Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (6 page)

“Sooo… um, what abandoned projects?” Star asked.

“The back house,” Al said.

Star groaned.

“Don’t make that face, Estrella. You begged us to let you use it as your art studio and now it’s nothing but a pigpen.”

Ugh,
Star thought. They just had to drudge up that stupid back house and rub it in, as if she didn’t feel like a loser already.
When she finished college, she had come home with a mission to become an artist. Didn’t everyone who took fine arts classes?
She pleaded with her parents to let her have the back house as her studio. Theo renovated it; Al and Dori bought her hundreds
of dollars’ worth of art books, classes, and supplies. Star needed to find her signature style, but there were so many techniques
and genres to choose from. If she waited, life experience would help. Why rush something so important? No, Star would wait
for the perfect time to launch a serious art career. She didn’t want to end up in rickrack purgatory like Ofie. All of it
overwhelmed her, and as the months passed, the more insecure she became. Instead, she invested her energy in La Pachanga.

These days she despised that ugly back house because she had let it become a shelter for her pop culture souvenirs, impulsive
eBay finds, and the restaurant’s broken fixtures and signs. The two-bedroom, one-bath space was piled from floor to ceiling
with junk. She couldn’t bear to look at it, much less open the door, because it was a gruesome reminder of a failed dream.

“Wouldn’t it be more cost efficient to level it to make more outdoor seating?” she offered. “I can do that with a single phone
call and move on to the next task.”

“No. And that’s not the only item on this list. What the hell is the CraftOlympics? You signed us on as a sponsor? What does
La Pachanga have to do with crafts? I thought you were an
artiste,
too good for glue guns.”

She perked up. “Don’t worry, this is a good one. It’s the National CraftOlympics. It’s a ginormous consumer show at the Phoenix
Convention Center—think Comic-Con or the South By Southwest Music Fest, except with scrapbook paper and pinking shears! It’s
supposed to draw more than thirty thousand people. One of the hotel partners is the new Los Saguaros Suites.”

Al rubbed his head as if his brain throbbed. “The old Prickly Pear Palace? That place is a dive.”

“Dad, it’s all been revamped by Starglass Hotels. It’s really hip now. Anyway, the shuttle runs right by La Pachanga. Ofie
told me about it, so I called the headquarters. They traded us a bronze sponsorship package for us providing handmade centerpieces
for the swanky awards dinner. Two hundred of them. It will give us great exposure, because we can hand out coupons and draw
gobs-o-customers during the convention. Minnie and Myrna can work overtime to make centerpieces.”

This time, Dori chuckled. “Minnie and Myrna are busy managing all of La Pachanga, Star. You can’t just assume they can take
on a new project like this. This is one more example of—”

“Okay, okay, I’ll handle the centerpieces.” Star made a mental note to hand this one over to Ofie, who would eat it up.

“That doesn’t mean to dump it on Ofie, either. We want
you
to be responsible for them. We want sketches, a budget, and a timeline. No last-minute rush,” Dori said.

Star fumed while Al used the pen to count on his fingers. “All right, then. Number one, find a new job. Second, the CraftOlympics,
and third, the back house.” He crossed his arms and stared into her eyes, as if another plan had been hatched.

“Estrella, whatever happened to your art plan? You were so excited about it, and your work showed a lot of potential.” His
voice softened a little as he said this.

Star chewed her pinky nail. She hated this subject. “I’ll get around to it. I just want to make sure I’m refined enough to
relay a strong message about my views on the world, society, consumerism, and culture. I see people like that Crafty Chloe
chick and I loathe how people like her water down what real art is. Even Ofie… I love her to death, but it sucks to see her
family struggle to pay the bills and there she is, buying the latest fancy glue for a Shrinky Dink necklace. Not me. I am
all about serious art.”

“Oh yes,” Al replied. “Like your most recent statement to the world—happy faces in aerosol acrylic.”

T
he dinner plates were stacked in the dishwasher. Eleven-year-old Anjelica shopped for school supplies with Nana Chata. Husband
Larry relaxed in his recliner, ready for a night of reality TV.

Another boring evening in the Fuentes home? Not for Ofie. The twenty-nine-year-old wife and mom savored the quiet time to
indulge in her two favorite pastimes: cookies and crafts.

In the conventional oven on the left wall of her 1975 Glendale kitchen, chocolate chip snickerdoodles browned to perfection.
To the right, the mini toaster oven cured a dozen brightly colored polymer clay button covers that looked pretty enough to
eat.

Sitting on a lopsided turquoise barstool and enjoying the semitoxic aroma swirling throughout the air, Ofie anxiously tapped
her chubby fingers on the beige Formica countertop and waited for Star to call at seven p.m. It had been two days since her
“incident” and Ofie could already see a change for the better in her friend. Star spent all of Monday applying at different
businesses and in the meantime, she took a barista position at the Chi-Chi Coffee Cabana. Tonight they were to discuss forming
a craft group to make the centerpieces for the CraftOlympics, and Ofie couldn’t have been more ecstatic. Being the experienced
crafter she was, Ofie dreamed about attending the prestigious conference—and this year she’d actually be a professional contributor,
thanks to Star and her drunken spray-painting crime spree! She could say that because the two were best friends. No one had
ever been kinder to Ofie than Star.

Their iron-grip bond was sealed one evening at La Pachanga when Star was thirteen and doing her algebra homework in the courtyard.
Ofie, eighteen and pregnant, had just run off after a heated argument with her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Chata Fuentes. She
ended up at the Estebans’ eatery, the only place that brought her joy at the time. Within minutes, Ofie found herself helping
Star with her math and ultimately spilling her guts to the plucky eighth grader. Wise beyond her years, Star pulled out her
cell and had Ofie dial Chata’s number and demand an apology. Chata was so in awe at Ofie’s cojones, she stammered and stuttered
her way through the words “I’m sorry.” Star gave Ofie a high five and made her pinky swear never to let anyone make her feel
inadequate again. Ever since, the two had been solid sisterfriends.

The clock on the grease-stained microwave flipped to 7:00—no Star. Finally at 7:25, the phone rang. Ofie snatched the handset
and couldn’t get her words out fast enough. “I-got-an-idea-for-the-centerpieces!”

Star giggled. “I knew you would. Okay, girl, you’re on. Let’s hear it. But no tin flower arrangements made from soda pop cans
like the ones you made for your cousin Marta’s wedding. My mom still has a scar on her index finger.”

Ofie chuckled as if it were a cute memory, as opposed to one that sent twelve wedding guests to the emergency room. “I had
no idea soda pop cans were so sharp after you cut them!”

Star thought it was best to change the subject. “Let’s nail down some ideas and then post flyers for volunteers for production.
I don’t think any real artists will go for this, so we have to get crafters for production. We can hang the posters on La
Pachanga’s community bulletin board.”

“Sounds like a plan! I have gobs of ideas. I thought we should do something that represents the magical desert land of Arizona.
How about…
tumbleweeds
.”

“Tumbleweeds?” Star repeated, baffled. “As in those dry things that float through ghost towns in old Western flicks? Um, I’ve
lived here all my life and have never seen one.”

“Neither have I. But can’t you envision them at the center of every table? Covered in chunky gold glitter?”

Ofie began to ramble on at warp speed about cheap glitter and how to apply it to objects like tumbleweeds, dream catchers,
and chili peppers—all stereotypical gawd-awful southwestern knickknacks. On the other end of the line, Star covered her face
with her notebook. Wrangling Ofie in from her kitschy concoctions would be more challenging than actually making the centerpieces.
Star couldn’t afford one more mistake at this point. These things had to be red-carpet worthy.

“It’s all cute, sweetie,” Star said, “but this is a formal dinner for industry professionals and using that much glitter is
so… I don’t know, tacky?” The term she wanted to use was “crafty,” but she didn’t want to offend her friend.

“No, silly.” Ofie giggled. “Once the glue dries, it won’t be tacky, and we can spray on a sealer so no flakes will fly in
the fondue.”

Star paused, speechless.

“Why are you against glitter, Star? It’s so pretty! The more the better!”

“I’m not against it. I ordered some imported glass glitter for Theo not too long ago. I just feel it is something that should
be used in micro-moderation. Like whipped cream. We save it for dessert. If we used it on our dinner salad and entrée, it
wouldn’t be exciting.”

“But ambrosia salad has whipped cream.”

Star tossed two Tylenol in her mouth and chugged water from a gallon jug. “Ambrosia salad is a dessert, Ofie. Never mind about
the whipped cream. My chunky butt is on trial right now, so let’s focus on the centerpieces. No glitter.”

“If we really want to make a stunning impact, we should at least leave it on the list,” Ofie volleyed back with a crack in
her voice.

“Fine. We won’t cross it off yet, but maybe we should wait until the craft group is intact so each member will have an opportunity
to contribute an option. Martha Stewart is the keynote speaker. These centerpieces have to be beautiful enough to at least
make her blink. I don’t mean to be all corporate, but I want these to be perfect and finished before the deadline.”

“Huh?” Ofie asked. “Is this Star I’m talking to? You sound so… so… determined.”

“I have to be. I’m at the top of everyone’s hit list. I’ve been fired by my parents, dumped by my sort-of-boyfriend, and am
one video tape away from Cell Block H. I’ve said sayonara to my slacker days.”

“Wow, it hasn’t even been forty-eight hours and you have a new outlook and even a new job. I’m proud of you, Star!” Ofie said.
“Tell me about the Chi-Chi today. Did it feel weird working in a new place?”

“I love it! It feels good to be out on my own. I know I should try for something with more pay, but for now, I just need easy,
mindless, and yummy. Enough about me. How’s the Nana Chata situation?” Star asked.

Right then, Larry walked into the kitchen and rubbed Ofie’s back. “Oh, Nana Chata is wonderful!” Ofie sang out. “She was so
sweet—she came over and cleaned out Anjelica’s room, cooked Larry’s favorite dinner, and scrubbed this nasty kitchen until
she could see her reflection! I think I’m the envy of all the wives in the world.”

Larry kissed her forehead and walked back to the family room. Ofie scrunched down on the linoleum floor and whispered in the
receiver, “She’s driving me nuts! She color coded all of Anjelica’s socks, polished the leaves on my silk plants, and ironed
the sheets! With
starch
! Who irons sheets? Oh, I feel a panic attack coming on—change the topic to something happy, quick!” Ofie said, fanning her
face with a Chinese takeout menu she grabbed from the countertop.

“The CraftOlympics! Warm chocolate sauce! Glitter!” Star blurted.

Ofie purred. “Ahhh… much better. I can feel my heart rate slowing already…”

The women took notes on their thoughts for the centerpiece committee. Star would outline the agenda, and Ofie agreed to make
handbills and hang them to recruit members and offered her house for the meetings. After the business talk, Ofie switched
the conversation to Star. A couple days ago the poor thing’s life had unraveled like a cheap sweater. Amazingly, Star seemed
to handle the pressure well. Ofie sure wouldn’t have been able to. One glitch and she’d crumble like dried-out Play-Doh.

There were only a few privileged peeps who knew Star’s scandalous secret, and Ofie was honored to be one of them. She would
never spill. Wild rabid wolves couldn’t drag it out of her. Neither could Ofie’s idol, “Crafty Chloe” Chavez. Even if the
talented Ms. C. personally rang to offer Ofie a guest spot on her TV segment as barter for the scoop, Ofie would politely
hang up. Ofie was loyal with a capital L when it came to Star.

Ofie hollered for Larry to remove the goods in the oven in five minutes so she could finish the phone conversation in the
bedroom. She warned him not to eat the clay button covers, but to help himself to the cookies.

“Let’s talk about Theo,” Ofie said as she fell into her bed with the cordless handset.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’d say he needs about ten years of cooling-off time,” Star replied, sounding more bummed
than Ofie could ever remember.

“Have faith. Love is a journey, you know. It starts at forever and ends at never…”

“I’m totally freaking. I think he was serious when he said he wanted nothing to do with me,” Star said. “He won’t answer my
calls. I even swung by there today and his neighbor told me she’s watching his house because he went to California for the
week for a family reunion. He never told me about a family reunion!”

“It’ll be fine when he comes home,” Ofie reassured. “He’s crazy about you. It’ll all be fine. The mural looks even better
than before. He did a super job fixing it.”

“Ofie, I can’t stop thinking about him,” Star confessed. “I keep replaying our whole relationship in my mind. He’s done nothing
but make me happy, yet I’m plagued by phobia to move to the next level. Those darned wedding brochures did me in!”

“Star, relax. It’s so obvious you two are meant for each other. If you had asked him to wait, I’m sure he would have.”

“Ofie, I’m crazy in love with him…,” Star said softly. “Why couldn’t I see that before Saturday? I mean… it even hurts to
breathe when I think of him kissing me. Or worse, never kissing me again. I’m such an idiot for taking him for granted. Do
you think it’s too late to win his trust back?”