Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (13 page)

They shook hands and Theo left for home.

Chloe couldn’t get Star out of her brain. What did this nice guy say to her to make her lose it like that? And what did she
throw in the trash? Chloe investigated the scene in true reporter fashion. Despite her glamorous outfit, she grabbed a fork
from the table and used it to sift through the sticky plastic cups, lipstick-stained napkins, and soggy remains from the fruit
trays. Beneath a cake-smeared Chinet plate, she spotted a red velvet ribbon stuck to pink tissue paper wrapped around a boxy
container.

“Hey, do you guys have a bag and clean napkin I can use?” she shouted to the workers.

A chubby teenage boy with bad acne and a tight white uniform jogged over and offered a paper bag with handles. Chloe squinched
her face in disgust and carefully lifted the item from the stinky trash. She slid it into the bag and headed home, late, and
in pain, due to the snakeskin stilettos that had mutilated the tops of her pinky toes.

“The box!” Chloe said, her mind snapping back to the present as she tapped on light beige concealer under her eyes. She forgot
that Saturday night, she came home, exhausted, and tossed the bag on the top laundry shelf. And that’s exactly where it would
stay until she figured out what to do with it.

T
he fourth day crawled by since the latest expiration of Star’s relationship with Theo. Feeling as secure as an amputee without
a table to lean on, she checked herself into a bedroom pity-party lockdown. No Theo on her schedule and no eBay bids on her
glitter.

Sunday she slept. Monday she sobbed. Tuesday she wept. Today she did all three. Why? Because she regretted picking up that
copy of
Urban Latino
from Theo’s coffee table that day, seeing the wedding brochures, and thinking they were for her. And the mural, of course.
But even more so, she hated that she had listened to Ofie and made that stupid love shrine. Could Theo have crushed her any
harder than to not even look at it? The scene replayed continuously in Star’s head. The humiliation made her want to grab
her hair and scream.

This morning, Star rose like a shackled prisoner and went straight to her movie collection, and snatched up specific flicks.
She grudgingly set up her video camera, tripod, and laptop, and then created a fifty-minute movie reel that she then burned
to a disc. She curled up on her bed with a box of Puffs Plus with Lotion and watched it over and over.

Al busted through the door midafternoon and clicked on the light. “Estrella, up. Now.” He stopped and tilted his head, confused.
“Are you watching
The Way We Were
?”

Star didn’t move from under the tent she had created with her sheets. “Just the last four minutes. I made a DVD of all the
endings to movies with doomed love stories.”

Al backed up slowly to check out the DVD cases strewn across the red and green striped area rug.
Splendor in the Grass. Moulin Rouge. West Side Story. Titanic. Romeo and Juliet. A Place in the Sun.
The Notebook
.
Casablanca.

“What? Are you trying to kill yourself by clogging your tear ducts?”

Wearing her favorite sleep clothes—high school gym shorts and an “I am a fictional character” XXL tee, Star climbed across
the mattress and perched on the edge of her bed. She watched the screen, blew her nose on a ratty tissue, and tossed it on
the floor with the others.

“I don’t feel as alone this way,” she explained. “Care to join me?” she asked, holding up the tissues.

Al took the box, set it on the bed, and reached for his daughter’s hand. She grasped it and climbed off the mattress to face
him.

“Estrella, I know you miss Theo, but all this crying isn’t going to bring him back.”

Star collapsed into her father’s inviting arms. He held her tight and patted the dirty hair she hadn’t washed in days. She
loved him so intensely that, for one instant since Saturday night, she actually felt a peg better. His hugs always had that
effect on her.

“Dad,” she whispered, resting her head against his chest. “Theo is half of me. I thought I was half of him. But I’m not. You
should have seen all the people at his reception at Sangria. He’s doing great without me. And La Pachanga—it’s doing fine
without me too. I’m like junk food. Empty calories. I’m always saying I want to make my mark, yet I could vanish right now
and there would be no trace that I existed.”

“Keep yourself busy and you’ll find your stride,” he said firmly. “And quit the self-pity. We taught you better than that.”

She pulled away and clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Please just let me come back to La Pachanga in my old job. I
don’t have one ounce of creativity in even a single cell of my body. Dad, I want to have
hope
… but it’s impossible right now.”

Her father shook his head, disappointed. “Why do you quit so easy? Do not give in. Have faith—which is better—because to have
hope means to have doubt.”

“I’ll try,” she said, hugging him tightly again. He cleared his throat, indicating an announcement would follow. Star braced.
It could be anything from firing someone at La Pachanga to needing her primo closet for storage. “Estrella, we have a family
guest staying with us for a while.”

A guest?
They rarely had guests, except visiting family now and then. “Who? When?”

He cleared his throat again. “Since Sunday. I’m asking you to keep an open mind, especially since all that’s happened.”

“Sunday? That long? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Star said, realizing she had been a hermit for the past week. She paced a
couple steps and came to a gruff halt and smacked her head in disbelief. “Oh God, Dad. I know. Please, no. I can’t deal with—”

“Maria Juana,” he said, tying his dreads into a ponytail.

Star dove on her bed and shoved her face into the pillow. At the same moment, piercing screams shot out from the television,
as the ill-fated
Titanic
had just cracked in half. “Just suffocate me now, por favor,” Star ordered, muffled by the fiber-filled cushion. Her inept-but-cunning
chola cousin who had infamously been named after two aunts—Maria and Juana—was not what she needed these days.

“Star, be mature. You have no idea the rough life that girl has been through. You’re Paris Hilton compared to her. She is
staying in the guest room.”

Star rolled over. “As in—my walk-in closet?”

“I told you all along you could use it to store your racks of clothes until we needed it for something else. Maria Juana is
the something else. She’s been evicted from her apartment and needs a temporary home. We’re doing it for Auntie Carol. Maria
Juana is going to help around La Pachanga until she finds a job and gets back on her feet. How did you put it on the news?”
Al made air quotes with his fingers. “ ‘We are a family that believes in second chances.’ ”

“You let
her
work there, but not
me
?” Star whined. “It’s not fair. Why can’t she go back home with Auntie?”

“It’s complicated drama. Auntie Carol is getting married to her new boyfriend. She’s worried about Maria Juana being too…
friendly… I guess you would call it.”

“You mean she knows Maria Juana will tap his trunk. She’s right. You know how she is!” Star sat down on the edge of her bed
and counted off Maria Juana’s flaws. “Last time she stayed here, she hit on Theo. She swiped my jewelry. She told Mom I hated
her organic tamales.”

“But you do hate her organic tamales.”

“But I didn’t want Mom to know that. I always eat one in front of her, because I love her and want to make her feel good.
Maria Juana is a gangbanger-Roller-Derby-hoochie-mama freak.”

“She is also family. She has no place to sleep. It’s a done deal. And by the way, how are the centerpieces coming along?”

Star rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. “We’re meeting today for the first time. God help me.”

Her dad left the room and Star almost went back to her mopey movie marathon to burn time until heading to Ofie’s for the craft
group—until she caught a glimpse of herself in the TV screen. Did she really look that crusty? Her hair, which normally hung
in tiers of ringlets, stuck out in a ratted, matted mess. She sniffed under her armpit and caught a DEFCON 4 whiff of BO.

“Gross!” she shrieked. Actually, it wasn’t so bad. Boycotting personal hygiene would go with her new “screw the world” introverted,
woman-scorned lifestyle. However, it would have to wait. She had the first meeting for the goofy CraftOlympics centerpieces.
She didn’t work at La Pachanga anymore, but she still served as a representative and had to make good on her promise to her
dad.

Even more so, to herself.

C
hloe knew joining the CraftOlympics Centerpiece Committee would impress the organizers of the convention. Not that she needed
to. The news of her recent success spread to California, proof of which came in the form of a job offer from a top-rated Los
Angeles station. She turned it down. The CraftOlympics was in December and last year’s host signed an endorsement contract
by January. Chloe expected the same time frame for herself, at least by February. First, though, Chloe had to survive the
next few months of preparing for the gala by serving time with these glue gun geeks.

“It’s three eleven. I canceled Pilates for this?” Chloe sniveled to Ofie’s front door—a brown and orange stenciled monstrosity.
Its ugliness fueled the TV reporter’s intolerance. The inaugural gathering was set for three p.m.,
sharp
, but the shabby little shack appeared abandoned.

Chloe paced about the faded Astroturf that lined the compact porch’s entryway, and surveyed the clumsy landscape: overgrown
bougainvillea, neglected cat claw vines, and scattered wilting cacti imprisoned in dusty terra-cotta pots. She held her finger
under her nose to prevent a sneeze. It didn’t work.

“Ahhh-choo!” she screeched in a high Mariah Carey octave. Chloe sniffled and checked her wristwatch: 3:20. “What a waste of
a Wednesday afternoon…,” she barked, digging through her taupe Prada hobo bag for her car keys.

“Are you
the
Crafty Chloe?” asked a young voice from behind her.

Chloe clenched her teeth and pivoted, graceful, like a swimsuit model. For a perky TV personality, there was nothing worse
than to be busted in a bitch fit. She could handle it though. By the time she faced the mystery greeter, she had morphed back
to shiny happy Crafty Chloe Chavez, professional roving reporter and pretend ruler of all paper crafters across the land.

Before her stood a teen boy, with one dimple and pop star good looks.

“You
are
Crafty Chloe! Thrilled to meet you!” he said with a warm, inviting smile that shone underneath a bar of black peach fuzz.
“I’m Benecio. Oh! You smell as scrumptious as you look. Divine! Is that the new Bvlgari?” he asked, gripping the strap to
the black leather satchel across his chest and sniffing in her direction.

Chloe adored her fans; they were the closest she’d come to genuine affection. She blushed and clasped his hand with both of
hers. Maybe she could hold on a few more minutes for the crazy craft lady.

“Likewise, Benecio. Thank you,” she replied.

Screech!
A car backed into the driveway. Chloe and Benecio locked eyes in anticipation and darted to the wrought-iron gate that separated
the porch from the front lawn. They stood in the open entryway and glared at the pimped-out black PT Cruiser with a red bumper
sticker that read: “Honk if you mix your own masa!”

A burly salt-and-pepper-haired woman in sneakers, a visor, a knee-length green jersey, and denim capri pants leaped from the
car holding bongos under one arm and a young girl at the end of the other. She eyed Chloe and Benecio for a moment before
turning her attention to another woman hustling up the brick walkway that divided the lawn.

“Hi, Nana Chata! Hi, Anjelica! These are the people for our centerpiece committee,” said the young woman as she gestured to
where Chloe and Benecio stood.

Chloe recognized her: Star Esteban from La Pachanga, in yet another wild outfit. This time it was a black ensemble of a men’s
guayabera shirt, Bermuda shorts, Chinese slippers, and three plastic baby barrettes in her wild mane of hair.

Chloe mumbled softly under her breath as Nana Chata silently shot her the evil eye.

Benecio folded his arms and shook his head at the roof. “This is weird. I should have listened to Alice and stayed in my own
dysfunctional home.”

“Nana Chata,” Star pleaded. “We need to let them in, please. Ofie is running late.”

“Fine!” Nana Chata said, opening the gate and then unlocking the front door. She looked like she thought they would rob the
place, Chloe thought. Not that Chloe could imagine who would want to steal anything from here.

Star guided them into the house with a welcome swing of her arm. She turned to Benecio. “Hi, I’m Star. Ofie should be here
soon.”

Chloe expected Star to give her the brush-off, but instead she offered a dry smile. Chloe would have reciprocated if it weren’t
for the stench of stale coffee, microwave popcorn, and Febreze that lingered in the air, causing her to grimace instead.

Immediately Star’s expression hardened. She shot Chloe an icy look and returned her attention to Benecio. “Come this way to
the Arizona room. That’s where she wants us to gather,” instructed Star.

Chloe stopped and thought of the holding power of her hair and makeup. “The Arizona room? As in, screened-in porch? It’s August.
It’s one hundred and thirteen degrees outside.”

“Remember me?” Anjelica said as she took Chloe’s elbow and escorted her across the threshold. “Don’t worry, it’s enclosed
and we have a swamp cooler and spray bottles if it gets too hot.”

Benecio stayed close by Chloe’s side and together they zigzagged through the house, taking in the painted plastic plants,
mice-and-mushroom stenciled floors, and the glittered popcorn ceiling. It was obvious they shared identical impressions—
Ofie’s House: When Bad Crafts Attack
. Chloe made a mental note to consider Ofie’s digs for an upcoming Decorating 911 segment, but first she would have to call
in a clean-up crew. She was trying to figure out if they could air the show in time for sweeps when another commotion took
place.