Pop Tart. Kira Coplin
‘tea room,’ she smiled at us as we moved about. Brooke adored and was obsessed with absolutely everything in the store. She’d stop to make a fuss over one thing, saying, ‘This is the coolest ever! Oh my gawd–look, look…I have to get it!’ And two seconds later she’d be freaking out about whatever was sitting next to it. The storeowner, who must’ve known who she was, was getting a real kick out of her. I made a few laps around the store while Brooke loaded her arms with glittery candle-holders shaped like winged angels and fairy-shaped pewter pendants whose labels promised to spur creativity. On my fourth lap around the store, I was just starting to get antsy when I noticed something strange outside the store window. Three girls, no older than fifteen, were pressed up against the glass. The one on the right had a camera in her hand and every so often nudged one of the other girls as if they were daring each other to snap a photo. I told myself I was being paranoid. I’d just spent an entire day traveling with Brooke and no one had recognized her, and if they did, they certainly didn’t bother her. Even at the McDonald’s in the airport, teeming with the types of kids who went crazy for the Emerson Brothers, no one knew who she was. I looked back at the front window, certain that the girls had gone on their way by now. Instead, I was shocked to see that not only had two more of their girlfriends joined them, but that now all types of people had stopped. Squinting their eyes, they peered inside to see what all the fuss was about.
‘Hey Brooke,’ I said, suddenly worried. Growing up in Beverly Hills, I’d become accustomed to the flashing lights of the paparazzi. Never had I been on the other end of it. I watched as five became ten, and fifteen became a crowd. I knew it was time to get Brooke out of there. She was, well, oblivious and delightedly preoccupied.
‘These, you know, could only be created during the correct moon phases,’ the storeowner was telling Brooke, who was wide-eyed and hung on her every word.
‘Hey, sorry to cut this short, but we’ve got a problem,’ I said pointing to the front of the store.
‘Oh my goodness.’ The storeowner smiled; obviously pleased it was her store that was causing all the commotion. Watching as anxiety spread across Brooke’s face, she said, ‘Don’t worry girls. I’m going to lock this door up here in front–nice and tight. And when you feel ready to go–you can slip out the back unnoticed.’
‘Thanks,’ I told her. Turning back to Brooke, I said, ‘We should go. Soon.’ I motioned toward the back of the store, reaching out for her hand.
‘Wait!’ she cried out. ‘I really, really want to get some of this stuff.
‘All right, just hurry up,’ I told her, puzzling at the clutter of novelty charms, new age books, candles, and mythical figurines she’d set on top of the counter.
‘I forgot my money,’ she sighed, looking at the crowd, still clamoring for a glimpse of her. ‘I guess we won’t be able to come back, huh?’
‘Here,’ I said, throwing my credit card on the counter. With every item the storeowner rang up, I cringed, but the only thing I really cared about at that moment was getting back to the tour bus in one piece. Too much money and more anxiety later, Brooke’s new spiritual trinkets were bagged and we left out the back entrance.
Our footsteps echoed in the alley as we shuffled behind the rows of stores. We laughed under our breath, rehashing Brooke’s first real celebrity moment, and our casual ‘escape.’ But we had spoken too soon. Suddenly, we heard something up ahead that made us stop in our tracks.
‘Hey! Brooke! Hey!’ The voice belonged to a teenage girl. We knew she was just a kid, but from where she stood in the shadow-filled alley, the way she addressed Brooke, she appeared almost menacing. Her scream alerted others, who rushed around the corner. I looked over at Brooke–her arms weighted down with two large shopping bags. She looked totally helpless.
‘There she is!’ we heard someone yell amid the chattering voices. Erupting in spontaneous laughter, Brooke turned on her heel and began running down the alley. Following right behind her, I could hear footsteps chasing after us.
‘I can’t believe people are runnin’ after me!’ Brooke shrieked mid-gallop, still giggling, as if she didn’t know what else to do. Sprinting as fast as my legs could carry me, the wind roaring in my ears and my long, loose hair flying behind me in waves, I felt like the Beatles in the opening scene of A Hard Day’s Night. Overcome by a headlong rush, we raced down the alley. As we rounded a corner, up ahead we could still hear the voice of the girl who had first spotted Brooke in the alley. Her angry shout, fading in the distance, was the last thing we heard:
‘BITCH!’
The more I see, the less I know for sure.
–John Lennon
Nearly twenty hours later, after countless rest stops and highways, we stumbled off the dim tour bus and out onto the sidewalks of Pompano Beach, happy at last to be out of the snow and stretch our stiff joints. Our last two stops in South Florida–where the Emersons had more fans than anywhere else it seemed–were two nights apart, leaving a day in between to finish up press interviews, at venues just forty-five minutes from each other. Unloading the bus at our first destination took longer than we had expected, and before anyone could check into hotel rooms, the road crew found themselves right back on the buses en route to the concert venue just a few miles away.
Brooke, of course, was among the few that were able to get into their rooms right away. At Steve’s urging, I stuck close by so that I could be summoned immediately when needed. All smiles and giggles as we entered the hotel, Brooke moved like molasses, enjoying her own world and completely oblivious to many things, like the fact that we were in a serious time crunch, and that she was causing a sizeable commotion by showing off her pierced navel in that turquoise sports bra and old, skintight sweat pants.
‘It feels s-o-o good to be home,’ she said loudly as we crossed the lobby. Flipping her hair from side to side as we passed the large splashing fountain in the lobby, we made our way to the front desk.
Brooke smiled sweetly. ‘Hey, can you tell me if my parents are here yet? They’re meeting me for the show.’
‘Name please?’ the clerk asked without looking up from her computer screen.
‘It’s uh—’ Brooke paused, lowering her voice as she looked around to make sure that no one else was in earshot. ‘Magda Tropicana.’
‘Wait–what?’ I erupted into laughter. ‘Magda–who?’
‘It’s an alias. Steve said I should start using one. Isn’t it good? I made up plenty more, but I think this is my favorite.’
‘They have arrived and have gone into town to kill some time–would you like me to alert them for you when they return?’ the woman asked as she placed two electronic room keys on the slab of marble in front of her.
‘Yes, please! Tell them to come right up to my room,’ she squealed.
‘Okay…Magda,’ I said, tousling her hair as we left the desk. ‘Let’s hurry up and get changed. I’m dying to get out of these clothes.’ Tugging on the oversized sweatshirt stained purple from the grape soda I’d spilled on it somewhere between North and South Carolina, we made our way to her room.
The time crunch threw everything else out of whack. Keeping his cool, David wasted no time devising new schedules for both Brooke and the Emersons. I had to admit that it was pretty entertaining to watch David at work. He remained at an even keel throughout even the most turbulent times, turning off the goofy guy and stepping into the shoes of a serious business professional. Catching my eye as he flew past Brooke’s room where I was calmly waiting outside, he broke out of character as a boyish grin spread across his face. ‘Hello hello,’ he said making his way over to me.
‘Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,’ I yelled