by Neta Jackson
“Like . . . what? Do these camps go for four weeks? All summer? I have no idea.”
“I think just a week.”
“A week. How much?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen the information she found online.”
Jared threw up his hands. “Seems like we need that kind of information before we can even talk about this. Tell her to print out a couple possibilities and then we’ll talk. Though . . . don’t know how I feel about Tabby getting into all that cheerleader stuff already. She’s only thirteen. You know, all that in-crowd, who’s-popular mess . . .”
“I hear you.” Michelle sighed. When she was in high school, cheerleading was basically a popularity contest that ended up with a lot of hurt feelings and nasty cliques. “Maybe it’s different now. I think a lot of schools treat cheerleading like a regular sport.”
“Hmph.” Jared didn’t sound convinced.
“What did Destin tell you about this basketball camp?”
Her husband leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Well, sounds like the real deal. One of the Five-Star Basketball Camps they run all over the country. I’ve heard of them before. And he says there’re a couple camps in Romeoville, south of the city, at Lewis University—end of June, first week of July, around there. Overnight camp, so once we’d get him there, we wouldn’t have to run him back and forth.”
“So it sounds good to you?”
Jared shrugged. “Well, supposedly they send college scouts to these camps. It might be a chance for him to get an athletic scholarship. He’s done his research—just, you know, late as usual.” He grimaced. “Meaning he has to send in the full registration fee tomorrow to make the forty-five-day deadline.”
“Tomorrow!?”
“Right. Due Monday, remember? I told you when we got back from cleaning the church the other night.”
Remember? She’d been half asleep. “Uh, How much?”
“You ready?” Jared snorted. “Five-fifty.”
Michelle felt the blood drain from her face. “Five-hundred-fifty? Oh dear. We can’t—”
“Exactly. Especially since we just paid the first installment of our property tax a few weeks ago.”
They both sat in silence for several long moments. Michelle’s thoughts tumbled. Of the two camps, the basketball camp seemed the most legitimate and timely. Destin had played basketball all three years of high school so far, had made varsity, and would be a senior next year. Then college. An athletic scholarship would be an answer to prayer—big time! But . . . over five hundred out of their bank account all at once, just bam, like that? That wasn’t in the budget.
And then there were all the related questions . . . like, what were all three kids going to do with the rest of the summer? Both she and Jared worked full time, with sometimes crazy schedules. Jared, especially. As an air traffic controller at O’Hare, he usually did two swing shifts, two day shifts, and a night shift—all in the same week. It gave him weekends off, though it messed with his sleep. She supposedly had regular hours as a caseworker at a private social service agency, but they often dealt with family emergencies that rarely fit into eight-to-five. She often had to stay late one or two evenings each week, and getting a call during the night or on the weekend wasn’t that unusual, either. Made school holidays and summer break a scheduling nightmare equaling traffic control at O’Hare.
“Unless . . .” Jared mused.
“Unless what?”
“Unless we ask Destin to work off the cost of the camp the rest of the summer. He’s seventeen. The kid needs a job this summer anyway.”
A smile tipped the corner of Michelle’s lips. “Of course! I mean, if he wants to go badly enough, he should work for it. Would take care of keeping him busy the rest of the summer too. Only . . .”
Jared’s eyebrows went up over his glasses.
“Maybe we could contribute the registration fee. How much is that?”
“A hundred, I think.”
“We could do that, couldn’t we? Show our support.”
Jared nodded slowly. “Suppose so. Except, the deadline for the rest of the fee is tomorrow. Means we’d still have to float the whole wad up front.” He ran his hand over his head. “I suppose we could take it out of savings, and Destin could pay the four-fifty back once he gets a job.”
Michelle’s smile grew. “Good. Let’s do it. You want to talk to him? Tell him what we’ve decided? Oh wait . . . the final payment has to be there tomorrow?” The smiled faded. “There’s no way!”
“I’m sure we can do an online payment. But I’ll check.” Jared got up and stretched. “We done here? If so, I’m gonna grab a Dr. Pepper and see if there’s a game on.” He headed out the door.
Uh-oh. “Um, sorry! Destin drank the last one last night!” she called after him.
He poked his head back around the open door and gave her a look. “You’re kidding.” Then she heard him clomp off, muttering, “The kid’s gonna go get me a twelve-pack. Now.”
* * *
Michelle and Tabitha were at the dining nook table scrolling through cheer camp websites when Destin came in lugging a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper. “Where’s Dad?”
Without looking up from the computer, Michelle tipped her head in the direction of the stairs to the basement. “Watching the game.”
“It’s still on? He said he was going to talk to me about basketball camp when I got back!”
“Just go watch the game with him. It’ll be over soon . . . Okay, Tabby, what’s this site?”
But Tabitha was watching her big brother disappear. “Mom! Why is Dad gonna talk to Destin, but not me? I asked first!”
“Honey, it’s not about who asked first or second. Dad and I are considering both of your requests—but I told you, in your case we need more information before we can really talk. Let’s keep looking . . .”
There weren’t as many cheerleading camps in Illinois as she’d thought there might be, much less in the Chicago area. A couple of big-time cheerleading programs turned out to be just for their own school teams, not for the general public. One of the biggest featured cheer squads for “K–8th” . . . What? They started in kindergarten?
They surfed some more. “What about that one?” Tabitha said. They clicked on the link for Cheer Illinois Athletics. Photos of cheer squads of different ages rolled across the top of the site. Hmm . . . a lot of bare skin showing. But Michelle scrolled through the pages of information without comment.
“Hey, Mom, look! It’s in Bensenville—that’s right out by O’Hare!” Tabitha bounced in her chair. “That’s not too far . . . do they have any summer camps?” But most of what CIA offered were weekly classes and weekend clinics, year round, except for one lone link that said, “Summer Tumbling Boot Camps.” But that page came up saying “Access Denied.”
“Sorry, honey.” They kept looking. They couldn’t find any more cheerleading camps in Illinois—but they did come across a couple of interesting sites. The Fellowship of Christian Cheerleaders had four-day camps in various states all over the country—some residential, some commuter. And another one called Christian Cheerleaders of America. Same thing—summer camps all over the country. Though neither one had a camp listed for Illinois.
Too bad, Michelle thought. Both organizations had youth camps for middle school. And the cost for the four-day camps seemed comparable—in the $190 range for a commuter camper, around $250 for residential.
“Wait, Mom. Look! There’s a Christian cheer camp in Fort Wayne!” Tabitha screeched. “That’s where Bibi and Babu live! I could stay with them.”
Bibi and Babu—Michelle’s parents, who’d chosen the Swahili names for grandparents back when Destin was born. Michelle would’ve preferred something more traditional—what was wrong with Gram and Gramps? But her parents were old-school civil rights activists, and she was used to the names now. But the fact that they lived in Fort Wayne might be a divine coincidence. The cheer camp was listed as a commuter camp. Less expensive. Free room and boar
d at the grandparents’. “Well . . .”
Tabitha bounced up and down. “Oh, please, Mom! I wanna go! That one’s perfect!” She jumped up. “I’m gonna go tell Dad.”
“Wait, Tabby! Just a moment.” Michelle had just noticed something. She quickly took another look at the other cheerleading sites they’d bookmarked . . . and realized she had bad news for Tabby.
“What?” Tabitha said impatiently.
Michelle looked up. “Tabby, honey, all these camps are for teams and their coaches. You have to already be part of a cheer squad and come with your coach in order to attend. They don’t take individual campers.”
The look on Tabitha’s face and the slammed door to her room half a minute later shook Michelle as much as the house.
She heaved a sigh and shut off the laptop. Not a good start to making summer plans. At least the Internet search had answered the question for them. She and Jared wouldn’t have to be the bad guys saying no.
She should feel relieved. But she would’ve liked to say yes to something Tabby wanted so badly. Thirteen-year-old daughters and moms didn’t have an easy time of it.
Michelle realized the TV had gone silent downstairs, and she could hear the rise and fall of Jared’s firm voice. Hopefully he and Destin were having more success.
Chapter 5
Michelle put on her earrings at the first stoplight and gave her lips a quick coat of gloss at the second. Just once she’d like to be completely ready for the day before having to leave for work! But she couldn’t be late.
At least the laundry got done over the weekend so Tavis and Tabitha had clean clothes to meet Stone Scholastic’s strict dress code. Not exactly uniforms like a private school, but close, and she and Jared were all for it. The K–8 magnet school offered school gear with the school name, but any solid white or blue shirt or blouse with dark blue or black pants or skirt would do. Solid colors only, no T-shirts with slogans or logos of any kind. Sweaters and sweatshirts had to fit into that category too. She and Jared were not only glad it was a public magnet school with a high academic standard, but they were relieved not to have to deal with bare midriffs, low-slung gangsta jeans, and T-shirts with suggestive sayings—not to mention all the petty who’s-wearing-what snottiness.
If only the high schools would follow suit! But at least Lane Tech, where Destin was a junior, made a stab at a dress code—no visible undergarments, no bare midriffs, no shorts or skirts shorter than knee length, no T-shirts promoting drugs or alcohol, no gang paraphernalia, no hats or head coverings of any kind.
Traffic heading south on Western Avenue wasn’t too bad that morning, and Michelle got to the offices of Bridges Family Services in the Irving Park neighborhood with ten minutes to spare. Parking was a bear as usual. But as a caseworker for the private social service agency, she had to have a car to visit her clients.
“Buenas dias, Michelle!” the perpetually smiling receptionist said as she came in the front door. “You look, ooo, muy bonita today.”
“Buenas dias yourself, Mercedes!” Michelle was sure that smile did more emotional healing for staff and clients who came through the door than some of the professional services the agency offered. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”
The older Hispanic woman laughed and went back to her computer.
After checking in with her supervisor, Michelle unpacked her briefcase in the cubicle that passed as her office and tried to organize her workweek. Like other private agencies around the city, Bridges handled a lot of referrals from DCFS—the Department of Child and Family Services—that didn’t qualify as hardcore neglect or abuse, as well as families who came to them directly for social services. She had preliminary reports to finish about several new clients she’d been assigned last week. No one at home in one instance, so she needed to follow up today—an eleven-year-old with three curfew violations in one month, hanging out on the street after midnight. The police had notified DCFS, who in turn passed the case to Bridges.
Michelle had a caseload of eighty children and families, more or less, who had to be seen at least once a month. Which meant twenty visits a week minimum, at least four a day. A glance at the calendar reminded her it was mid-May already, and she’d only seen thirty-six clients so far that month. That meant upping her quota for the next two weeks, which probably also meant working a few more evenings when people were more likely to be home.
Resting her elbows on the desk, head in her hands, Michelle felt overwhelmed already, and it was only Monday morning. Didn’t Jesus say his grace was sufficient when we’re feeling weak? Could sure use some of that grace this week, Jesus . . .
She took a deep breath and blew it out. One day at a time, Michelle, one day at a time. Today . . . she should check on the new baby who’d been left at Cook County Hospital last week and placed in emergency foster care. Mrs. Dunlap . . . sweetest little grandmother this side of the Mississippi. Still fostering babies after thirty years. Didn’t even flinch when Michelle had called to see if she could take the newborn until they found a permanent placement—even though the sixty-something black woman was already caring for two toddlers, ages one and three, needing emergency care.
As long as she was in the Humboldt Park area, she’d check in with the Nigerian family who’d been displaced by that apartment building fire . . . and visit the young single mom of two who’d just taken in two nieces and a nephew when their parents died in a car crash. A working mom with limited resources, she needed urgent assistance obtaining a Link card and applying for aid to assist her application for custody. The court case to determine custody was this week.
Then she’d have to drive to the Near West Side—and if nobody was home for her young curfew violator, she’d have to go back this evening. No, wait . . . Jared had swing shift at the airport today, which meant she needed to be home this evening with her kids. She’d have to wait till his shift changed to day hours on Wednesday. Which meant missing Wednesday prayer meeting at Northside, but . . . couldn’t be helped.
She was jumping ahead. Maybe the boy’s mother or somebody would be home. Okay, time to finish these reports and get moving—
Her desk phone rang. “Michelle Jasper speaking.”
“Miz Jasper! . . . He showed up at the house last night. Said he just wanted to see the kids. I wouldn’t let him in, but he got steamin’ mad, said I had no right to keep him from seein’ the kids.”
Michelle’s mind scrambled. The panicky voice was familiar . . . “Tameeka?” Bridges had been working with this family for over a year and had finally recommended the order of protection from her ex because of abuse and threats. “Did you call the police?”
“No, ’cause he left . . . but I got scared Daryl might show up at the school and take Tommy. So I kept him home today, called the school, said he was sick. Didn’t take the baby to the babysitter either.”
“So you missed work today too?” Michelle rubbed her temples. “Tameeka, this isn’t the answer. Look, I’ll come by the apartment and we’ll work something out. Just sit tight, all right? If Daryl shows up before I get there, call the police. Immediately.”
Michelle hung up the phone and stuffed the reports into her briefcase. She’d work on them at home tonight. Some things couldn’t wait.
* * *
The twins had been home a couple of hours when Michelle walked in the door at six. They’d dutifully called her at four when they got home from school, and she’d rehearsed the usual instructions: snacks and free time till five, but then it was homework from five to six. They hadn’t seemed to mind during the winter when it got dark around four thirty, but since daylight saving time, there’d been anarchy afoot to change the schedule so they could go outside while it was light. “Or at least let us have friends over. Why can’t you be home like DaShawn’s grandmother?” Tavis had complained.
“Because she’s retired and I’m not,” Michelle had tossed back—even though it was probably only half true. Estelle Bentley was still in her fifties and worked part-
time at the Manna House Women’s Shelter in North Wrigleyville as the lunch cook, and she’d also mentioned some classes she taught there—sewing or something. But she did seem to be home when DaShawn got home from school.
They’d have to rethink the whole family schedule when school was out in a few weeks. Until then, Michelle had dug in her heels.
After checking on the twins’ homework, Michelle pulled open the refrigerator door to study supper options. Destin had track after school four days a week, which his basketball coach had encouraged as a way to stay in shape, and usually got home around six thirty. Jared had swing shifts on Monday and Tuesday in the O’Hare control tower, which began at two and ended at ten. At least that had given him time this morning to do the money transfer from their savings account into checking to make the online payment for Destin’s basketball camp.
But it was usually eleven by the time he got home, and he often needed another hour to unwind. And in the morning he would be asleep when she had to leave. Sometimes it felt as if she barely saw her husband at all on days he worked swing shift.
Pulling out some frozen hamburger, Michelle defrosted it in the microwave, started rice in the rice cooker, and began opening cans of kidney beans. A pot of chili served over rice would be easy and the kids liked it. Regular meals . . . something her kids took for granted. Then there was Jeffrey, her curfew violator. What was he going to eat for supper tonight? She’d gone by the address just before five, hoping one of his parents would be home. The boy had opened the door two inches, said he wasn’t supposed to let anyone in when his parents weren’t home. He’d said his mom would be home after work, but who knew the real story? What work? And what time would that be? She should’ve asked for more details.
Michelle had had to skip Mrs. Dunlap because of Tameeka’s panicky call, but Mrs. Dunlap was the least of her worries. She’d told Tameeka that her ex showing up at her door was a violation of the order of protection and she should’ve called the police right then, and in fact, should still report it. It took Michelle a good thirty minutes to talk the anxious mom into taking Tommy to school and going to work herself, even though they’d be late. In the end Michelle had offered to take Tommy to school while Tameeka took the baby to the babysitter, promising to tell the principal and Tommy’s teacher not to allow the father on school premises under any circumstances.