Free Waking Up in the Land of Glitter by Kathy Cano-Murillo

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