I cringed watching the eye makeup on the right side of her face smudge onto his shirt. T-Roc gave Brooke a little squeeze before looking up at me.
‘’Sup?’
‘’Sup?’ T-Rock asked, extending a beefy arm my way. A massive diamond-encrusted watch, a gift from a former client, looked almost dainty on his wrist.
‘He only pretends to be tough, but in reality he’s a huge teddy bear.’ Brooke smiled adoringly.
Whipping back around to face her, he moaned sarcastically, ‘Why you always got to blow up my spot, girl?’
‘Don’t worry.’ I laughed and sized up his hulkish stature once more. It was safe to say T-Roc could easily intimidate any of the Emerson Brothers’ would-be attackers.
‘I gotta get going…’ he announced, swinging his arms up and back down again in an almost giddy gesture. Half-black, half-Samoan, he was as cheery as a six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound guy could be. ‘For real though, I cannot wait to see you turn this place inside out tonight!’
From the outside, Hollywood is a mass-market fantasy
factory…it is the creator of our collective imagination,
and perhaps the lasting record of what we are and
believe and dream.
–Charles Fleming
And turn the place inside out she did. With pillars of flame erupting from both sides of the stage, Brooke and her dancers kicked off the night, arousing yelps from a few unsuspecting preteens who stood a short distance from their parents. Tackling six songs in a row, stopping briefly for a costume change, the crowd watched breathlessly as Brooke morphed into a full-blown sex kitten with each onstage gyration. Her dancers writhed around her in unison as she strutted across the stage, whipping her body back and forth as if it were a weapon. Hair flying, she bumped, grinded, and crooned her way through the short set with ease. Watching her from afar–cool and composed, ignoring the mixed reactions of the crowd waiting anxiously for the Emerson Brothers–I could tell she was in her element.
When the Emersons finally took the stage, the teenaged squeals from the audience erupted into ear-splitting shrieks. A robotic voice announced each ‘brother’ one at a time:
‘Landon [poof!]…Nolan [poof!]…Jesse [poof!],’ each boy appeared in a dramatic burst of smoke and sparks. Channeling Michael Jackson, Jesse moonwalked the length of the stage, much to the delight of the girls in the audience. Clutching T-shirts, tote bags, and posters bearing his likeness, they went wild.
I’d left the T.V. on overnight by accident, and when the chatter of the morning news woke me, my ears were still ringing from the blasts of pyrotechnics from the night before. Still groggy, I slid out of bed to turn it off when the voice of the Albany newscaster caught my attention.
If you caught the concert last night at the new performing arts theater in Saratoga Springs, you may have seen her…
Cutting to shots of both Brooke and the Emersons from last night’s performance, a voiceover buzzed on while I darted down the hall to Brooke’s room:
Honing her musical chops, former beauty queen Brooke Parker landed in Saratoga Springs last night. Just eighteen years old, she’s the latest to join the Emerson Brothers on their national tour…
‘Brooke!’ I yelled. ‘You’re on T.V.!’
‘Huh?’ she said, sticking her head out of the bathroom door.
‘Look,’ I said, motioning to the footage taken at last night’s concert. Seeing herself on screen, her eyes widened with shock. Like an excited child, she popped up on her tiptoes and threw her fists up and down. Toothbrush dangling from the corner of her mouth, Brooke sprinted across the room.
But her debut music video, ‘Pillow Talk,’ released just hours before yesterday’s show, had some local parents concerned.
A clip of Brooke kneeling on satin sheets–feathers clinging to her toned, oiled body–flashed on the screen.
Brooke actually gasped, staring at me in a stunned silence before ripping the toothbrush from her mouth. She was noticeably shocked, and I immediately felt sorry for her. I was just as surprised to see the way her sexuality had been trumped up tenfold in the editing room; I even felt slightly ashamed that I might somehow be at fault for contributing to it. She was just a small-town girl excited to be shooting her first music video. How could she know it would turn out like this!? How was she supposed to know that the pervy director was taking zoom shots of her midriff? She was dancing her butt off.
Brooke gulped a mouthful of toothpaste so that she could speak; I nearly gagged. ‘I can’t believe we missed TRL yesterday!’
My jaw dropped. Concerned mothers all over upstate New York were eager to unload their two cents on local television. Brooke remained bafflingly unfazed during the series of public interviews, in which one woman called the video ‘repulsive,’ while another huffed on about the ‘pitiful, loathsome’ message it sent to young girls. At first, I figured that Brooke was simply trying to make light of it, and I nearly laughed out loud. That is, until she added, ‘Man, I hope someone Tivo’d it!’
‘This is no good,’ a voice grumbled. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed squarely over his chest, Steve narrowed his eyes at the T.V. The polar opposite of Brooke, Steve was more than just fazed by the news. But none of us, not even Steve, knew just how out-of-control things were about to get.
‘Pillow Talk’ was the talk of the town–every town. You couldn’t turn on the radio, pick up a newspaper, or turn on the television without hearing her name. She was suddenly linked to any of a bevy of issues up for discussion. Bible-belt parents and, apparently, anyone with an opinion anywhere somehow seemed to hold her singularly responsible for the moral decline in America. The buzz surrounding Brooke wasn’t all bad, however. Not only did ‘Pillow Talk’ soar to number one on M.T.V. overnight, but thanks to her ‘clever, Cleopatra-inspired bob,’ a new style icon was born. The direct result of my inexperience suddenly served as a model that was emulated by a slew of copycats all over America.
Despite the strict itinerary that required us to wait in the cold before loading onto the tour buses, I felt surprisingly refreshed. It was unusually sunny outside, which put me in good spirits and I couldn’t wait to get on the road. We were set to drive overnight, which would allow us to make it to Florida by the next afternoon. Just as I was admiring the way the rays of the sun danced along the snow-covered roofs of the quaint shops across the street, I noticed that everyone else seemed slightly cranky. Landon and Nolan weren’t speaking to each other, thanks to an argument over a video game earlier on. Already juggling the Emerson Brothers press, it was clear that Sasha hadn’t planned on Brooke’s profile rising anytime soon. The situation dampening her mood, she waited grumpily outside, complaining of back pains every so often as she leafed through a copy of Vogue with a frown on her face. Every few minutes or so, she’d look up in disgust and complain to anyone in earshot, ‘I’m too damn old for this shit.’ Up ahead I spotted David looking mildly annoyed as he paced back and forth outside the hotel with his cell phone to his ear.
‘We either need it fixed in a timely manner or we need a replacement. Otherwise we’ll be forced to cancel our remaining dates and I’m afraid that’s not an option for us.’ Listening as David negotiated with the tour bus company, my stomach turned. Missing from the convoy in front of the hotel was Brooke’s bus. Oh God, please fix this–I’m not ready to go home yet!
‘That doesn’t sound good,’ Hayley said wide-eyed as Steve zipped past us. He was already a wreck from the sudden media storm that had hit earlier that day–with every passing hour he had become increasingly stir crazy–even flipping through channels