by Susan Wiggs
Sonnet had always admired black girls who were comfortable being black. She wished it had been that simple for her, wished she could simply look in the mirror and feel comfortable in her own skin. She remembered being ten years old and wondering if she could use a magic marker to change the color of her eyes from deep brown to blue. As a teenager, she’d spent the better part of her allowance on smoothing and straightening products for her hair. And of course, the only thing she looked like was a mixed race girl trying to look like a white girl.
Now she tried to maintain a professional demeanor as she watched the scene unfold. The camera crew—with Zach at the helm, stepping into his role with a mastery she’d never seen from him before—surrounded Jezebel, who seemed completely at ease with three high-tech lenses and several mikes aimed at her. She’d been on a special called Hip-Hop Horrors, Sonnet recalled. All she could remember about the show was a lot of bleeped-out dialogue and smashing of scenery.
“Where’s my ride?” Jezebel asked, heading for the stairway.
Zach moved smoothly along with her. Sonnet had always liked watching him work before. She’d always known videography was more than simply pointing a camera at someone and pressing the record button. Zach seemed to have an innate understanding of the grace and subtlety it took to capture a sequence.
Jezebel’s luggage was a collection of couture bags and what appeared to be army surplus duffel bags and rucksacks. Sonnet watched with fascination as the entourage moved en masse toward the parking area. Jezebel stopped at the curb and looked around. “My ride?” she repeated with an imperious tone.
A couple of the production workers traded glances, then shrugged.
“Did anyone order a car?” asked one of the producers.
No one responded.
Jezebel gathered herself to her full, impressive height. “What the f—”
“I’ve got this,” Sonnet said. “We can go in my van.” She was driving one of the Inn at Willow Lake courtesy vehicles used for shuttling guests around town. “Over here.” She gestured at Jezebel.
The star glared at Sonnet as if tempted to eat her alive. Sonnet waited, determined not to be intimidated. Just because Jezebel was a giant—physically, and in the music world—and just because she’d done time in prison and had a reputation for violence, Sonnet intended to hold her ground, even though she wanted to run and hide. Something told her that if she did that, Jezebel would run roughshod over her throughout this whole process.
“Are you coming?” she asked, then turned and walked to the van.
To her relief, Jezebel followed and climbed in the passenger side, while luggage was loaded into the back. Zach and an assistant joined them, camera rolling. Sonnet hadn’t been expecting that. Actually, she had no idea what to expect, but now that she thought about it, the whole point of this production was to document Jezebel’s every move, so it made sense.
Jezebel pulled a seat belt around her considerable girth. “You in trouble, girl,” she said, cracking open a bottle of BluMania, a new energy drink on the market.
“Me?” Sonnet started the engine. “Why?”
“I was about to have a shit fit about the ride.”
“Look, it wasn’t anyone’s fault they forgot to figure out your ride in advance. Everyone just got here, and we’re still getting organized.”
Jezebel snorted. “No, I was supposed to have a shit fit. Hell, I was just getting warmed up.”
“Why were you— Oh. I get it. They like tantrums.”
“Uh-huh.”
Sonnet kept her eyes on the road, though she couldn’t resist glancing at Zach in the rearview mirror. “I’ve always thought so. Sorry. But I’m sure you’ll find lots of stuff to make a fuss about.”
“Make a fuss about?” She snorted again. “Who are you, anyway, Creampuff? Who talks like that?”
“I’m Sonnet Romano.” She didn’t much care for the nickname Creampuff. “Born and raised here.”
“Sonnet. What the hell kinda name is Sonnet?”
“My mom was into Shakespeare when she had me—a May birthday. I’m named after Sonnet number 18. Do you know it?”
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’” Jezebel quoted, her voice taking on the cadence and tone of the syncopated sound that had made her famous. “‘Thou are more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath too short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines…’ You mean that one?”
Sonnet was surprised and charmed by the recitation, which took on unexpected life with Jezebel’s delivery. “Exactly.”
Jezebel offered a regal sniff. “Don’t be acting so shocked.”
“I’m not shocked. But impressed, for sure. I studied Shakespeare in school but I can hardly remember any of it.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t learn it in school.”
“On your own, then?”
Jezebel’s laugh sounded like a crack of thunder. “Right. The Bedford Hills School For Young Ladies, that’s where.”
“Oh. Uh. Well, it’s very impressive and I hope I get to hear more.” Bedford Hills was a maximum-security prison for women in Westchester County. It was amazing to Sonnet that Jezebel had memorized Shakespeare’s sonnets while behind bars. Maybe that was where she had also learned to hold up her attitude like a riot shield, and where her anger had hardened into a shell of toughness.
“Born and raised here?” Jezebel repeated, staring out the window as they passed through the tiny downtown area of Avalon. Old brickfront buildings, window boxes spilling flowers, colorful awnings shading the shops and restaurants. On a sunny day like today, the town was sweetly pretty, with an air of days gone by. Jezebel’s lip formed a curl of contempt.
“That’s right,” Sonnet replied. “There’s not a lot of excitement here, but that’s what some people like about it.” Personally, she loved visiting new places. It was a wonderful feeling, stepping out of a taxi or train and finding a whole new, unexplored world. The thought triggered a pang of regret. If she’d accepted the fellowship, she’d be arriving in a foreign country this week. She quickly suppressed the pang. She was here for her mother, and for the time being, nothing was more important than that.
“You live here now?” Jezebel asked.
“I’ve been living in New York, and just moved back.”
“Did you work in the business in New York?” asked Jezebel.
“Not even close,” Sonnet admitted. “I worked for UNESCO, an agency of the UN.”
“And you gave that up to be a damn PA?”
“For the time being, yes.”
“Why?”
Sonnet steered toward the lakeshore road. “Personal reasons,” she said.
“Huh. Just tell me it’s none of my damn business.” Jezebel gave another sniff.
“It’s not, but…” Sonnet paused, uncomfortably aware that they were being taped. “I’m back because my mom is pregnant. She’s, um, older than most expecting moms, so it’s a high-risk pregnancy.”
“I got a half sister who’s half my age,” Jezebel said. “It’s fun, but it’s not like having a sister.”
Sonnet kept her eyes on the road as she wondered how much more to say. There always seemed to be an element of shame when it came to cancer. People lowered their voices and whispered the truth: Her mom has cancer. Like it was something to be hidden away. And it wasn’t, she told herself. “And there’s another complication,” she told Jezebel. “My mom just found out sh
e has cancer. So I want to be nearby for her sake.”
“Hoooo.” Jezebel made a musical sound. “That’s some bad shit, there.”
“Right,” Sonnet agreed. “It’s some bad shit.”
“She gonna be okay,” Jezebel said. It wasn’t a question.
Sonnet glanced over. The surly expression was gone from Jezebel’s face. “That’s the idea. I’m here to do what I can.”
“You can do a lot,” Jezebel said. “Believe me, I know.”
“Know what?”
“Family’s important. It would have saved me.”
She spoke softly, sounding so unlike the angry hip-hop star that Sonnet glanced over at her. “Saved you from what?”
“From a lot of the shit I did. A lot of the shit I let people do to me. Maybe I wouldn’t have done the stuff I did to get me this.” She indicated the ankle bracelet. Then she indicated the scenery out the window, clearly ready to drop the subject. “That Willow Lake?” she asked, studying the view of the water, sparkling in the midday sun. The graceful trees that gave the lake its name dipped their fronds at the shoreline around the town dock.
“Yes. We’re headed for the north end, to Camp Kioga.” According to the production notes, Jezebel was to stay in one of the cabins and a good portion of the show would be shot there. The producers had made a deal with Olivia Bellamy Davis, who ran the resort. In exchange for filming at the location, Mickey Flick Productions would fund the entire summer at camp for twenty-four inner-city kids.
“Camp Kioga.” Jezebel snorted. “I never been to a summer camp.”
“It’s really beautiful up there,” she said. “You’ll see.”
“So you went there, Creampuff?”
“No. It was closed when I was a kid. The Bellamy family reopened it a few years back and turned it into a destination resort.” Growing up, Sonnet had taken the mythic beauty of the locale for granted. When you passed paradise on your way to school every day, it didn’t seem so special. Yet for a kid who had never known anything but the bustle of city life, and maybe for Jezebel, it was going to seem like a magical world.
“I’m gonna be so damn bored my head’ll explode,” Jezebel warned.
Maybe not so magical, Sonnet thought. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see what Zach thought of this, and was startled to see he was still filming. Scowling, she turned her eyes back to the road. It was his job, she reminded herself. And it was hers to support the process. Still, it was unsettling to realize how easy it was to forget she was being recorded.
Jezebel took another sip of the energy drink and grimaced. “Ooh, that’s nasty.”
“There’s bottled water in the back,” Sonnet said.
“I gotta drink this stuff,” Jezebel explained. “For the cameras, at least, on account of them being a sponsor.”
“Oh, right.” Sonnet was way out of her element, and she knew it. This could not be more different from a typical day at the UNESCO Liaison Office at the UN. However, at the end of the day, she was going home to her mom, and that was everything.
Just the thought of her mom made her palms sweat. She was still adjusting to the idea that her mother was facing a life-threatening situation. The news had made Sonnet feel panicky and vulnerable, like a little girl again in many ways. She realized that no matter how old she got or how far she traveled, she would never stop needing her mom. Now, staring her in the face, was the possibility of a loss so devastating Sonnet didn’t see how she could survive it.
So far, Nina was being a stoic, but Sonnet knew her mom, maybe even better than Greg did. Nina had a habit of compressing her worries into a little parcel and shoving it deep down inside her. Sonnet knew this because she caught herself doing it as well. While that seemed admirable, it was probably not healthy. And if ever Nina needed to be healthy, now was the time.
She turned down the narrow private lane that led through the deep woods to Camp Kioga. Ancient elms and sugar maples flanked the drive, and the forest floor was bright green with ferns and blueberry plants. There was an archway at the end of the drive with Camp Kioga spelled out in Adirondack twig lettering. A flagpole circle brought them around to the main pavilion. Ordinarily, guests would stop here and check in, but this wasn’t ordinary, Sonnet reminded herself. This was reality TV.
An auxiliary crew of three awaited them, no doubt to capture Jezebel’s reaction as she looked around Camp Kioga for the first time. Sonnet was seeing it for the zillionth time, but now the breath caught in her throat. She found herself staring at the broad lawn where it reached to the lakeshore, and she thought, that’s where he took my hand. And the boathouse: that’s where he kissed me, and where we made love. The thoughts streamed through her head, out of control, impossible to rein in. It had happened only once, she reminded herself. It had been a mistake. A big, sweet, delicious mistake. She should have moved past it months ago, letting it fade into the realm of things better forgotten.
They all got out of the van, and she jerked herself back into the present. Jezebel scanned the area, with its beautiful wooded trails, the rustic cabins and outbuildings and docks, set against the sparkling backdrop of Willow Lake. Glancing sideways at Jezebel, Sonnet tried to read her mood. She was complicated, that was obvious. Sonnet had never met anyone like her—crude, smart, angry, soulful, surprising.
“What the hell is this place?” Jezebel asked of no one in particular.
For some reason, Sonnet felt the need to explain. “It’s been around since the 1920s. Started out as a summer retreat for people from the city. A local family runs it as a resort now. I know it’s pretty remote, but there’s plenty to do, once you get used to the solitude.”
“It’s the bomb,” Jezebel said, momentarily slipping out of her angry mode. “So this is where I’m staying.”
“That’s right.” Sonnet checked her notes on the clipboard. “You’re going to be in Saratoga Cabin with the kids. You’ll have the counselor’s room in the back. That’ll give you a bit more privacy.” She noticed Zach’s camera capturing her explanation. “Do you mind? I’m just getting organized here.”
“Keep going,” he said, not missing a beat. “You’re doing great.”
“Listen, I’m not supposed to be on camera, so I’d appreciate it if—”
“Check your contract, babe. I bet you signed a release.” He was still filming.
“Did you just call me ‘babe’? I hope I misheard you.”
“Nope. You heard me right.”
“Zach—”
“Listen to you two,” Jezebel said with a chuckle. “I guess you’ve worked together before?”
“No,” they said in unison.
“So you just, what, like to bicker?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but tossed her braids and walked toward the cabin. “It’s a form of foreplay, you know.”
Sonnet glowered at Zach, who acted as if he didn’t see her. She was already questioning her decision to work for the production while she was in town. Yet there was a terrible, traitorous part of her that forced her to admit there was something crazy and fun about this.
Her phone vibrated. She checked the message. To her surprise, Orlando was on his way. To Willow Lake.
“Bad news?” asked Zach, peering over her shoulder.
“Why do you say that?”
“You look like you just ate something sour.”
“I do not. And aren’t you supposed to be following your subject around?”
“We’re wrapping for the day.”
“Fine, then. I’ll see you here tomorrow. That’s when the campers arrive.” She tried to figure out what Orlando intended, coming here in person. In her wildest dreams, he was making a sweeping romantic gesture, racing to see her because he missed her terribly.
But she and Orlando were not romantic. They were…compatible. That was more important in the long run, anyway.
Yet sometimes the truth niggled its way into her consciousness. She did want to fall in love with Orlando, but every once in a while, usually when she was lying awake at night, staring into the darkness, she forced herself to ponder some very hard questions. Did she even know what love felt like? Did he? Or was he just the means of keeping her father’s attention, something she’d always craved? Was he her safe place to hide?
It was a terrible thing for her to think about herself—that her father included her in his inner circle because of her relationship with Orlando. And that this was what made Orlando irresistible to her.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered when Zach was out of earshot. “He’s your damn boyfriend, not the holy grail.”
* * *
Sonnet hadn’t told her father or Orlando about her temporary job working on the production. They were mortified enough that she’d turned down the fellowship. When they heard she’d gone from a directorship at UNESCO to working on a reality TV show about a notorious hip-hop star, they’d think she’d lost her marbles.
But that’s what you did for family, she reminded herself. That’s what you did for your mom. You turned your back on everything else, and you stuck close, and you stayed there for as long as you were needed. The rest of life would still be waiting when the storm was past.
