Читать книгу Pop Tart - Kira Coplin - Страница 9

I don’t know anything about music.

In my line you don’t have to.

–Elvis Presley

Two weeks later, stuffed inside a snug North Face ski jacket, I boarded a flight to Albany, excited to join the tour with Brooke. Steve had booked the three of us on a later flight, first-class tickets for the both of them, coach for me. I didn’t mind–in fact, I had expected as much–but as I boarded the plane, trudging toward the back with an armful of magazines and a large carry-on, I heard a voice cry out: ‘Where y’all going?’ Turning my head, I spotted a cozy-looking Brooke, messy blond hair piled high atop her head.

‘I’m back here,’ I yelled over to her.

‘What?!’ she shrieked, turning to Steve. Feeling the pressure of the line behind me, I headed toward my seat, unable to reply.

I wasn’t sure if he was just trying to keep her happy or if the whining had finally gotten to him (probably both) but about ten minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Steve, who appeared slightly stressed and far less jovial than the first time we’d met. Swapping his reclining leather seat for mine, he left the free booze, personal T.V. screen, and aromatherapy oils behind. Since Brooke and I hadn’t yet spent any time together outside of the makeup chair, it was the perfect opportunity to get to know one another a little better. Within seconds of being seated, Brooke whispered into my ear with a hushed giggle.

‘I’ve never flown first class before!’

‘That’s okay.’ I smiled. ‘I haven’t either.’

As we flew across the country, talking nonstop the entire way, I was thoroughly amused by her wide-eyed wonderment. She was giddy, and seemed to be fascinated by everything. The truth was I felt equally awestruck by this new world.

‘Aren’t these so cute?’ Brooke squealed with excitement every time she came across something new, pointing out terrycloth eye shades, tiny tins full of mints, pairs of blue cotton socks, or sticks of shea butter lip balm. It was all actually quite endearing. As Brooke navigated through hundreds of channels on the interactive screen in front of her, sliding her finger from one title to the next, she came across an old Disney film that caught her attention.

‘I used to love this movie when I was a kid,’ I told her looking up. Going head-to-head on screen were two golden-topped twins in The Parent Trap.

‘I have younger twin brothers, but I always wanted a twin sister of my own, didn’t you?’ She grabbed at a tuft of blond hair that was sprouting out of her messy bun and twirled it around her finger.

‘Well, I’m an only child so I always thought that any brother or sister would be better than having none,’ I told her.

She ripped her hands away from her head and fluttered her arms up and down in excitement, not because I was an only child, but as if she hadn’t been paying attention at all, she said, ‘Look, look–this is my favorite part!’

I shifted my attention back to the movie, watching as the twins served veal parmigiana to their recently reunited parents before a voice onscreen announced:

Well, without…further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce you direct from Boston…playing Beethoven’s ‘Fifth Symphony’ on the piano…

‘That’s crazy…’I said, a strange déjà vu settling over me.

‘What is?’ Brooke replied, wide-eyed.

‘Besides being direct from Boston,’ I laughed, ‘this movie, and more specifically, this scene, was the first time I saw the big black countertop in my parents’ dining room as the grand piano it actually was…unfortunately for them.’

‘You play too?’ Brooke was exuberant, nearly leaping out of her seat.

‘Yeah, Beethoven’s “Fifth” was actually the first song I taught myself. I think it was the one time I truly amazed my father,’ I said whimsically. ‘Not looking to a Disney movie for profound insight or anything like that, but isn’t it funny when you pull a bunch of things like that together in your head?’ I asked her. ‘I know it doesn’t mean anything,’ I said, chuckling.

‘Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?’ Brooke asked, now all of a sudden glassy-eyed and hanging from my every word. I didn’t know exactly how to answer that question–sometimes I did and sometimes I didn’t. Believing in fate had always sort of been a matter of convenience for me. If I’d gotten sick to death of harping on a single issue with my mother for hours, I’d find my way out with the words ‘what will be, will be.’ Watching a friend wail on in hysterics the sixth time her boyfriend had broken up with her, I found myself repeating ‘everything happens for a reason,’ because no one likes being told outright their boyfriend’s a dick, no matter how true it is. I wouldn’t play along with asinine explanations. (He hasn’t returned your calls because his phone’s just dead; those gold earrings on his night table are his mother’s, of course, not some other girl’s…) Fate was often the perfect scapegoat, always there to take the pressure off difficult discussions or decisions. So, I guess, I didn’t really believe in it. Brooke, however, from the look on her face–expectant eyes, mouth hanging just slightly open–was dying to believe in something, and that something today was fate. She was ready, eager even, to find proof to support her theory through the most mundane events, and she looked like she needed my approval to cement her belief.

‘Some of the things that happened over the past year, when I think about them, I figure there’s just got to be a reason for them,’ she said. ‘I mean, look at how you and I met?’

‘Through work…’ I said. Excited as I was about this new job, I wasn’t about to chalk it up to the stars aligning or anything like that.

‘Not just through work,’ she said almost defensively, as if I were treating her like a silly little kid. ‘I mean, we both get along well and the fact that we have so much in common, like how we both love music and stuff…’ While I didn’t think anyone would be hard-pressed to find someone who could simultaneously find their way around a makeup chair and appreciate song, I had to admit the circumstances here were oddly fortuitous. I thought about the woman in Florida with arthritis-stricken hands who usually did Brooke’s makeup, and Sheryl’s very public disgrace. In a sad way, their misfortune was the best thing that had ever happened to me. If there is such a thing as fate, I took note that it could be very cruel as well.

Brooke sat there for a moment, making a nervous clicking sound with her jaw, which I would later associate with Brooke being lost for words. ‘I get homesick real easily, but I’m gettin’ to do what I love most–dancin’ and singing my heart out–so I gotta believe that this is all happening for a reason.’ In a blink, that certain sense of seriousness that had prompted her to wax philosophical had disappeared and was replaced with a boisterous laugh she was unable to contain. She shrugged her shoulders and looked down at her fingers, coated in globby purple nail polish, before pausing entirely.

Then she was off to the next thing.

Although we’d been up since the crack of dawn, we were the last to arrive. Eyeing the snowflakes that danced on the wind as we exited the terminal, I zipped my coat up as far as it could go. I had almost forgotten how bitterly cold East Coast winters could be. Brooke, who hadn’t traveled outside of Florida until this year, was excessively unprepared, under-dressed, and consequently, unhappy. Standing next to me outside the airport, blue lips chattering, she clutched white-knuckled on to a cologne-drenched blazer Steve had draped around her shoulders.

‘All right ladies, just two more minutes, I promise!’ Steve said, struggling to compose a BlackBerry email with his right thumb alone, while his left hand juggled a stack of papers that kept dropping one to four sheets at a time. Brooke’s eyes darted back and forth in search of the town car that would whisk us away to safety.

‘There it is!’ I exclaimed, nudging her just a few seconds later.

‘Thank goodness. I am fr-e-e-e-z-i-n-g!’ Brooke squealed as it came to a stop and we leapt into the back seat. The heat blasting, it was nice and toasty inside. Without breaking his gaze from the screen of his BlackBerry, Steve followed behind us.

Rows of pine trees freshly sprinkled with snow surrounded us as we made our way to Saratoga Springs to join our tour mates. Shifting his attention from his inbox for the first time, Steve looked up at them while Brooke, head propped against the window on the opposite side, dozed off; a halo of condensation forming where the warmth of her face met the chill of the glass.

I felt miserable–my eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and my head throbbed–but even the worst aches and pains couldn’t deter my anticipation. My first real job–one that actually came with a substantial paycheck–and I had gotten it myself! Even my mother, who at first appeared skeptical, seemed happy for me. She kept saying things like: ‘I don’t get it…who are you working with?’ or ‘You’re doing pageant makeup? Oh right, she was in a pageant…’ Sheryl, on the other hand, was not as enthusiastic about my little ‘break’ as I imagined she would be. The Monday following the shoot, I’d met her in the salon at our usual time and told her the good news. I waited for her usual shrieks of excitement but none came. She just nodded her head in silence instead. Because her hand was still in a splint, we had been forced to cancel all of our bookings for the upcoming week anyway, so the fact that I was leaving her assistant-less for two weeks wasn’t the problem. Her feigned nonchalance made it quite clear–she wished she had booked the job instead.

‘Oh my gawd! It’s so cute!’ Brooke gushed suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Jackie, look! Isn’t it adorable?’ Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she smiled sweetly, enchanted by the sprawling Victorian inn just outside our window. While I nodded my head, I secretly hoped we were staying somewhere else. Maybe it was the Californian in me, but I preferred clean, modern spaces over nineteenth-century structures decorated with doilies and hand-painted stencils. Apparently, I was in the minority. Two of Brooke’s dancers, as excited as she was, waited in the lobby to greet her.

‘Look how pretty!’ one shrieked, pointing to the large arrangement of fresh flowers on display near the front desk.

‘So beat,’ the other agreed.

Even Sasha, who had complained to me about this trip for nearly an hour as we waited for the video shoot to wrap, genuinely seemed happy to be here. She trotted through the reception area with a big smile on her face, turning to me before laughing, apparently at my expression, which must have betrayed my distaste for the inn. As if on cue, Robert–hard to imagine ever admitting to having a good time–twirled through the lobby with another man on his arm. Okay…so maybe it wasn’t the hotel that had lifted his spirits overnight.

‘Oh, this place is incredible! How obsessed am I? No, seriously!’ His shrill laugh caught me off-guard. I listened as Robert gushed to his boy toy about their room, talking breathlessly about the details he loved (the period brass chandeliers and the lace curtains) as opposed to the things he was obsessed with (the Victorian rose wallpaper and the hotel owner’s personal collection of Boyd’s Bears). I hoped that jolly Robert was here to stay.

By the time my room was ready, I had only ten minutes to change and make sure my set bag was in order. I left myself with only seven, however, after stashing the oh-so-creepy collection of porcelain dolls adorning my hotel bed into the closet. I pulled on an adorable Trina Turk tweed mini that Lauren had generously loaned to me after I’d called her on the verge of tears, distraught that I had nothing cool to wear. Only now did I realize I’d forgotten tights to go with it. With no time to waste worrying over my own appearance, I slipped on a pair of wedge heels and dashed out the door, making it downstairs just in time to jump in one of the buses to the venue. We pulled out onto Broadway, one of the busiest areas in Saratoga Springs during the winter. People outside ducked in and out of the bustling bistros and funky boutiques housed in the Victorian storefronts that lined the streets. Turning off Broadway, the bus chugged toward the city’s edge. The concert was set to take place at a brand-new, state-of-the-art theater that had just been built on the campus of a small liberal arts college. The Emerson Brothers were one of the five big acts that had been booked to help kick off the venue’s opening season with a bang.

Inside the sprawling performing arts center, decidedly out of place in comparison to the older buildings it neighbored, people buzzed back and forth excitedly. When I arrived, a group of volunteers, presumably college students, had just finished setting up so Brooke could do her sound check. I wandered backstage as they were leaving, pulling up a chair near the sound console to watch her in action. Save for the chatter of a prerecorded vocal track that Brooke relied on during her dance-heavy numbers–Gary, the sound engineer, was working on it now–the auditorium was strangely silent.

‘What would happen if it gave out?’ I blurted out as my curiosity got the best of me.

Gary, not looking up from his work, muttered back with certainty, ‘Wouldn’t happen…’

‘Really? How so?’

‘There’s a backup system, so ain’t nothing ever gonna go wrong,’ he assured me in a way that also suggested that he no longer wished to make small talk.

I focused my attention on the stage. It was plastered with Emerson Brothers posters: three teenage faces, frosted tips and pearly whites and airbrushed to perfection. Additional signage peppered throughout showed a cartoon character wearing gold chains, baggy jeans, and a basketball jersey with SC printed on it, drinking a can of–you guessed it–Street Cred. Emerging from behind a large, cartoonish basketball shoe, standing there in her faded gray sweat suit, Brooke finally began performing.

‘Mad-ness!’ She belted into the microphone. The sound of her voice–the way it seemed to fill the big, empty space surrounding us with spirit–was invigorating. I was quickly reminded of the collage of sounds that had made up the musical moments of my life thus far. Between my grandmother, ‘Dodo’ as we called her, and one of my father’s famous clients, an actor/musician who had opened up his own record company, my introduction to music came at a very young age. From six on, it seemed as if we were always around the recording studio. And during the days that we weren’t, I’d hammer away on the keys of that baby grand I had discovered in one corner of our living room. Playing it was something that just came naturally to me. I can only explain it by saying that when I looked down at the keys, they just made sense to me. Listening to Brooke up on that stage, I was immediately aware of the rare opportunity I had stumbled upon. Just as Brooke was finishing, I could hear muffled voices gathering on the other side of the venue doors as people began to line up outside. How many people would kill to be in my position?

Past the gaudy décor, I made my way toward the cluster of private dressing rooms behind the upstage wall. The Emerson Brothers congregated beneath the harsh fluorescent lights in one of the large makeup areas, each waiting their turn. Their longtime artist ploughed through them, one by one, slathering concealer over the dark circles lining their eyes and coating their peach fuzz with layers of powder–not a beat missed; it reminded me of an assembly line. I paused for a moment to watch–there was nothing special about her technique–in fact, we were technically working the same job for the same amount of money. But there was a difference between her and me, and a very important one at that. She was a veteran, a true professional, and because she had paid her dues she had the job security that I did not. There were plenty of girls like me all over Los Angeles, working in cosmetic boutiques, salons, and small photo shoots–all eager to get their hands on an opportunity like this one. Continuing down the hall, I decided right then and there that I would do whatever it took to prove myself in this industry, and to never take a moment of this experience for granted.

I noticed a blue piece of paper that read Brooke Parker hanging from the door to the right of where I stood. Reaching for the doorknob, hoping to unload the heavy makeup bag I’d been toting around with me, a voice chimed sweetly from behind me, ‘It’s awfully quiet in there.’ The voice belonged to a young blond leaning against an adjacent wall.

‘Excuse me?’ I asked, startled.

‘I’m Hayley–I’m friends with Brooke. I go to school about two and a half hours east of here.’

Hayley was a classic beauty: thin and tall, almost the spitting image of Grace Kelly…from the neck up, that is. Her hair, long and stringy, fell limp around her shoulders, nearly blending into the textured yarn of the shapeless woven poncho she wore. Outdated Mudd jeans hung low on her hips, flaring at the ankle to reveal suede Birkenstock sandals paired with rainbow-striped socks, which encased each of her toes like a glove. Hayley went to Syracuse, she told me, with a classmate and fellow World Teach volunteer she’d met in Namibia. Just a hemp-necklace shy of hippie, Hayley was a freshman at Syracuse. We were so wrapped up in our conversation that we both nearly jumped out of our skin when the door to the dressing room swung open. Standing in front of us, Jesse looked strangely disheveled. He seemed out of breath and was fumbling with something below his waist. Though I tried not to look, I couldn’t help but stare in shock, watching as he struggled with the fly of his pants. Caught red-handed, an embarrassed grin spread across his face. He nodded quickly in our direction before bounding past us.

‘Well, well. What have we got here?’ Hayley said slyly as we entered the dressing room. Brooke, who was pulling a fluffy white robe around her body, looked equally ruffled. With her white-blond locks in disarray, mascara smudged, and skin glistening with a sheen that could have saved us three bottles of baby oil during the ‘Pillow Talk’ debacle, she was certainly up to no good. Lowering herself onto the love seat, she exchanged knowing looks with Hayley, pausing for a moment before leaping into the arms of her oldest friend like a giddy schoolgirl.

‘Got you something.’ Hayley smiled. Reaching into the patchwork purse slung loosely across her body, she pulled out what looked like a green rock.

‘What…is it?’ Brooke asked, taking it in her hands.

‘Chrysoprase,’ Hayley said casually. ‘I picked it up at this trippy store right off Broadway. It protects against negative energy, like a dream catcher except for when you’re not sleeping…and it’s particularly good for working with large groups of people.’ She smiled, glancing down the hallway, where a cluster of dancers had gathered to practice their steps.

‘How does it do that?’ Brooke wondered, propping one of her honeyed legs up against the vanity table that was covered with Kabuki brushes, stacks of palettes, and tubes of various sizes and colors. My makeup bag disemboweled.

‘Gemstones and crystals house spiritual properties that can balance the energies around us,’ Hayley said, serious for the first time. Dragging a stool across the room to where I was coating Brooke’s face in a light, lavender-tinted base, Hayley continued. ‘But you have to keep it with you or it won’t work…I mean, you can set it down of course, but just make sure you put it someplace close by…where you can still feel its healing vibrations, you know?’

Flipping the green rock, the Chrysler praise or something, in the palm of her hand, a look of curiosity bordering on fascination spread across her face.

‘Jackie!’ Brooke broke away from the rock. Squeezing Hayley’s forearm, she enthusiastically made introductions. ‘This is my BFF Hayley. She’s the sweetest person in the whole, wide world. She goes to school around here so I told her to drop on by. And Hayley, this is Jackie…’

‘Oh, Jackie and I go way back,’ Hayley said warmly.

We playfully exchanged a handshake. ‘Nice to meet you again.’ I smiled at her, while attempting to reapply Brooke’s mascara.

‘Hey-y-y-y…’ Robert sighed as he entered the room–I could tell from his tone that he was jolly no more. How could he run so hot and cold? I just didn’t get him. Absorbed by the newfound powers that had been bestowed upon her, Brooke barely flinched as he heaved the large hockey bag full of the Emerson’s rejects from his shoulder onto the floor with a big BOOM! Startled, I glanced up at him, quickly noticing the costumes draped over his arm. The first was a skintight race car jumpsuit offset with a sporty checkered stripe down one side. The second, a sparkly unitard adorned with iridescent flowers, wasn’t much better. I couldn’t understand why her look, Barbie doll meets circus performer, differed so greatly from the Emersons’, who were always dressed so cool.

Robert had caught my stare. Gleaning my thoughts, he looked back at me, cocking his head in judgment. I scrambled for words, hoping to ease the situation with some kind of compliment. ‘I have the perfect eye shadow for that flowery one!’ I smiled. Wrinkling his nose, he looked around for a place to hang Brooke’s costumes.

‘Oooohhh…ain’t those cute?’ a throaty voice bellowed.

Appearing out of nowhere, Sasha accosted the tiny pieces of clothing Robert was hanging on to. He looked as if he wanted to slap her hands away from the precious garments, but knowing where he stood in the pecking order, turned to her with a feigned smile on his face instead. Abruptly shifting her interest away from the bejeweled bodice in her grip, Sasha began rattling off a list of wardrobe concerns she had for Robert, who stood directly behind me with his arms crossed over his chest. Although they were engaged in a long-winded debate that seemed to be centered on Landon’s new hairstyle, the close proximity of their conversation made me feel as if I, the newbie, were on display. Feeling as if my every move were up for criticism, my palm–wrapped tightly around a makeup brush–felt clammy as I swept midnight blue shadow across Brooke’s lids. To my left, Hayley and Brooke were engrossed in their own tête-à-tête which, from what I could tell by only half-listening, had something to do with ‘negative energies’ and ‘mean people.’ Trying hard to drown out the background noise around me, I focused my attention on Brooke’s pout–disrupting her chatter by dotting a glob of pink gloss on her lips for the finishing touch.

Standing straight up, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. With Robert behind me, I angled Brooke’s chair off to the side so I could step back and survey my work. Reversing three paces, I was pleased to see that the way I’d dramatically lined her eyes had successfully transformed her from ingénue to glamour girl. And just as I was about to give myself a big pat on the back–it happened. Something on the floor behind me caused my body to lurch backward. Reaching out my hands, I instinctively tried to regain balance, betrayed by my legs, which were already unsteady in four-inch heels. The ground beneath my feet quickly disappeared. Flipping backwards, I landed on the hard concrete floor–legs up in the air–with a thud. I lay there for a moment wishing I could melt into the ground and disappear. Remembering that I was wearing a skirt, I jolted upward only to find four stunned pairs of eyes watching me in horror, unsure how to react. I narrowed my eyes toward the floor ahead, spotting the culprit: an overstuffed hockey bag of clothes. The increase of blood flowing to my face and ears as I blushed in embarrassment distracted from the throbbing of my tailbone and the rising hatred I felt for Robert. So much for putting my best foot forward–err, backward. Shrugging my shoulders, I flashed a nervous smile signaling that I was okay. Okay, show’s over, people…

‘Heh, heh, heh….’ Sasha guffawed, finally breaking the silence. ‘Have a nice trip–see you next fall!’

Soon the others were in stitches. Wiping tears from her eyes, Sasha chuckled, looking down at me with a goofy grin. ‘You okay, Calamity?’

‘Just fine,’ I muttered sheepishly and turned my focus back to Brooke, hoping the others would also reoccupy themselves.

‘’Sup, my girl!’ a gruff voice behind me barked just as I began to apply Brooke’s finishing touches.

‘T-Rooooc!’ Brooke leapt from the chair, rushing toward the N.F.L. linebacker lookalike now barreling into the room.

‘Gimme some love!’ He threw his enormous arms around Brooke’s tiny body.

Still buried in his chest and beaming, Brooke called out to me, ‘Jackie, this is my most favorite person in the whole wide world–Tariq. But we all call him T-Roc.’

Erupting in sarcastic laughter, the man retorted, ‘You say e’erbody be your favorite in the whole wide world.’

Brooke pouted playfully and whined, ‘But you know you’re my favoritest, T-Roc.’ Brow furrowed, he nodded in mock doubt, as if to say keep talking.

‘T-Roc’s been working with the boys forever,’ she said waving a hand toward the hallway in the direction of the Emerson Brothers’ dressing rooms. Her legs dangled, making her look like a child in his arms.

‘Round the damn clock, kid!’ He released Brooke from what amounted to an extremely long bear hug and stood straight up.

‘So…’ she said with a sly smile, ‘you finally get the courage to do it?’

‘Do what?’ He lumbered over Brooke, an almost comical pairing.

Delivering a light punch to his gut, she whined, ‘You k-n-o-w-w-w…’

T-Roc grabbed his stomach in sarcastic agony and laughed. ‘All right, all right, all right.’ He laughed. ‘Take it easy killah. You will be happy to know that I did ask–even got down on my damn knee.’

Brooke’s eyes grew wider. ‘And?’

A sly grin spread across his face. ‘Shit, you think anybody gonna say no to this,’ he chuckled tossing his arms up to the side.

‘T!’ Brooke squealed, leaning in to embrace him again. ‘You’re getting married!’

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!’