Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (21 page)

Mary smashed the egg between her hands over the bowl. The cameraman zoomed in.

“Ew! It’s a real egg,” Mary cried. Startled, she jumped and knocked the water bowl down the front of her blouse.

“What? It can’t be! Who put that there?” Chloe asked, confused and turning her head back and forth across the table. She picked
up an egg from the basket and smashed it between her hands. “Oh, you’re right. These are real eggs!” She faced the camera,
and tee-heed for a moment. “And that’s what we call a craftastrophe! But the fun of crafting is that when things go wrong—you
simply try again. Mary, go ahead and rinse your hands off over there…”

Chloe wiped her own slimy palms on her brand-new Stella McCartney skirt and went in for Round Two.

“Always a surprise around here… Let’s move on to this delectable hand cream I created by blending baby oil, mint leaves, and
silky white lotion. Karla, it’s your turn, babe.”

Karla took a deep breath and surrendered her palms to the so-called expert.

“Oh, what pretty hands you have! They’ll feel even softer after this lotion goes to work!” Chloe calmly squirted the mixture
on Karla’s slender manicured fingers.

“Wooo, tingly,” Karla cooed. “I like it.”

Thank God
, Chloe whispered without moving her lips.

“Wooooo… this is
very
tingly.” Karla held out her hands to the camera. “Actually. It’s kinda hot. It burns. Oh my God! My hands, they sting!” Karla
wailed.

“Wait over here, dear,” Chloe said as she used her non–egg drenched wrists to swiftly maneuver her guest off the set.

The red light still shining, the floor director signaled for Chloe to continue. Chloe could not understand why they didn’t
cut to a commercial. She clapped her hands together and playfully nudged the next victim.

“Whaddaya say, Taymah? Up for some fizzy bath bombs?”

“No.” Taymah did an about-face and exited the stage.

Chloe lifted a jar that said “citric acid,” let out a weak grin, and turned to the camera, with a bold grin.

“Well, Phoenix! You’ve been Punk’d!” She beat her hands on the craft table and pointed to the audience, just like her favorite
game show host. “This was my little way of spicing things up around here. Did we getcha? Okay, now to Brian for weather!”

The red light went off, and Chloe dropped her head onto the table while the crew rushed her from every angle.

“What the hell, Chavez?” Mark scolded. “Are you trying to get out of your contract early?”

“Here’s the first-aid kit for the burned hands!” someone else yelled.

“How do you get egg out of linen?” another voice said. “Does the station pay for wardrobe damages?”

Her face plastered to the table in a comatose state, Chloe caught a glimpse of a manila envelope that said:
Read me, Craft Bitch.

“What’s this? Who left this?” she asked as she propped herself up on her elbows and opened the flap. The crew gathered behind
her to see.

She slid out a glossy eight-by-ten from the envelope and squinted her eyes to zero in on the image. The photo showed Frances
and Ezra nude with their arms entwined. The packet also contained a file folder with a notarized cover letter from Frances,
printed e-mails, and microcassettes. Chloe fanned through the stack to discover that each paper was addressed to Mark Jefferies,
as well as the executives from the Hadwick Corporation—and the CraftOlympics too!

“Brilliant. Brilliant. Brilliant,” commented a snarky intern with a peacock-blue pompadour and rockabilly clothing.

Chloe marched with Terminator-style force to her assistant’s desk. When she reached it she found Frances, without her glasses,
face flushed and clenching the calla lily bouquet. She whacked it hard in her boss’s chest. Chloe, startled, frightened, and
offended, staggered back and caught her balance.

“Ms. Chavez, after all you’ve put me through, the way you’ve treated me, a bouquet of flowers will not suffice. I do not accept
your apology, as I do not feel it is sincere, yet only an exploit on your own behalf.”

Chloe stood, speechless, along with all of her coworkers.

Frances put on her glasses, picked up her purse, and began to breathe very heavily. She turned sideways to walk down the aisle
and then swung her head toward her former boss. “And one more thing. No matter how hard you try, you will never be Betty O’Hara!
Betty O’Hara is nice. And funny. And friendly! I do not feel one ounce of guilt for what I did to you out there. You do not
deserve to be a part of the craft community, nor the craft industry, because you
hate crafts
!” Frances stood on her toes, pointed at Chloe, and screamed at the top of her lungs like a wild woman, “I repeat. Crafty
Chloe hates crafts!”

Chloe felt the sting of all eyes on her, yet she kept her composure and watched Frances stomp out of the room, Ezra at her
side.

A tap on her shoulder startled her. There waited Mark Jefferies, holding Frances’ manila envelope in his hand. “Chavez, follow
me to my office, please.”

The karma gods had come to collect.

T
he spirits of the dead had already arrived at La Pachanga two weeks before el Día de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead. The
place bubbled with anticipation in this world and the next. In the gift shop, the clerks bumped into one another as they struggled
to keep up with the frenzy of customers on the hunt for ofrenda—altar—accessories. In high demand were sugar skull molds,
prayer candles, papel picado tissue banners, papier-mâché skeletons, copal incense, and small Mexican toys.

The restaurant business doubled and guests waited at least twenty minutes for a table. To pass the time, Al set up stations
out front with art supplies so customers could make tissue-paper flowers to be used at the upcoming festivities.

After the Nana Chata phone rage earlier that morning, Ofie refused to return to an empty house. So she arrived six hours early
for the meeting, centerpiece supplies in tow. She scored a corner booth in the coffee area and planned to stay all afternoon.
La Pachanga’s festive surroundings were just what she needed to lift her spirits.

Benecio, as promised, showed up at two thirty to teach her to crochet before Chloe and Star arrived at four. Larry called
once and didn’t mention his conversation with Nana Chata, but did share some awful news about Chloe that Ofie did not believe.
Chloe would never steal craft ideas, or use sex to get ahead in her job! As soon as Chloe arrived, she would clear it all
up. For now, Ofie wanted to forget about all of it, which would come easy once everyone arrived to work on the centerpieces.

But first, crochet lessons. Benecio demonstrated how to tie a slipknot around the hook and start the first row, and although
Ofie worked furiously, she couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. An hour later, Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful” chimed from
the high-tech phone on Benecio’s waistband.

“Don’t give up, Ofie, you can do it… keep going,” Benecio encouraged as he read the name on the caller ID. “Yikes. It’s Mom.
I have to take this outside. She thinks I’m shooting hoops at school until six. Star promised to get me home in time because
Alice is off today.”

Ofie watched him exit through La Pachanga’s bright purple and green doors and stretched her arms across the Spanish-newsprint
decoupaged table of her booth. She inhaled the sweet aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, removed the skeins of yarn from
the bag, and lifted them to the tip of her nose. She smelled them, inspected the fibers, and lovingly squeezed them while
she imagined owning her own Scottsdale yarn store and waiting on celebrity knitters like Felicity Huffman and Courteney Cox.
When Ofie crafted, the world was perfect.

But from one second to the next, a wave of sadness rushed over her thinking about what Nana Chata had said. Her friends would
not do that to her. Her mother-in-law hated to see her happy and likely made it up to turn Larry against her.

Benecio jogged back in and slid into the fruity oilcloth-covered booth across from Ofie.

“Does this look good to you?” she asked, raising a lumpy, knotted, holey, but still technically crocheted rectangle.

“It’s a good start. Keep practicing!” Benecio said.

Ofie skimmed the bottom of her cheek with her shoulder and eyeballed a framed portrait of Frida Kahlo across the room. She
thought again about what she had heard Nana Chata tell Larry on the phone.

“Benecio, we need to talk.”

“About the centerpieces? I know, we need to work faster!”

“No. something else. You’ve become like a son to me and a brother to Anjelica. I’m going to talk to you the same way I do
to Anjelica. I’m going to ask you something and I want you to tell me the truth.”

Benecio agreed by blinking through his long lashes.

“Do Star and Chloe talk behind my back?”

Benecio smiled nervously. “Ofie, we still have seventy-five centerpieces left to make. We should really get busy.”

She slammed her hand on the table. “It’s true, then. Nana Chata was right,” Ofie said, stuffing the yarn back into the bag
and reaching for the semi-crocheted rectangle. “I need to hear this. Please, Benecio, tell me. I won’t mention your name.”

It bothered Benecio when Star and Chloe made mean remarks about Ofie’s crafts. And the way they always ended it with “Oh,
but we love her!” to make themselves feel better. But he wouldn’t dare repeat that to Ofie.

“Please, Benecio.”

Why did they have to put him in the middle? Benecio thought. He bowed his head. “Star told us to like everything you make
because you’re a basket case and you’ll have a meltdown.”

“Really? Go on,” she said, as she placed the project in her lap and clumsily weaved the hook in and out.

“Sometimes when you leave the room, they crack jokes.”

“Um-hmm, and…” Ofie’s hand moved faster—up and down in circular motions, almost as quick as her elevated heartbeat.

“The glitter from the centerpieces? Well, Star had three hundred and fifty pounds of it that she ordered by accident. She
hid it from you. It was expensive German glass glitter and she thought you would want it all and then just waste it.”

“Star wouldn’t do that. She’s my best friend. And by the way, I don’t have meltdowns. I’m just sensitive. Just so you know,
okay. What else?” Ofie said.

Benecio pushed up the sleeves of his charcoal sweater and drew in a big breath. “Last week Chloe told us that your husband
is worried because he has to work a lot of extra hours to pay for your craft supplies. Anjelica is sad because she thinks
you like crafting more than her. And Chloe said your iced mochas feel like Drano surging through her intestines. She empties
the cup in the backyard when you aren’t looking. They hated your glittered boot centerpiece idea, so Star and Chloe had an
emergency meeting to come up with the glittered cactus and then made it look like it was your idea. And—”

“That’s enough! I got it, thanks, Benecio!” Ofie concluded. She closed her eyes and counted to ten to ward off an oncoming
panic attack.

“Um, it’s four o’clock already, Ofie. Chloe’s here,” Benecio whispered with his head lowered.

A disheveled Chloe stumbled in wearing her usual five-star newscaster clothes, except today her blouse, stained and wrinkled,
hung untucked from her skirt, which had shifted so that the zipper lined up with her hip instead of her back. “Hey, crafty
peeps. I have some shit news to unload, a confession, I guess you could say,” she said as she slid two chairs to the end of
the booth.

“I’m coming!” Star said, holding a handful of birthday balloons and skipping her way between the tables wearing red pin-up
girl pumps and a slinky dress made from T-shirts that draped perfectly over her curves. Her dark twirled ringlets sported
fresh chunky blond strands that framed her happy-go-lucky face. She plopped in the seat at the end of the table and handed
the balloons to Chloe. “Happy birthday again! Ooh, you guys are crocheting! I’m feeling frisky. I want to learn! Ofie, break
out the sequin yarn we bought the other day. I’ve been dreaming about it!”

Ofie didn’t answer. She wondered why Star hadn’t bought the sequin yarn for herself that day, instead of encouraging Ofie
to splurge on it. Ofie grabbed the sparkling skein and shoved it in Star’s direction.

Star drew back her head, concerned. “Qué pasa, amiga? You all right?” She then gave Chloe a once-over. “For being your birthday,
you don’t appear to be very cheery. Didn’t they celebrate it at the station?”

“Funny you should mention that.” Chloe rubbed the top of her legs with her hands, as if to warm up her courage. “I need to
come clean about some things…”

“I heard all about it. Larry told me.” Ofie grimaced, as she gripped her work-in-progress. “You stole craft designs from your
assistant and passed them off as your own. You hate crafts and used us to get in good with the CraftOlympics people. And you
sleep with your boss. No wonder they call you Craft Bimbo.”

“Ofie! Stop it! You don’t sound like yourself today!” Star blurted. “What are you talking about?”

Chloe put her hand up. “My boss is none of your business. Otherwise, she’s right. For the past three years, I’ve used Frances’
designs for my craft segments. Crafty Chloe was an act to further my career in television. But that’s not how it is now…”

“What? It’s true? So all this? The group? Our friendship? It was just a front to further your career?” Star asked, gesturing
to herself, Ofie, and Benecio.

“Please calm down so I can explain. You guys mean everything to me. At first I hated the group, but now it’s all I look forward
to. Let’s talk about it,” Chloe said.

“I should have known you were a fake when you tried to use hot glue on terra cotta,” Ofie growled.

“It’s all making sense,” Star calculated. “That’s why you’re so secretive about sharing your ideas. You don’t have any!”

“No! I mean
yes
. I mean
no
. It was, but it’s not anymore. I don’t know,” Chloe said, nervously fiddling with her long, loopy chain-link necklace. “I
joined under false pretenses, yes. I wanted to get on the good side of the CraftOlympics committee. But now I’m here for different
reasons. Remember this morning I said I wanted to change my life? That’s because of you guys. Star, Ofie… you have families
who love and support you. Mine only sees my mistakes. My dad had a dream that I was this huge television icon, and then he
passed away. I was so desperate to fulfill his dream that, once I started, I got sucked into a sneaky downward spiral, and
I couldn’t stop. One lie tangled into another and another…”