Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (2 page)

“And Art Space,” Star blurted. “It’s La Pachanga Eatery
and
Art Space. You always leave off the Art Space. Aside from the restaurant, we’re a nationally respected gallery.”

“Point taken, Star. About the mural, you will prosecute, correct?”

“Well, my father is a firm believer in second chances. It was probably just a silly prank by some kids. At least it was just
happy faces and not anything vulgar. Right?” she asked. Star shrugged innocently, then clapped her hands in front of her chest.
“Well! I better go check on that menudo! Thank you, Chloe!” Star took one giant step backward out of the frame, bent down,
and blew out a burst of stress.

Chloe pursed her glossy lips and wrapped the segment.

“If anyone has any information about the Happy Face Tagger, please call our station’s hotline. And speaking of hot—don’t forget
to come see me this weekend at the twenty-fifth annual Home and Garden Show! I’ll show you how to turn your flowerpots from
frumpy to fabulicious! This is Crafty Chloe Chavez, reporting to you from La Pachanga Eatery for KPDM-Channel 11 News. Amy,
back to you!”

Chloe held her supersized grin until the camera light went off—then she slapped the mic in the cameraman’s hand and ripped
out her earpiece. She smoothed her taupe linen suit and approached Star with a glare wicked enough to rival any animated Disney
villain.

“Everything okay?” Star asked, batting her eyes, even though one of them twitched uncontrollably from nerves. Why, she didn’t
know. This was just the silly TV craft lady who took herself way too seriously.

“Something’s not right,” Chloe accused. “Is this some kind of sick publicity stunt?”

“No! Not at all! How could you even think that?” Star shot back, offended at such a rude claim.

She had never been a fan of Crafty Chloe. She loved channel 11, but changed the TV every time her face came on. Her beat was
supposedly the local art scene, yet Chloe had never once covered any of La Pachanga’s exhibits. Chloe always discounted the
“Art Space” part of La Pachanga’s name, just proven on live TV. As PR director of La Pachanga, Star had sent Crafty Chloe
numerous press releases for events and shows, none of them featured. But right now, Star represented her parents’ business
and she would do her best to be professional.

“I’m sorry if I flubbed the interview, I—I—I couldn’t think straight. I promise to fill you in if we hear anything.”

Chloe took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Look, Miss Esteban, how do I present this without sounding disrespectful…
I find it odd that one of our city’s most well known public landmarks has been defaced—it happens to be on
your
parents’ property—and you’re pushing the Sunday menudo special. All we need is to air that surveillance tape so viewers can
help identify the culprits. Case solved, right?”

Star clasped her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on her shabby Converse sneakers. “It’s not that cut-and-dry…”

As always, Theo stepped in to defend Star. He set down his caddy and extended his gentle, broad hand to shake Chloe’s tense,
thin one. “Ms. Chavez, hey. I’m Theo Duarte. It’s no big deal. I can remove the paint with turpentine.”

Chloe recoiled her hand. Even Theo couldn’t soften the crusty exterior of her personality. “That doesn’t erase what happened.
I’ll just wait for the police report,” she said.

Star couldn’t be polite any longer. This glorified content deliverer made it impossible to be polite.

“What do you care anyway,
Crafty Chloe
?” she snarked. “Isn’t there, like, a pastel centerpiece crisis somewhere that needs tending to?”

Just then, the cameraman walked up to Chloe, whispered in her ear, and motioned to his elbow. They both looked Star up and
down.

As if Nana Esteban found a way to intervene, Star’s iPhone rang from inside her bag, which she had set by her feet. Thank
God! A reason to ditch this scene. She flashed Theo an uncomfortable “Thank you” grin, Chloe a sarcastic “Later” one, reached
for her cell, and turned to walk away.

“Hey, Star,” Chloe called out. “I have one more question.”

Star stopped and looked back. “Yah?”

“Is that blood on your arm, or perhaps—
spray paint
?”

Star froze, and then replied, “Speaking of blood—by any chance, do you knit?”

Moments after sneaking away from the circus in front of La Pachanga, Star slipped around to the side of the restaurant’s compound
to answer her best friend Ofie’s call—or rather, to field the barrage of questions about her crafty idol.

“Sweet mother of Martha!” Ofie shrieked. “You met
the
Crafty Chloe face-to-face! She showed how to decorate a water bottle the other day. Did she have it on her? Did she talk
about crafts? Is she as pretty in person as she is on TV?”

Star peeked around the corner to ensure Chloe or Theo didn’t follow. “Crafty Chloe is pretty, all right, pretty brutal. She
totally harassed me, as if
I
were the one who spray painted Theo’s mural!”

“But, Star, you
did
spray paint it.”

Star dropped her bag to the ground and collapsed against the hot concrete wall. “Ugh. Was it that obvious?”

“You couldn’t lie to save your favorite cat-eye sunglasses. Don’t worry. Most people won’t catch on like me. It’s because
I know you so well. Oooh, I have an idea to get you off the hook! Why don’t you hit another mural tonight? It’ll throw everyone
off the trail of La Pachanga! There’s a brand-new one on the I-10 freeway. It’s dark, you can do it as a drive-by, but use
a water-based paint so it’ll come off easy. I have a 40 percent-off coupon we can use to buy some!”

Star giggled at the thought, even though she knew Ofie was serious. “That’s okay, I have my hands full as it is.”

“Did you at least get her autograph for me?” Ofie asked. “Lord knows I need a pick-me-up. I think the scrapbook group I just
joined is already trying to dump me, and this morning, I had a mishap with the glitter spray and ruined Larry’s new suit.
Wait. Enough about me, your crisis is much bigger.”

“I doubt Chloe is kind enough to give autographs unless it’s to endorse a check. Screw the scrapbookers, and try masking tape
on the suit. I never should have left the house last night,” Star stated as she started to pace back and forth between the
side of the building and the thick wall of oleanders.

“Correction. You never should have left with Maria Juana,” Ofie lectured. “Every time you get in trouble, she’s there. I thought
you swore her off after the cockatoo switcheroo snafu last summer?”

“She’s my cousin, Ofie. She joined that Roller Derby team. Remember? I told you. Las Bandidas del Fuego. Last night was her
first bout and she invited me. I promised my dad I’d try to get along with her. We’re the only two kids left in the Esteban
bloodline. I meant well.”

“Wait,” Ofie countered. “If you went to the bout, what happened to the big dinner with Theo? Oh my gosh! The wedding proposal!
Did you get engaged?”

Star covered her face with her hand and muffled her mouth. “I bailed.”

Ofie sucked in a gallon of air. “No! So you not only trashed his mural, but you ditched him too? Ay, pobrecito, Theo…”

Star’s eye caught another paint smudge on her arm, this one green. She rubbed her elbow against her sequin-accented gypsy
skirt to remove it. When it didn’t come off, she grunted at the guilty residue.

“Ofie, it gets hella worse,” Star said into her phone. “The lead jammer from Las Bandidas set me up with this irresistible
rocker dude from Ireland. He had gobs of tats, and his accent was so Hollywood. He turned me on to this drink that is supposed
to make you see little green fairies. You know I’m not the saucy type, so it just about killed me. I don’t remember much else
except making out with him in the back of Maria Juana’s tacky convertible… He tasted like mint. I guess afterward I went and
spray painted the mural, which I only know about because my parents made me watch the surveillance tape this morning. And
then they made me come down here to do that segment on
Wake Up Arizona
. What was I supposed to do? Tell the truth? I’d never make it home alive! Now I have Crafty Chloe on my ass and Theo to contend
with.”

“You know better than to mix cocktails and your cousin, Star.”

Star rubbed her head in disbelief, and knew Ofie was doing the same. “You know, I bet Maria Juana set me up. I have no idea.
I know I screw up, like, every other day, but this is the worst. How am I going to explain this to Theo? I don’t know what
he’ll be more freaked at: that I’m the one who spray painted his mural, my new tattoo, or the hickey on my neck.”

“Tattoo?” Ofie asked.

Just as Star spun around to make double sure Chloe wasn’t eavesdropping, she bumped into a buff chest.

Theo’s chest.

And the hardened expression on his face confirmed he heard the confession in its entirety.

“Ofie, uh… Theo’s right here. I gotta jam. Bye, love you, peace out,” Star whispered, turning off her phone and slowly slipping
it into her purse.

She opened her hands and raised them to the sides of her face, as if it would help her say the right words. “Theo, from every
ounce of my heart and soul, I am so sorry—I can totally, totally,
totally
explain this—”

“No need,” he replied. “I’m through with you.”

S
tar’s heart sank at the thought of facing Theo. Never once had he let her down, or hurt her feelings. He always had her back,
even when he didn’t know the full situation, just like earlier with Crafty Chloe.

How did she return the favor?

By not only blowing off his wedding-proposal dinner, but also jacking up the biggest and most personal art piece he had ever
created—thousands of pebbles and small rocks arranged into one spectacular mosaic of various Arizona scenes. The multicolored
mural sprawled across the twelve-foot-tall front walls of La Pachanga. Titled
Mi Tierra
, its glory was showcased in coffee table art books, on national TV shows, and in magazines. Visitors from Africa to Alabama
visited La Pachanga just to take a snapshot of Theo’s masterpiece. He considered
Mi Tierra
his visual love poem to the state and vowed to never leave his hometown. And that artful affection added magic to the already
enchanting grounds of La Pachanga.

Theo didn’t feel that magic this morning. He felt resentment toward Star. After overhearing her conversation with Ofie, he
hustled to the front of the restaurant. Star chewed on her thumbnail and mini-jogged at his side to keep up.

Where do I even start?
she wondered, watching as he prepped for the emergency restoration. Her heavy black eyes lingered on his baggy khaki shorts,
which hung low on his waist, and the thin white tank that stretched tight across his chest. Even with forty extra pounds on
his stealth frame, grungy paint-stained clothes, and cheap black flip-flops, charisma oozed from his stance. She cracked her
neck right and then left, and went to confront him as the entrance area buzzed with gawkers.

“The wall, the wall. How I love the wall…,” pined a weeping poet who couldn’t have been older than eight. A frilly black veil
dripped from her head and she followed behind Theo, reciting her scribbled verses from a La Pachanga take-out napkin. “Mr.
Duarte’s wall makes me feel tall… and it, nor I, shall ever fall…”

Star put her hands on the girl’s shoulders to comfort her. “I know, m’ija, it’s awful what happened, but it’ll be back to
normal soon, I promise.”

The little girl removed her veil and leaned in to Star. “I’m not sad for the mural, really. I’m sad because it hurt Mr. Duarte’s
feelings. He’s nice. He comes to our classroom every year to teach us about Día de los Muertos. I come here with my parents
all the time. I see you two. You’re his girlfriend, right?”

Star couldn’t answer. Instead she watched Theo examine the mural, her throat thick inside from swallowing tears. She hadn’t
felt this nervous since the first time she met Theo a little more than three years ago.

Thanks to her spiky heel and his worn sneaker, their worlds collided, literally. Twenty-one and fresh out of college with
a marketing degree and a plan to be an artist, Star moved into her former bedroom at her parents’ house and planned to stay
a year at the most.

On an errand for her father, she went to the local thrift store to unload a batch of her dad’s clutter—a bulging Hefty bag
of tattered Levi’s, old college textbooks, and timeworn cassette tapes.

Theo, then twenty-three and a budding civil engineer at the City of Phoenix, had just been promoted to a cushy gig and purchased
a gem—a recently foreclosed 1937 Spanish Colonial Revival home in the historic Willo district. He visited the thrift store
that day to thin out his own wares after just moving in.

Decked out in her favorite fifties naughty-secretary sweater-dress with patent-leather pumps, Star stood in front of the drop-off
bin outside the building. She raised the lumpy load over her head to stuff it in the opening, but lost her balance—and caught
it quickly, without losing her dignity. However, one of her three-inch heels pierced into something fleshy. It had poked through
the tip of someone’s holey sneaker, smack between the big and second toe. Theo’s toes. He howled in pain.

Flustered, they bumped noses as they tried to untangle their bodies. He used her waist for leverage, and she did the same
with his defined shoulders, while she secretly inhaled the sweet scent of his cologne (she later learned it was Krishna Musk
oil). They politely struggled while introducing themselves and comparing their monikers. His parents, fans of
The Cosby Show
, named him after Theodore Huxtable, while her parents went the New Age route with Estrella—Star for short.

Star would later describe the experience to Ofie as an extreme meteor shower of Cupid’s arrows that pierced her chest plate.

Star and Theo spent the rest of that day—and night—together. From then on, he chose to call her by her real name, Estrella,
instead of the English translation of Star. She liked that her dad and Theo were the only two people in the universe who did
that.