Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (18 page)
Star shrugged. “For what?”
“That day we were on the morning news, you know—the mural…” he said in a hushed tone. “Well, an art agent from New Mexico
was in town, and he saw my work on TV, checked out my Web site, and signed me. I officially have an art agent now. I’m moving
to Santa Fe by the end of the year.”
Star shoved her hands in her jean pockets to anchor herself from the thought of him physically being out of her life forever.
No more worrying—or hoping—she might bump into him around town.
“You’re welcome, I guess? Glad something good came out of that mess. Congrats.”
“So what’s new with you?” he asked, sliding his gaze quickly toward Harrison. “You look cheery. I remember that blouse. We
bought it—”
“I’m
very
cheery!” she interrupted. “I’ve been doing freelance PR. I’m organizing stuff for the CraftOlympics… and… I have my debut
solo exhibit! At La Pachanga! On November fifth!”
Theo leaned back and stroked his chin, just like he always did when he was surprised. They hadn’t seen each other in a while,
but she could still read his expressions like a children’s alphabet book. “Well, check
you
out, Estrella Feliz. I’ll have to come see it.”
“Sure. Well, take care and good luck,” she said. He passed through the entrance and saluted her. She waited for the door to
close and then collapsed against it.
“I didn’t know you made art,” Harrison said.
“Neither did I.” She giggled. “But I better get on it!”
From:
[email protected]
Date: September 12, 2010
Subject: Checking in
Hello, mi reina, how goes it? Your mother and I are enjoying our time here at Omega. In the mornings we start the day with
tai chi, followed by meditation. Then we work in the garden, prepping the veggies for meals. In the afternoon we volunteer
in the library.
Off the record, I’m craving a beer and am bored out of my mind, but at least I’ve lost weight!
Your mother, meanwhile, has taken up with a renegade beading posse and she has cranked out some incredible jewelry using healing
stones, crystals, and African trading beads. I’m using the time to chill, although I do help in the kitchen now and then.
They have an incredible chef who is sharing his recipes for me to use at the restaurant. New Age Mexican food—what do you
think?
I’m happy to hear the centerpieces are going so well. Thanks for sending the picture. I think you should make a few extra
that we can put in the restaurant. Have Myrna cut you a check for the extra supplies.
As far as the gallery for your exhibit—are you serious? If you can confirm enough pieces for a show, you can have the space.
Opening reception will be Friday, November 5th. We booked the room for the Día de los Muertos children’s artist installations,
but we can mix it up this year and put those in the atrium. Please send me pictures of what you plan to show. Have Myrna print
up the postcards immediately. Can we hire you to write the press release for your own event? (Just kidding).
I’m very proud of you, m’ija.
If you need us, call Omega’s main office and they will get us. As you know, cell phones don’t work out here. We’ll be home
soon.
Love to you,
Dad
T
hanks to 50-percent-off coupons in the newspaper, Wednesday afternoons at Maker’s Marketplace rivaled any designer-store clearance
sale. The sixty-five-year-old retail outlet spanned ten thousand square feet of every type of bead, elastic, glitter, plastic
flower, and every other notion invented. The business attracted more than just local crafters hooked on wholesale prices.
It also drew in wedding coordinators, interior decorators, kitschy collectors for the array of vintage findings, school teachers,
art directors, and prop masters. No chain store in the country could compete with the treasures at Maker’s Marketplace.
Coupons in hand, Ofie, Chloe, Star, and Benecio counted and plucked the plastic cacti from the shelves and dropped them into
the basket. A bit of attitude lingered. After two weeks, the craftista honeymoon had worn out its welcome as the members dreaded
the chore ahead of them. Even the stock boy pricing the silk ivy vines noticed the tension, and hurried to get out of their
way.
In the past two meetings, the group had produced only eight centerpieces, much less than the quota Star asked of them. The
women began to grate on each other’s nerves. Chloe blamed Ofie for taking up precious time with the show-and-tell of her heinous
craft projects. Star resented Chloe for being a so-called “expert,” yet never helping to get a system down to create the cactus
gardens. Ofie complained at dinner every night about both Star’s and Chloe’s lack of enthusiasm, and tried to round up the
group other days of the week. But no one besides Benecio would agree to it. The momentum faded further as Chloe’s work schedule
doubled due to the fall arts season and the launch of Hispanic Heritage Month events; Ofie came down with strep; and Star
spent all her free time researching emerging art trends for her upcoming exhibit. The only committed CraftOlympian turned
out to be Benecio. In between algebra and government class this morning, he text-scolded all the women to meet for the buying
trip, and then he begged Alice for a lift.
Star, embarrassed a fourteen-year-old cracked the whip instead of her, used the day to hop on task. She called Maker’s Marketplace
to ensure they carried the necessary centerpiece ingredients, and then measured out the balance of the glitter needed. Between
eBay, Craigslist, local paper arts stores, and Harrison’s mom’s craft group, twenty boxes remained for the centerpieces out
of the original fifty-eight. Her parents were due home in a few days and the five thousand dollars had been replaced in their
bank account. As soon as Star cleared the hurdle of her exhibit, she planned to take Myrna out for a lobster dinner to thank
her for keeping the ordeal under wraps.
“Can you believe the CraftOlympics is only a couple months away?” Star sang out in an attempt to spark conversation.
“Please don’t stress me out right now, Star. I know time is short. We’ll get them done,” Chloe snapped. Meanwhile, Ofie wandered
off to the fabric section.
“Ofie,” Chloe hollered down the main walkway of the store. “Please don’t shop now. Come back here with us. We need you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Sure thing!” said the pudgy housewife, hustling over while adjusting her bra strap under a black tee decorated
with hand-drawn hearts. Chloe sighed. Her involvement with the committee incited a new set of problems—Ofie’s unnecessary
splurging. At the first meeting she presented everyone with necklaces she made with precious-metal clay. The next day, Larry
came into the station, distressed. He confessed to Chloe that after buying the kiln and all the tools with her Maker’s Marketplace
credit card, Ofie had spent almost five hundred dollars, and he would have to take on extra hours to pay for it. He said Ofie
swore to make back the investment with sales of the necklaces, but both Larry and Chloe knew that was as likely as snow in
the summer. Chloe didn’t want to become anyone’s personal counselor, but she did feel worried for the Fuentes family, mainly
Anjelica. Therefore, she agreed to derail Ofie from spending money if the opportunity arose.
The saddest part?
None of the group members could identify what Ofie’s handmade pendants were supposed to be. Benecio thought they were avocados,
Star figured they were eggs. Chloe lost hers. If she’d known it cost $166, she would have taken better care of it.
Star pointed out the adhesive aisle to Chloe, and together they swept up twenty-four jars. Chloe despised every second. Not
only did she loathe crafts, but the scores of rabid shoppers mixed with the cheap scent of potpourri that permeated the air
made her nauseous. Not to mention getting stopped every few minutes for autographs. She wished she could go home and slither
out of her work clothes, which today consisted of a slinky thyme-colored Carolina Herrera cotton dress with elegant white
topstitching, and a four-inch-high pair of taupe death wedges. Her body and spirit ached. She had spent the past six hours
at the office in strategy meetings, one of which consisted of a disgusting quickie in the oft-empty nursing lounge with Mark
Jefferies. This time he wagged a bit part in a blockbuster movie shooting in downtown Phoenix next year. The role called for
a TV reporter. Chloe cursed herself for accepting the bribe, but couldn’t pass on the film credit to her already blooming
résumé.
“Chloe… Chloe… are you okay?” asked Ofie.
The reporter patted her own face to pay attention. “Sorry, it’s so clammy in here, I lost track for a second. Did you ask
me something?”
“Do you think I should sign up for the Scissor Smackdown?” Ofie asked as they made their way through the adhesives area. “They
have entry forms on the bulletin boards up front. I wanted to use a scrapbook as my base…”
Chloe, Star, and Benecio read each other’s minds. Next to Speed Crochet and the Speed Knitting, the Scissor Smackdown was
the biggest event of the CraftOlympics. Noted artists from all over the world competed in a race of skill and creativity in
front of a team of evil, nitpicky judges. Only the bravest of enthusiasts signed up—and they often left the event traumatized.
It was the WWE of crafting, sans the ropes. Chloe and Benecio had yet to witness one of Ofie’s craft-related meltdowns, but
Star had. The thought of Ofie gracing the stage to complete one of her klutzy paper concoctions in front a rabid panel of
judges—and a heckling audience of thousands—would likely send her over the glue-stick edge.
“Nah, don’t waste your money. It’s all a scam. It’s all tied to product endorsements,” Chloe remarked as she pushed the shopping
cart up the narrow aisle of glitter, sequins, and buttons.
“And creativity shouldn’t involve competition,” Star added. “Aren’t scrapbooks supposed to be about preserving precious memories?
Do you really want to succumb yours to possible ridicule?”
Ofie trailed behind and continued to champion for her cause. “But I love to scrapbook and with all my expertise, shouldn’t
I be involved somehow? I’m really good. They have cash prizes. Maybe I can win one for my family.”
“I don’t think so, and here’s why…,” Star said as she put her arm around Ofie and led her ahead of the cart. Chloe felt a
micro trace of jealousy. These women had each other’s backs, no matter what the drama.
Normally, Chloe wouldn’t waste energy dissecting the friendship. As much they grated on her nerves now and then, they were
two of the kindest people she had ever met. Star had created a list of talented local artists for Chloe to look into for profiles,
along with links to Web sites. She also provided a list of creative story angles for First Fridays, and wanted nothing in
return except for Chloe to encourage the community to visit the city’s many galleries. Star may not have been certain what
she wanted in life, but she sure helped those who were. Ofie didn’t have as many connections, but her enthusiasm exceeded
anything Chloe had seen. If she were to ever launch an official fan club, she wanted Ofie as the president. Chloe wondered
what Star, Ofie, and even little Benecio thought of her.
Shaking her head, Chloe pushed the thought aside. She couldn’t let herself become emotionally attached. This event was far
too critical to get sidetracked. She needed to work every angle and person in order to elevate her personal brand to national
status. More so, because this afternoon she declared she would never,
ever
sleep with the slimy Mark Jefferies again. She had to work to succeed on her own merit. Hosting the CraftOlympics would seal
the deal.
Chloe pushed the cart past the trims and fringe aisle and heard a familiar voice.
“Hmmm. Black pleather or black lace…?”
Planted on the floor in the middle of one of Maker’s Marketplace’s many rows, Frances sat with a pile of dark fabrics on her
lap.
“Hello, Frances.”
Frances jerked her face up to see her boss, Chloe Chavez. Or rather “Crappy Chloe” as Frances often mumbled under her breath.
She scooped up the goods and rose to her feet, her arms spilling over with an array of textured materials.
“Hello, Ms. Chavez. These are for a personal project I’ve been working on.”
“You dropped your fake leather fringe.” Chloe bent down to retrieve it, but Frances seized it off the warehouse’s concrete
floor and slapped it under her arm. It appeared to Frances that Ms. Chavez and her craft buddies were on a field trip today.
A difficult concept to grasp. The local craft queen who hated crafts? Who didn’t even know how to work an embossing gun? Why
would she spend her free time here? Frances thought sarcastically.
“Frances, don’t forget I need something for next week’s segment. You’re a day late.”
The shy assistant shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Ms. Chavez, I know this is not the appropriate time or place,
but I was informed this afternoon that you declined my request for a promotion. Is this true?”
Chloe motioned Frances to come close. “Yes. Our plan, remember? We both know I’m going to be the next Betty Oh!—I’ll be moving
up and out from this hole soon and you’re coming with me. That will be bigger than any promotion the station can offer. Can’t
you hold out a bit longer until after the CraftOlympics?”
“I guess.”
“Thanks!” Chloe said as she waved bye and rejoined her friends.
The corner of Frances’ lip curled and her jaw protruded, like an angry ape that had lost her last banana. She slapped the
fringe over her shoulder and headed to the checkout line.
With her items now bagged and paid for, she hid until Ms. Chavez’s BMW was out of sight and it was safe to enter the parking
lot. The less she saw of Crappy Chloe, the better.
“You dropped your
fringe
…” she said in a high voice as she flounced to her car, mocking her arrogant supervisor. “One of these days Ms.
Cha-vez
, I’m gonna show you what I’m made of!”