Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (8 page)

“Reschedule the last two.”

Her dutiful assistant took note, and ran up to shove the finished lamp in Chloe’s arms. “I already set up the cook table with
the step-outs of the project. As always, everything is sorted and ready to go. Just plug in the lamp so viewers can see it
glow,” Frances said.

Chloe noticed the camera crew snickering and flashed them a dirty look. “Good girl, Frances,” she said before sprinting down
the tile hallway. Her feet screeched when she reached the cook table on the set. She set down the lamp and plugged it in.
“Dim the lights!” she ordered.

“Five, four,” Larry said as he held the floor camera with one arm and counted down with his fingers stretched out in front
of him with the other.

She quickly composed her facial posture. For a brief moment, a flashback of hiking up her black pencil skirt to bang Mark
Jefferies on that very table bobbed in her head. She shook it off and concentrated.

“Three, two…,” signaled Larry. He relayed “one” by pointing his finger like a gun at Chloe.

A true professional, she unleashed a supersized Crest White-strips smile. “Hey there, Phoenix, Crafty Chloe here! It’s only
the first week of August and we’re already thinking of September. I’m going to show you a craft that screams fall…”

She glazed her hands over the front of the lamp, looking as sultry as a
Price Is Right
model.

“Here is a lovely light fixture to celebrate the upcoming cooler temperatures,” she said, hamming up each word. She raised
the back of her hand to her forehead. “People, I sweated over this baby for you! Stay tuned until after this commercial break,
because I’m going to show you how I made it!”

S
tar, decimated after Myrna’s jarring e-spank, baked a tray of gooey chocolate chip brownies, saturated them in fudge sauce,
and sprinkled smashed Oreos over every inch. Sitting on the cold wood floor of her bedroom she used a tablespoon to scoop
up mouthful upon mouthful of the shameless dessert until every crumb had been consumed. She then desperately scraped each
corner, as if in search of a prize. She relented, yawned, and rested her heavy head against the wall… a sense of dizziness
overtook her physique… her vision blurred, and she slipped into a sugar-induced nap.

The combination of the week’s firestorms, plus the crash from the brownies set her subconscious to swirl with Tim Burton–esque
nightmares. She found herself immersed in a pit of emerald glitter—just like quicksand, but sparklier. She squirmed and fought
to stay afloat, but the micro-granules sucked her down fast until only her head protruded above the ground.

“Thank God! Save me!” she pleaded, when her parents showed up. With them stood Theo, Ofie, Myrna, and all of the La Pachanga
waitstaff. Star used all her might to drag her arms up and out of the glitter vortex to reach for their help. But her beloved
friends and family only watched her struggle.

“You brought this upon yourself, Estrella,” her dad said. “We can’t help you anymore. You must find your own way out so we
don’t drown with you.”

“I can’t!” Star cried out, as she sank deeper. The glitter began to cover her mouth, and then her nose. Right before it reached
her bottom lashes, she lurched for air and woke up.

Star never intended to spend the rest of that Friday night attempting to unload 350 pounds of vintage German glass glitter
on eBay.

“No bidders! What the heck?” she whisper-whined as she über-flicked her Mac keyboard in frustration. Her auction had been
up for a day and a half—and nothing. Even Maker’s Marketplace, the largest arts and crafts supply outlet in Phoenix, didn’t
want the glistening cargo. They did take five pounds, but that was a thimble out of the swimming pool.

Star’s stomach growled and her head throbbed. Except for her brownie binge, she hadn’t eaten real food since last night. She
munched on a bag of her mom’s fancy granola mix and reflected about Theo, the mural, the glitter, and her parents. She had
to extinguish this lighted wick before it triggered any new explosives.

Squirming in her silver vinyl office chair, she raised the volume on her stereo and half smiled at the bay window area that
Theo and Ofie had covered in thousands of mini mirrors as a sci-fi surprise for her birthday last year. It offset Star’s inspiration
wall: A nine-by-twenty-foot spread where she meticulously created a mosaic of tacked-up magazine pictures, headlines, quotes,
photos, vintage Hollywood lobby cards, poems, book pages, fabric swatches, and anything else that made her happy. And then
her bed! Every night she slept under a sequined teal and fuchsia sari that draped from the ceiling to the floor. The cheery
décor didn’t even lift her mood.

Star lamented her current state of loneliness until she spotted the Romeo y Julieta cigar box resting on the upper corner
of her desk. Ofie had brought it over earlier in the day to pressure Star into making that silly love shrine for Theo. She
considered it for a millisecond, but the more she weighed the possible outcome, the more she ruled against it. Too big of
a gamble. And then she recalled Theo’s scolding.

“You don’t take any risks…”

Star sucked her teeth and reached for the box. It didn’t mean she would make the love shrine though. She took a deep breath,
opened the lid, and pulled out the novella comic. She turned the square five-inch page of
El Solitario
to view the full-on nookie fiesta on page thirty-six. The same page Theo bookmarked for her.

“God, this is
so
vulgar. Sexist. Obscene. Beyond filthy. I love it!” She chuckled, and then imagined she and Theo naked, on top of that grassy
hill, all lusty under the full moon, admiring the romantic dimensional artwork she made for him. Chills raced up her arms
as she envisioned the next scene, but a rap on the door busted the fantasy.

“Estrella, please… take it down a bit,” her dad shouted over the wild Latin electronica track that pumped from her iPod speakers.
He could be so hip one moment, and a crusty curmudgeon the next. At forty-five, those gray hairs affected more than just his
sideburns and beard. Regardless, her face always lit up when he dropped in unexpectedly.

She loved that her dad, Alfonso Ortega Esteban—Al for short—was the classic Mexican-American machismo father figure—with a
twist. After going through the Chicano activist era with his parents in the seventies, and then on his own in the eighties
and nineties, he took a trip to Jamaica in 2000 and fell in love with reggae music. Therefore, Star called him El Rasta Chicano.

She admired both him and her mom, for their strong “one love/one world” outlook. They raised her in a colorful house of truth,
righteousness, and holistic healing. For the most part, Star followed the basics of the New Age lifestyle, except for eating
meat and the random illegal mishap.

Al tugged his tie-dyed tank over his head. “I’m all for new grooves, but not when it knocks the pictures off the bookcase
in my bedroom.” His comment tapered off as he stepped to the center of the bedroom and scoped out the scenery. “This room
is one wild piece of work, all right. You definitely have your own style.”

Star stretched out her hands and palmed her knees. “Why, thanks!” Maybe the whole contract nonsense would blow over.

“And I expect the same energy from you for the back house.”

Eh, maybe not.

“How’s the Chi-Chi coffeehouse gig going?”

Star swiped a mechanical pencil from her desk and used it to scratch her scalp under the hot-pink scarf wrapped around her
head. “I… kinda quit today.”

“After less than a week? Ay, mujer!” Al sneered, rubbing his forehead in irritation.

She slipped the writing utensil behind her ear and shrugged. “They had me grind coffee beans all day, and the lamé apron made
me sweat. I’d rather work freelance and write press releases for Phoenix’s indie-business community. I’m going to the offices
of Local First Arizona on Monday. Please, let me do my thing.”

“Fine—for the next six months,” he said, giving her a good night kiss for the first time in seven days. “I’m going back to
bed. Turn down the music, por favor.”

Star felt herself relax as she closed her door behind him. She clasped her hands behind her back and sauntered to her jumbo
custom-built wall unit that housed an iPod sound system, a Sony flat screen, DVDs, books, and a bottom row of drawers where
she stashed secret treasures. She knelt, opened the first drawer, and retrieved a heavy, crumpled, black shopping bag. She
got up, locked her door, and then sat at her desk and removed the items from the bag one by one. A set of craft paints, decorative-edge
scissors, two types of glues, ribbon, scrapbook paper, crystals, beads, and a hot-glue gun. With all her preaching about art
versus craft, Star couldn’t be caught dead with these items. Originally she bought them for Ofie, but now Star contemplated
using them. If she did, it would be only once, and she would never breathe a word of it to anyone. Besides, if Frida Kahlo
lived in this era, perhaps she would use curvy scissors now and then. It wouldn’t diminish the seriousness of
her
work.

The clock hands moved to the midnight hour, and Star remained restless. Why not burn off some anxious energy by giving Ofie’s
love shrine idea a try? If it sucked, Star would trash it. If it rocked, she’d offer it to Theo as a truce. As soon as she
made the decision, she grabbed the box and couldn’t wait to start.

Two hours later, Star still slaved away on the shrine. The week of solitude renewed her spirit, as did the thought of a fresh
start. Gathering the items for the art piece was the only remedy that would keep her sane. Maybe her dad was right and she
hadn’t given herself enough credit for her artistic flair.

To her surprise, she actually enjoyed the process of sketching the layout and then affixing each memento in its place. She
moved her body in swift mini circles to the bumping reggaeton beat from her stereo. She whistled in rhythm and reached for
the zigzag scrapbook scissors to cut out the scene of the couple in their glorious moment. Hunched like a crafty surgeon about
to perform a double-collage bypass, she snipped just below the couple’s interlocked arms, letting the rest of their nude ink-drawn
bodies float to the floor. She affixed the picture to a piece of thick red glittered foam board mounted inside the cigar box.
The side panels glistened with the vintage glass glitter and the border’s edges shimmered from two rows of ruby crystals.

The final touch was a papier-mâché banner that Theo had sculpted and painted for her last year declaring his love. It said
simply “Te amo.”

The next time she looked at the clock, it read two a.m. Groggy and spent, she inhaled the air of personal satisfaction. Mission
accomplished. This was a breathtaking, astounding art piece. The composition? Flawless. It exuded emotion and dizzying levels
of devotion. The way the light gleamed from it had a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic effect. Star swore she saw a halo of light
beaming around the edges; then again, the marathon craft session blurred her vision. She couldn’t believe something so beautiful
came from her hands. Her imagination. Her heart. Could she really have what it took to be a real artist?

She clenched the box. The thought of Theo seeing it was excruciating, but she had to control her elation. By this time tomorrow,
hopefully he’d forgive her so they could start a new relationship, this time as official boyfriend and girlfriend.

Star scooped up the supplies, shoved them back in the bag, and returned it to the drawer. She cleared her desk of any crafty
evidence and then set the artwork on her nightstand and heard her mother’s light footsteps creek on the hallway’s hardwood
floor. Dori entered, holding a cup of something steamy and delicious smelling. She sat down and patted the mattress for Star
to join her.

“I made you a cup of green tea. I can’t believe you are still up. What are you doing?”

Star kicked off her polka-dotted Dr. Scholl’s and sat. “It’s so stupid and totally off base for me, but… I made a shadow box
for Theo to say I’m sorry.” She gestured her arms to the nightstand.

Dori leaned over Star to inspect the finished piece. “M’ija, it’s lovely. It certainly has the shine.”

“The shine?” Star asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes. The love shine. When something is full of so much positive energy, it glows—and practically levitates with joy. Like
a mother who has just given birth, or love at first sight, or making something beautiful with your two hands.”

“You don’t think it looks too crafty?” Star asked.

“Love it. It’s fantastic.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Star said before she yawned, faced her mother, and took the cup. The sun would be out soon. The thought made
her giddy. It meant her plan for Theo was only sixteen hours away.

“M’ija,” Dori said. “I want to give you something to go with your cajita. It’s a poem your father wrote for me on the night
of our first date. We spent a summer at the Omega Institute and went to this tiny vegan café for a poetry night all about
apartheid. That was before it was abolished of course. Ah… it was such a romantic night.”

Star smiled. She had never heard the story of her parents’ first date. “The Omega Institute? Isn’t that like a holistic hippie
retreat back East or something?”

“Yes. In the grassy woods of Rhinebeck, New York,” Dori said, gazing dreamily at the ceiling as if there were beautiful butterflies
floating about. “Next month is our twenty-fifth anniversary. Maybe I’ll surprise your father and take him back there…”

“Tell me about this poem,” Star said after taking a sip and resting her chin on her mom’s shoulder. Dori kissed her cheek
and slipped away. When she came back, she put on her geek-chic granny glasses and reached in her hemp terry-cloth bathrobe
pocket. She unfolded an aged piece of stationery and read the verses slow and soft. It was the most enchanting prose ever
to grace Star’s multipierced ears.

“Wow. Daddy sure had a way with words. I’m going to write that poem on the back of my shrine.”