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They drove separately to the hospital and met in the parking
lot. Sonnet caught her mom looking wistfully at a vibrant, massively pregnant
young woman heading to the obstetrics unit. Sonnet and her mom and Greg took
another route—to the oncology unit.

There were blood tests, and then the drugs were prepared. The
chemo room was furnished with comfy chairs for the patients, a TV and supply of
magazines. Nina seemed a little nervous, her gaze flicking from Greg to Sonnet
to the network of pumps and tubes and hanging bags. The nurses wore gloves
because the drugs were so toxic. The docs had assured them the placental wall
would filter out any toxicity, keeping the poison from reaching the baby. Still,
Sonnet felt nauseous, though she was determined not to let it show.

“You look nauseous,” Nina said as she took a seat in one of the
big recliners.

Busted. No one knew Sonnet like her mom did. “I can only
imagine how you’re feeling.”

“I’m staying focused on the idea that this is going to get me
better.”

“Good advice for all of us,” Greg said.

“I’m anxious to get going with it. The nausea will come later,
I’m sure.”

The list of side effects was lengthy and horrible. Sonnet had
pored over it, along with all the other literature she’d hastily devoured,
searching for grains of hope. The worst part of chemo started after the drugs
were administered. “And we’ll be there for you,” she said stoutly. “That’s a
promise.”

Nina checked the time. “You should go. I’ll need you more
later, okay?”

Greg nodded. “We’ll see you back at the house.”

Other patients seemed to be getting settled in. Some were
reading, others chatting with each other, one woman was knitting with scarlet
yarn. Sonnet felt reluctant to leave. As a kid, she’d never been the clingy
type. But then again, she’d never dealt with her mother having a
life-threatening disease. She paused at the door and looked back at the chemo
room. The morning light flowing in through a high window illuminated everything
with a dreamlike glow. Her mother’s oversized chair resembled a throne, and all
the tubes, keypads, poles and bags were some kind of weird frame around her. She
seemed like a fragile, magical creature, easily broken.

“Okay,” Sonnet said, forcing steadiness in her voice. “See you
tonight.”

Chapter Ten

Sonnet hurried from the hospital to Camp Kioga where
the day’s filming was taking place. Certain she was late, she drove too fast
along Lakeshore Drive. She hated being late, a propensity that dated back to the
fourth grade, when the first class of the day happened to be PE. At the age of
ten, she’d been good enough at sports to get picked for the team early on,
rather than standing around like a geek, wishing the painted gym floor would
swallow her up. However, the rotation she remembered the best, and with the most
pain, was the square dancing rotation—six endless weeks of swing your partner
and do-si-dos, a discipline tailor-made for social humiliation.

She was almost never late for school, but one drippy autumn
day, her mom had forgotten to set the alarm and they’d both overslept. As if
responding to a fire drill, they’d thrown on their clothes and bolted for the
door. Nina had made Sonnet choke down a container of yogurt in a nod toward
breakfast, and Sonnet had yanked on her socks—ridiculously mismatched—and shoes
in the car. There had been no time to smooth out her Jheri-curled style or to
twist it into the usual neat braids.

“I look like a troll doll,” she’d yowled, balking as her mom
pulled up at the school.

“You look fine, Sonnet. I have bushy hair, too. Part of my
Italian-American heritage.”

“Your hair looks nice. Mine doesn’t. And I hate this sweater.”
She regretted grabbing the somewhat worn gray hoodie from a hook as she’d raced
out the door. “It’s a hand-me-down. I hate hand-me-downs.”

“It’s a good sweater. It’s Esprit.”

“It has a G on it. Everybody knows I don’t have a G in my
name.” One inside pocket label, someone had written Property of Georgina Wilson,
which added insult to injury. Georgina Wilson was two years ahead of Sonnet in
school, and she lived up on Oak Hill in an old-fashioned mansion, and she never
let anyone forget that her father was the bank president, and that her mother
was in charge of the very exclusive Rainbow Girls.

Sonnet’s mom was their maid. Well, not really their maid, but
she cleaned house for them once a week in order to help pay her tuition. She’d
been in school forever, getting ahead a bit at a time, explaining to Sonnet that
a college degree was worth every bit of hard work it took to earn it. The
Wilsons probably thought they were doing Nina a favor, giving her Georgina’s
hand-me-downs, but Sonnet didn’t see it that way. To Sonnet, wearing castoff
clothing was just another way to make her different from the other kids at
school. As if she needed one more thing to make her different.

First, her mom was way younger than all the other moms of the
kids in her class. Sometimes people mistook her mom for her babysitter, even.
And second, her dad was just gone. She never saw him and heard from him only a
couple of times a year, if that. Third, she was biracial, which was not supposed
to be a big deal in this day and age (she’d heard people whispering that when
they thought she couldn’t hear), but different was different, period.

The last thing you wanted on square dance day was to be
different.

“I feel sick,” she’d told her mom as they stopped at the curb
in front of the school. “I think I should spend the day at Nonna’s.”

“You’re not sick, just late,” her mom had said, scribbling a
note. “Give this to the lady at the office and you won’t get in trouble.”

“I don’t want to go,” Sonnet said.

“You love school,” her mom stated, as if she was in charge of
what Sonnet loved and didn’t love. “You always make straight As and check-pluses
in conduct.”

School was easy, Sonnet thought. The learning part, the conduct
part. But everything else—like fitting in and making friends—that was the hard
part.

“It’s square dancing,” she confessed in a huff. “I hate square
dancing.”

Her mom had chuckled. “Everybody hates square dancing. I think
it’s required.”

“Then why do they make us do it?”

“Builds character.”

“You always say that. I don’t even know what that means.”

“When something is hard, but you do it anyway and get stronger
because you did it, that’s building character.”

Sonnet sighed. “Come on, square dancing? We have to find a
partner and sort ourselves into sets and hold hands and dance together. It’s not
hard. It’s just…yuck.” She cringed and clung to the handle of the car door.
“Mrs. Mazza makes us pick partners.”

Her mom had nodded in sympathy. “She’s old-school, that’s for
sure. She believes in building character, too. Now, here’s your lunch card.
You’ve got three punches left. I have to get to work, and you need to get to
class, okay?”

With a glum nod, Sonnet exited the car in slow motion and
entered the school like a condemned prisoner on the way to the gallows. The
square dancing lesson was just beginning when she arrived at the gym. She tried
slipping in unnoticed, but Mrs. Mazza had a special radar when it came to kids.
She could detect movement from a mile away, it seemed.

“Glad you decided to join us,” she said. “Now we have an equal
number of boys and girls, so we can get started. Over here, Sonnet. Marcus
Swoboda needs a partner.”

Nobody called Marcus Swoboda Marcus. Everybody knew his
nickname was Leaky. And everybody knew why.

Sonnet took a deep breath and held it. She wondered if it was
possible to hold her breath through the entire class. She wondered if she could
hold her breath until she passed out.

Surveying the other kids in the class, she could see the
mocking amusement in their faces. Even her supposed best friend, Zach Alger, was
doubled over, shaking with silent laughter.

Traitor, she thought.

From that day onward, she tried her best to be on time. Because
tardiness often carried unpleasant consequences.

Spurred by her aversion to being late, she now arrived at Camp
Kioga only to discover she had plenty of time to spare. Very quickly, she was
learning that video production involved long stretches of standing around and
getting organized. Jezebel was nowhere in sight; someone said she was being
primped for her first encounter with the kids she’d be working with—or rather,
performing with—for the production. Judging by the production notes Sonnet had
hastily studied, the show’s purpose was to entertain. Assuring that the visiting
children learned anything or benefited from the experience was not the concern
of Mickey Flick.

We’ll just see about that, Sonnet thought. She had read the
dossiers on the participating children, and each one was legitimately in need.
Nearly all of them came from a nontraditional household, being raised by single
parents or grandparents or even single grandparents, living below the poverty
level, surrounded by the noise and chaos of the inner city. A stay at Camp Kioga
could do wonders for kids like this, and the notion brought out Sonnet’s best
instincts and intentions. Her work at UNESCO had been with children’s agencies;
she was passionate about advocating for kids who had no voice of their own. Even
kids involved in a reality show.

She spotted Zach hunched over a laptop, conferring with the
director and a couple of others. They were looking at some footage from the day
before.

Standing behind the group, she caught a glimpse of the monitor
and nearly gagged. It was yesterday’s van ride, the part when Sonnet and Jezebel
were talking about Nina’s cancer.

“That’s an outtake, right?” she asked, feeling slightly
nauseous as she gave Zach a nudge. “You won’t air that.”

“Are you kidding?” asked a woman, one of the director’s
assistants named Cinda. “This is good stuff. A good start, anyway. People like
to watch celebrity driven shows to see the celebrity on a human level. You
brought that out in Jezebel in a big way.”

“It was a private conversation.” Sonnet glared at Zach.

“You knew I was filming,” he said, glaring back.

“Yes, but I—” All right, she was sputtering now. “This is a
show about Jezebel. It has nothing to do with me.”

“It’s a show about how Jezebel relates to the people around
her,” Cinda said, shrugging off Sonnet’s sputtering. “That’s the appeal of this
kind of show. People either want to be the talent, or they want to watch the
talent from afar and thank their lucky stars they aren’t her.”

Sonnet grabbed Zach’s sleeve and pulled him away from the
group. “New rule,” she said. “No more filming me.”

“You’d better read the fine print in the release you signed,”
he said.

“I’m not asking you as the videographer. I’m asking you as a
friend. Damn it, Zach. This morning I was thinking we could be friends
again.”

“You’re assuming I’d want that,” he shot back.

“Don’t you?” She felt a chill, and her stomach tightened.

“Okay, everybody, time to get going,” Cinda called out to
everyone. “The rest of the cast is arriving. We’re going to need all hands on
deck.”

Sonnet’s gaze stayed locked with Zach’s for maybe a heartbeat.
Then he pivoted away and went to work.

“You two fighting again?”

Sonnet gasped and turned around. “Oh, er, hey Jezebel. I didn’t
realize you were here.”

“All miked up and ready to go.” She looked even more formidable
than she had the day before, in a flowy black top over ripped jeans, black
high-top sneakers and plenty of jewelry. “How’s your momma?”

“She seemed okay when I left her,” Sonnet said. “Thanks for
asking. It was strange and scary, but good, in a way. It felt like we were
actually doing something about it. But I wonder—”

She stopped herself and glanced around in suspicion. She wasn’t
going to let down her guard a second time.

“What’s the matter?” Jezebel asked. Someone came and touched up
her makeup; she barely seemed to notice.

“I don’t want to be on camera.” She gestured toward the
approaching van. “Besides, you’ve got company.”

Just for a moment, something flashed in Jezebel’s eyes—fear.
She took a step back and drew her arms protectively around herself.

“Are you all right?” asked Sonnet.

“It’s a bunch of kids. What the hell do I know about kids?”

Sonnet studied her for a moment, bemused. Jezebel had fought
her way up from the projects, she’d stood up to an abusive boyfriend and endured
a stay in prison. Yet she was worried about meeting a group of children?

Personally, Sonnet related to children better than she did to
adults. “Kids will tell you everything you need to know. You just have to find
the right way to listen.”

Jezebel scowled at her. “How’d you get so smart about
kids?”

Sonnet shrugged. “There’s a part of me that never stopped being
one. I used to work directly with children a lot when I was getting started at
UNESCO. I miss working with them, and I miss that part of myself.”

“Then why not go back to working with kids?” Jezebel asked
bluntly.

The woman had a point. All through her march along her chosen
career path, Sonnet had moved farther and farther away from her passion for
being with kids. However, as her father often stated, she did more good for the
world’s children by heading up an agency and setting policy than she did working
with them on an individual basis.

“We’re ready for you, Jezebel,” called Cinda as a flurry of
activity erupted around the approaching van.

Sonnet stepped aside to watch the filming. Everything was so
much more technical and involved than she’d realized. Zach was in charge of the
shoot, directing two guys with shoulder cams and coordinating an amazing array
of lights the viewer would never see. She bit her lip, suddenly nervous for the
children. They might take one look at all the gear aimed at them like weapons of
siege warfare, and want to hide.

She needn’t have worried. A pack of kids of all shapes, sizes
and colors spilled from the van, looking around as though they’d just landed on
a new planet. She recognized them from their profiles—scruffy and scrappy, all
with loads of personality, which was why they’d been selected in the first
place.

There was a boy named Darnell, tall and lanky, carrying himself
like a long question mark in jeans that sagged precariously on his bony hips. A
pudgy girl named Anita stood nearby, her jaw thrust forward in combative
fashion. Next to her was another girl, Bitsy, who was even bigger than Anita,
herding the twins—Rhonda and Shawna—ahead of her. Other boys—Andre, Quincy,
Marley and Jaden. The rest followed in a blur, a small army in scuffed sneakers
and sagging socks, some with chalky scabs on their knees and elbows, all heading
for the lawn, where Jezebel awaited.

Sonnet clutched her clipboard to her chest and silently prayed
Jezebel wouldn’t fall apart. She needn’t have worried. Jezebel was the
consummate performer. With the cameras closing in, she came to life as if an
invisible muse had entered her bloodstream, and she offered the kids a smile.
“Welcome, my homeskillets,” she said. “I got some big plans for you kids this
summer.”

“Yeah?” said one of the boys. “What kinda plans?”

“What’re we gonna do?” asked someone else.

“What do you like to do?” Jezebel asked.

“Hang out.” “Play video games.” “Sleep.” “Watch TV.” “Play
basketball.” The suggestions exploded from the kids.

“We’ll do a crapload more than that. Each day, we’ll have a
theme. Y’all know what a theme is?”

Some of the kids nodded; others looked blank.

“It’s like figuring out the idea behind a song you’re making
up.”

“I never made up a song.”

“Bet you did,” Jezebel shot back. “You just didn’t know it was
a song.” She pattered out a rhythm with her hand on his head. “Don’t get me
wrong/I can’t be makin’ up no song…”

He jerked away, his cheeks scarlet. “I don’t hear no
theme.”

“You will. A theme is the one thing you’re talking about even
when you’re not talking. Like, finding happiness. And all the activities of the
day will be about finding happiness. Or honoring a hero in our lives, or what
friendship means. Come on, it’s not rocket science.”