittney laughed, then shared a story about how she’d once tried to steal a pack of bubble gum from the store but returned it to the cashier in tears. Camille relayed her stolen Slurpee story, and the two laughed again at the ridiculousness of it all.
“I gotta go. My daddy’s home,” Brittney whispered.
“Hey, can I talk to him?”
“Um”—she lowered her voice even more—“can you call him on the house phone? I’m not ... um ... really supposed to be on my cell phone ... that much.”
Camille rolled her eyes as though Brittney could see them. “Bye, Brittney. Stop all this sneakin’ around, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Bye.”
After a few minutes, Camille decided to try the house line. She picked up her phone again, but Ronald’s incoming call beat her to the punch. Thank goodness! She didn’t want him to think she’d morphed into a stalker.
“Hey, I saw you called. Got your text, too. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you right away.”
Her immediate thoughts were to ask him why he hadn’t made an effort to at least text a line or two earlier. Again, she reminded herself that she wasn’t exactly his woman. He owed her no explanations. She was a friend. A friend who liked his kisses, adored his daughter, needed him to sing a song with her before the sun came up.
She decided on a subtle approach. “How was your day?”
“Busy, that’s why I couldn’t call. Two funerals, a meeting with the musicians, another meeting with pastor. He saves his most lengthy sermons for meetings.” Ronald snickered.
“I see,” Camille said. “You got a lot on your schedule tomorrow?”
“Um, not too much. What’s up?”
Might as well get this over with. “Would you sing with me tomorrow morning?”
“Uhh ... yeah, I guess. Where?”
“At a studio. I’m recording a song for my agent to pass along to a producer.”
“Cool. I didn’t know you had an agent.”
“Yes. I’m trying to get back in the saddle. Here’s the bad news. We’d need to be there around six.”
> “Six am?”
“Yes. I can pick you up if you’d like. You’re closer to the studio than me.”
Ronald thought out loud, “Brittney needs to be at school by seven thirty ... can’t get there before seven ... I could ask my neighbor, Alicia, to take her.”
Who’s Alicia? Down, jealous non-girlfriend.
“Okay,” Camille agreed. “Can I pick you up at five thirty?”
“Hmmm,” he hesitated, “that would leave Brittney home alone for almost an hour and a half.”
“Ronald, you’re going to have to give her the opportunity to earn your trust again. Besides, there aren’t many teenage boys up at five thirty in the morning. I think she’ll be all right.”
He exhaled in surrender. “Okay. See you at five thirty, but you’d better have some kind of latte or tea with you, ’cause that’s earlier than a mug!”
“I know, right? But thank you. I really appreciate your willingness.”
“You’re welcome. I’m always glad to help you, you know that, right? I was thinking about you today.”
“Pray tell,” she urged.
“Thinking about what a blessing you are to me. And to Brittney.”
“Awww, that’s so sweet.”
“It’s more than sweet. It’s something else. It’s what I’ve missed since Brittney’s mom died. Since I stopped thinking about companionship because I really didn’t think I was up to it. Camille, I’m glad God brought you into my life, and I hope you’re willing to stay in and see what else God has planned for us.”
Wow. She hadn’t been expecting these words from Ronald. She realized now that, deep down, she’d been hoping for them, but not anticipating them. It was as though Ronald had turned on a switch inside her. Everything appeared different in light of his revelation. He liked having her in his life. She felt the same. And whatever God had planned for them was perfectly fine with her, too, since most of His stuff seemed to work out pretty good anyway. Pastor Collins had preached on following God’s plan just the other week and, in her heart, Camille had whispered a prayer to God that she wanted His plan more than anything else. Now, it seemed, Ronald might be a part of that vision.
“By the way, what are we singing?” Ronald stuck a pin in her bliss bubble.
Camille had already practiced her answer, should this question arise. “It’s an original compilation. You haven’t heard it before.”
“Did you write it?”
Her lips tightened. “No. Someone else did.”
“Okay, if you wanna be all hush-hush about it.” Yet, he persisted with the guessing game. “Anyone I would know?”
“No.” Camille closed her eyes and blurted out the truth before her common sense overrode her decision to be upfront with Ronald. “It’s a secular song. For a movie sound track.” All true.
“Oh.” His voice had fallen an octave. “Well, you know me. You know what I stand for. I trust you wouldn’t be asking me to sing the song if it violated who I am. I’ll see you in the morning. ’Night, love.”
“’Night.”
He just called me “love.”
CHAPTER 29
Camille could barely close her eyes without hearing Ronald’s words. I trust you wouldn’t be asking me to sing the song if it violated who I am. More than the whole song issue, the idea that he trusted her, period, haunted Camille so much that she nearly rubbed Cat’s fur off. He escaped under the bed to get his own sleep and avoid getting patted to death.
Throughout the night, Camille ran through several scenarios of what might happen tomorrow with Stevie, John David, Ronald, and herself. The best-case scenario would be if Ronald read the lyrics, looked in Camille’s eyes, and decided to sing the song anyway because he (according to his own confession) was on the road to loving her. That would be great. Not likely, but great.
Scenario number two, Ronald and Camille would sit down with Stevie and John David and come up with a plan to use Ronald’s voice without him actually saying perverse words. Or maybe they could adlib a line about a wedding ring or a veil—something symbolizing marriage. Then it would maybe be like Roberta Flack and Peabo Bryson’s classic honeymoon song, “Tonight, I Celebrate My Love.” Granted, “On Top of Me” was a bit raunchier. But, hey, some newlyweds are bound to be kinkier than others, Camille could reason. With a little creative compromise, technical genius, and artistic liberty, setup number two could work well for everyone.
Or number three. Next-to-the-worst development. Ronald could take one look at the words and say no. John David would explode, Stevie would shut down the system, Ronald would walk out, and Camille would bust out in tears. She could either chase Ronald out of the studio or get down on her knees and beg John David not to end their contract because, after all, he would have seen with his own eyes that Ronald’s refusal to sing was not her fault.
Finally, the most horrible script would be if Ronald walked out and John David told Camille to follow him no matter how much she begged and pleaded. She could hear him already, “I’m tired of dealing with you, Camille. It’s over.” In this case, she wasn’t sure she’d chase after Ronald. Could she forgive him for nailing the coffin on her dreams?
The very thought that her singing career might come to a complete end tomorrow nearly choked the breath out of Camille. Some people say that before a person dies, her life flashes before her eyes. For Camille, a series of songs rang in her ears. She thought of all the hours she’d spent singing, remembered times she’d actually cried because a note was outside of her natural range. She had to grab every note, had to.
She thought of how her legs used to ache from standing next to her mother so long while she played the piano and Camille sang along. She’d used Camille to flesh out the different parts of the song, the harmonies. Now, Camille realized her mother had been preparing her to do and be the professional singer she had been, and hoped to be again.
The last time she was at a make-or-break moment, she’d been able to call Courtney. He always reassured her, told her she was the best in the business. “Camille, your voice is exclusive,” he had said once. “No one else has it except you. No one can even imitate you well, so don’t worry. If they don’t want you, they’re deaf.” One thing was for sure, if Courtney had been her agent instead of John David, he’d have been able to work something out with Ignacio and this stupid song.
She had the strange desire to call Courtney and listen to his encouragement again. Fat chance. She didn’t even have his number. Bobby Junior had it, of course, but it was far too late to call him. And even if it weren’t three twenty-four in the morning, she was triple certain that Courtney wouldn’t have any nice words to say.
To get her mind off the studio problem, Camille cranked out another script. What would she say to Courtney if she talked to him? She’d apologize for throwing him out of her career. Her life. He probably wouldn’t accept it, though. Camille knew her brother. Courtney was black-and-white. Once he made up his mind about somebody, that was all he wrote.
Maybe she could use Bobby Junior as a go-between. He could set up one of those classic television episodes where both parties come to a meeting on the premise that the other wants to apologize. Then, when they get there, they argue for a minute, then decide to get over themselves. Problem was, in those episodes, the people had fallen victim to some type of misunderstanding. That wasn’t the case with her and Courtney. She’d been wrong. Totally wrong. Yet, so much time had passed, it almost seemed futile to even think of apologizing now. Might only add insult to injury. Really, is an apology still valid after so many years? And would he think she was sorry the new manager didn’t work out as opposed to being genuinely sorry she’d asked Courtney to leave Sweet Treats? This, of course, made her second-guess herself all the more. Would she be apologizing if she was a multimillion-dollar artist right now?
Maybe. Maybe not. Courtney probably would have sued her by now.
Frustrated with all these scenarios, Camille tried to shut her lids again. If nothing else, she could
at least give her eyeballs a rest.
An hour later, her orbits stung from lack of real sleep, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins fueled her through the morning routine despite the darkness outside. Even Cat knew it was too early to get out of bed. He remained in place, looking up at her once as if to ask why she was messing with the natural order of things.
She roused her voice, climbing up and down scales softly so as not to wake her neighbors. No one deserved to be up at this hour. After showering, dressing, and grooming, Camille sent a text to Ronald. He quickly replied, letting her know that he’d be ready by the time she got to his house.
As a peace offering, she made a quick pit stop and picked up a cup of coffee and a bagel for him at the gas station near the entrance to his suburb. None of the really good coffee places had opened yet, so this would have to do.
Inside her stomach, the jitterbugs danced crazily. Not only was she nervous, she was delirious from lack of sleep.
When Ronald hopped into the car, he picked up on her disconcerted aura right away. “You all right, babe?”
Babe? I’m “babe”? “I’m okay. I bought you some breakfast.”
“Thank you,” he purred, leaning over the console for a smack on the lips.
Okay. We’re a couple for real. She wished she could break up, do the recording, and get back together. Ronald was too good for this. She didn’t deserve him.
To make matters worse, a pre–rush hour side-road accident clogged the major arteries on the way to the studio. Is everyone and everything against me this morning? Her nerves frazzled even more, Camille couldn’t concentrate on Ronald’s small talk.
“I take it you’re not a morning person,” he commented after the second time he’d had to jar Camille from her own thoughts.
“No. Not really,” she agreed, thankful that he’d attributed her diminishing attitude to the time of day. She wanted to confess: I’m not just a no-morning person, I’m a no-good person, too.
At least, then, the sinking feeling would stop. She’d get the chance to take a deep, cleansing breath. Cleansing confession.
Falling Into Grace Page 21
