Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (14 page)

“Ofie!” Star squealed. “Your hair—I mean, you’re here!”

The woman of the hour had arrived, her auburn hair a curly, gelled bob, slightly pointed like a tee-pee on top and lopsided
on the sides. Her high-pitched voice sang out as she apologized repeatedly.

“Please, please forgive me for being late to our first meeting—at my house! I’m Ofelia Fuentes, but you can call me Ofie for
short. That is Nana Chata, my husband’s mother. And, Benecio, you’re the only one who hasn’t met Anjelica; she’s my daughter.”
She studied the faces of her new friends and rubbed her heart. “Wonderful! Happy is as happy does! Please, sit down, make
yourselves comfortable, and I’ll go get the treats. I hope everyone likes gourmet mochas!”

The guests swapped questionable glares as they sat on mismatched chairs arranged around a rickety buffet table lined with
a tattered disposable tablecloth. In the center rested three dented metal baking pans piled with crusty glue bottles, old
paints, glitter jars, kid scissors, and splintered chopsticks. Chloe felt her MAC studio foundation melting on her face from
the heat. So much for the swamp cooler.

“Hello, Star. How are you?” Chloe asked as she smoothed the tablecloth in front of her. The silence was as stifling as the
heat. Chloe was willing to do anything to soften the awkward moment.

“Fine, thanks,” Star replied, picking at a chunk of dried paint on the back of her chair. Maybe she seemed rude, but thanks
to the TV segment and the Sangria debacle, Star would forever associate Crafty Chloe with Theo heartache.

All too familiar with the hidden tension of arguing adults, Benecio ignored both of them, whipped out a journal from his satchel,
and sketched. Chloe abandoned her attempt at chitchat and checked her e-mail on her BlackBerry. Star removed an elastic tie
from her wrist, created an instant beehive look with her hair, and tapped her fingers on the table. All of a sudden, a loud
clanging noise came from the kitchen.

“I think I’ll go help Ofie with those drinks,” Star said as she headed into the kitchen, Nana Chata and Anjelica on her heels.

Chloe had never felt more uncomfortable and out of place. She would rather be on Grand Ave. in the seediest art house than
spend another minute in the tacky little house. She contemplated making up an excuse to leave, and would have, except Benecio
waved her over by the window to the kitchen.

“I think she had a panic attack,” Benecio stated, gawking through a slat in the blinds. “She must be really nervous to have
us here.”

Chloe hunched below Benecio and peeked. Star tended to Ofie, who rested on a barstool, breathing into a paper bag, tears streaming,
while Nana Chata rubbed her back.

On the other side of the wall, Star rested her forehead on her friend’s. “What happened, chica?”

“I got attacked by two dozen uncured resin bracelet pieces last night. Somehow they got stuck in my hair before I went to
bed. This morning, the resin had hardened. I had to chop it all off. Another blunder,” Ofie said. She dropped the paper bag,
hung her heavy head in the direction of the kitchen’s harvest-gold linoleum floor, and blew her nose in a three-ply Brawny.
She examined Star from the toes up. “Cheese and rice. Why do you look like you’re going to a funeral?”

Star wagged her thumb over her shoulder. “Why didn’t you warn me that Craft Bimbo joined our group? How did that happen? She
is, like, my least favorite person in the world.”

“Hey, now,” Nana Chata broke in, nodding her head toward Anjelica to remind the women she was in the room, “let’s get on these
snacks, ladies. We have company.” Star and Ofie each grabbed a plastic plate of crackers and headed for the back patio.

Ofie entered first, and came to a cold stop.

Star poked her head from behind and let out a silent scream and then rushed to the table, set down the plate, and threw her
hands over her face, as if to hide.

There on the floor of the enclosed patio, in plain view of the nervous guests, were the family Chihuahuas, Lola and Rocco,
snarling and playing tug-of-war with a pair of Ofie’s size-22 lime-green floral granny panties. The oldest pair in her collection,
as shown by the large hole in the crotch and a loose piece of wavy elastic that trailed behind.

Chloe slapped her hands over Benecio’s eyes. Nana Chata pushed Ofie and Star—who still had her hands on her face—out of the
way and snatched the panties from the dogs and stuffed them in her bra. “Hee-hee, these
perritos
love them some
chonies
!” she said as she scooped up the dogs, opened the screen door, and tossed them in the backyard.

Anjelica giggled and, as always, the sound of her daughter’s laughter made Ofie feel like everything would be okay. She set
the plate on the table and sat in a chair, still a little shell-shocked. She frowned for an instant, and then smiled proudly.
“Ladies, and little gentleman, thank you for coming. Before we start I want us all to remember one thing: The work of the
hands brings forth the spirit of the heart!”

“Okay,” they all said, silently agreeing to pretend they hadn’t just witnessed two tiny dogs fighting over an enormous pair
of women’s underpants.

“Well, I guess now is a good time for introductions before we get into the serious convention stuff. I’ll go first. I’m a
proud craftaholic!” Ofie proclaimed.

Star placed her hand gently on Ofie’s arm. “Can I start, sweetie?” This project had to be streamlined and precise, and Star
needed to take control before Ofie led them down the twisted side road of Glittered Dream Catcher Lane.

“Thank you for participating in what will be an exciting and rewarding experience for all of us,” Star said, using her best
business voice. “As you know, the nineteenth annual CraftOlympics will be held in Phoenix the first week of December. La Pachanga
Eatery and Art Space”—Star emphasized the last part just for Chloe—“is one of the sponsors. We are responsible for creating
two hundred boutique-worthy centerpieces for the awards gala dinner. In return, we will be provided VIP badges for the entire
show, each of our names will be featured in the program, we’ll receive two comp booths, a mention at the awards, as well as
a letter of recommendation, if we should ever need one for our respective careers.”

Chloe had to admit, Star impressed her, as did the deal perks.

“We will need to meet at least once a week for seventeen weeks, and we will finish twelve centerpieces a week. I’m confident
the four of us can handle it. That said, let’s open this meeting with introductions, and then go into brainstorming. Ofie,
take it away…” Star nudged her friend.

“Wow, Star, that was good!” Ofie cheered.

“Really? Thanks! I rehearsed it on the drive over,” she whispered back to her friend and chuckled for the first time in four
days.

Ofie then turned her attention back to the group. “Well, I make lots and lots of really neat stuff, as you can see,” she said,
pointing to the various crooked, indiscernible objects around the room. “I am one-half Mexican-American, one-quarter African-American,
and one-quarter Native-American. My mother-in-law says I’m a quarter short of a dollar! Ha!” Ofie laughed, and then paused
with a puzzled look on her face.

Nana Chata crunched into a pork rind.

“Anyway,” Ofie continued, “my talent is a gift that has been passed on by my ancestors. I live to create and inspire. To me,
crafting is like a big, warm, gooey fudge brownie. It makes me feel good and I love to share. I’m not the best housekeeper
or cook, but when I craft, I feel like a superstar. And speaking of superstars—I am so thrilled to have the remarkable Crafty
Chloe here. I still can’t believe you are sitting right here in my house! I love everything you do, and your ideas are the
best I’ve ever seen!”

Star wanted to stick her finger down her throat, but refrained.

Chloe’s eyes wandered to a hanging knotted object made from plastic lacing and fluorescent-pink pony beads. She blinked a
few times and focused her attention back on Ofie. “Thanks,” she responded coolly, as she sipped from the watery liquid that
was supposed to be an iced mocha. “Um. Wow. Is this Folgers?”

“No, no, no… it’s flavored instant—the expensive gourmet stuff. I splurged for you gals,” Ofie bragged. “It’s Vanilla Nut
and I used two heaping tablespoons per glass, like the package says. I can go get the can, if you want it stronger.”

More than anything, Chloe wanted to spit out the vile concoction before she gagged on its grittiness. Unfortunately, that
was not an option. “It’s fine, thanks. As for my introduction, you already know—I’m Crafty Chloe Chavez. I’m an award-winning
broadcast journalist, I cover the local arts scene, and, as you all know, I’m what you call a craft-lebrity. I’m very pleased
to share with you that I’ve been selected as the host of the CraftOlympics. I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. I deserve
this break. It will lead to bigger and better connections for me. Star, I know you must have your hands full with your parents’
eatery
and art space
, so if you would like me to take over this project, I’ll be more than happy to. Once we choose our design, just send the
supplies my way and I’ll make sure they are made to spec and delivered on time.”

Chloe came up with a genius idea on the fly. She would stall the brainstorming meeting, have Frances make the prototype and
finals, pass them off as Chloe’s, and promote them at the show.
Voilà!
She just found a way to add a licensing deal to her national platform.

As Chloe mentally calculated her future net worth, Star shot up in her seat. “No, that won’t be necessary. My father assigned
me to oversee this directly. But before we discuss that any further, we have two more intros. I guess I’ll go next.” She snatched
a paintbrush from the box, inspected its bristles, and slouched. She wanted to sound as polished as Chloe, but it just wasn’t
her style.

“Honestly? I’m here because I blew my dad’s money on this sponsorship. He’s keeping a close eye, so I’m kinda in the hot seat.
So if I sound like a craft Nazi, that’s why.”

Chloe perked up in her chair. “Oh, a centerpiece crisis! I guess I’m at the right place then, right, Star?”

“Ha. Ha,” Star fired back. Secretly she was a little impressed that Chloe remembered her comment. As much as she wanted to
tell Chloe her services weren’t needed, she knew her credentials would elevate the status of the project, and Ofie would be
five-hanky sad if Chloe left. “Here’s another confession to deal with—I’m not a crafter. I’m an artist.”

Benecio raised his hand. “What is the difference between the two?”

Star twisted the thick silver ring on her thumb. “Art is something you make only once, that someone else cannot replicate.
Crafts are when a lot of people make things that look alike.”

Chloe raised her hand. “Therefore, Ofie’s work is art, because I know I couldn’t replicate that… cute… knot thingy hanging
up there.”

Ofie’s eyes twinkled at the compliment from her idol. “It’s a plastic macramé birdfeeder! Wow, I never thought of it as art.
I guess I’m an artist too—like you, Star!”

Star squirmed. “Not exactly, because art is also something that relays a statement or message, something profound that forces
people to reexamine their views on that particular topic.”

“Oh,” Ofie replied. “Well, my statement is to make people happy. Does that count?”

Star didn’t have time to answer because Chloe jumped in. “I didn’t know you were an artist,” she baited. “What do you make,
Star? Does it involve spray paint?”

“I’m currently exploring all genres…”

“Star made a love shrine last week!” Ofie announced.

Chloe’s eyes widened. So that’s what the box was—a love shrine. If only Star knew it now resided in the reporter’s laundry
room.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.
The group turned to Nana Chata, who feasted on her chiccarones. “I want to know what Chacho is here for,” she said, aiming
a half-eaten pork rind at Benecio.

Chloe felt a sibling connection to the kid and playfully ran her fingers through his hair. “You are so dang gorgeous. Like
a Latino Issac Mizrahi if he got zapped with a shrink gun.”

“Actually, I prefer to think of myself as Narciso Rodriguez, but thanks,” he said. Benecio wore pressed slacks, patent-leather
loafers, and a sky-blue polo. A dark head of combed-back ringlets and mature green eyes offset his unblemished caramel skin.
This kid had won the gene pool lotto. Chloe thought this pint-sized chap had more style in his left earlobe than Ezra had
in his whole skeletal body.

“My name is Benecio Javier Valencia II. I’m fourteen, I’m a handbag designer, and I live in Scottsdale. I’m here to help so
I can score a badge and have a booth to show off my bags. I’m quite handy with a sketchbook and sewing machine.”

“I don’t know about this, Benecio,” Ofie said. “I’m thinking we need permission from your…”

“Parents? They couldn’t care less. All they worry about is making money. Our house manager, Alice, keep tabs on me. She’s
the one who told me about this group. She stops by La Pachanga every day to pick up my dad’s pan dulce. And she’s my ride,
too.” He slid a black leather binder across the table. Chloe took it and opened the cover. Star jumped up and ran over to
see, as did Ofie and Nana Chata. Each plastic-protected page contained an eight-by-ten glossy of a gorgeous handmade purse.
The designs ranged from slick and skinny embossed-velvet clutches to fluffy feather drawstring hobos. The women were captivated.

“My parents think I’m at basketball practice. Alice covers for me, and they don’t ask questions. As long as I don’t intrude
on their work schedules, I can do whatever I like—except design women’s accessories. They don’t appreciate my sensibility
for fashion. Narciso Rodriguez was just like me. His parents wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer. Now look at him: Salma
Hayek, Sarah Jessica Parker, and Michelle Obama bow to his talent.”

“What do your parents do for a living?” Star asked with the interest of a news reporter. Even Lola and Rocco picked up their
heads to listen.