Carly tapped down the empathy welling up. Joi didn’t need sympathy. She needed a livelihood.
Carly glanced over to where several of the other women who’d made it to the meeting were still sorting and gathering their crafts from the plastic bins. Most of them had never met. So far, the meeting wasn’t going well. They seemed uncertain of why they were there, tentative, and wary of one another. Pots of coffee and mounds of sugary donuts hadn’t made a dent in the frosty atmosphere. Her artists weren’t gelling.
Two women kept glancing at Carly as they rummaged and murmured back and forth. Those sounds weren’t encouraging. So far, only eight of the fifteen craft persons who’d said they could make it had arrived. If anyone else came, they’d be almost an hour late.
Footsteps and raucous laughter sounded in the hall a few seconds before the double doors to the church basement were shoved open. Through them came five young women dressed in painted-on leggings or butt-skimming shorts, hair in various lengths and shades and architectural shapes, and enough jewelry to choke a zoo’s worth of elephants. They were dressed for maximum effect and trailing lots of attitude. Indija had arrived, entourage in tow.
Carly sighed and stood up as they approached. She recognized insecurity masquerading as overwhelming force. She just wasn’t certain how to defuse either. If the look on Indija’s face was any indication, that might not be possible.
Carly didn’t get to speak before Indija interrupted, her black eyes bright with mischief. “What you got going on here? I thought you were running a business.” She flicked her gaze around the room to include everyone. “Looks like a rummage sale up in here.”
Carly sighed. Indija was throwing shade. “Glad you’re here, Indija.” Sort of.
“This is Kamiska.” Indija pointed a stiletto-like gold fingernail at the young woman to her right. “She’s at the art institute, too. Designs clothes and does nail art.”
Kamiska held up a hand of manicured nails. They were stunning, a French manicure using black polish with silver tips. Then she held up her other hand where the colors had been reversed. “Can’t sell that in your shop.”
“But it’s gorgeous work,” Carly answered, impressed. “Do you work in a salon? I’d love to come by.”
Kamiska rolled a shoulder in irritation. “I only do custom work.”
Indija took the moment to move in closer to Joi, as if sensing a weakness. Carly held her position but readied herself to stop a bully.
Indija gazed over Joi’s shoulder. “That’s pretty.” She pointed at a feather necklace. “But can you do something street?”
Joi looked from Indija to Carly, her expression puzzled. ‘I’m not sure what you mean?”
“This is faux Native American rip-off Boho chic. Pretty but weak.”
Joi jerked as if she’d been struck, but Indija didn’t seem to notice. She went on speaking.
“But you got potential.” Indija grabbed up a necklace to which long iridescent black and purple feathers had been attached, creating a fringelike bib. “You made this?”
Joi nodded but pushed deeper into her chair as if expecting another assault.
Indija held it up and studied it. “Reminds me of grackle feathers. Those rackety birds are everywhere you look in the summer. Loud, rude, struttin’ around in parking lots and people’s yards like they own it all. Crap that white mess all over your car and don’t care. That’s street.”
Joi smiled tentatively. “So my necklace is street?”
“Not yet. But watch this.”
Indija opened the necklace, but instead of putting it around her neck, she whipped it behind her and pulled it around her waist so that the feathers trailed down over her skimpy shorts. She began strutting around, the bounce of her rear making the feathers dance with her movements.
The other artists who’d come closer to watch the exchange laughed and clapped. Indija’s friends were more vocal.
“Now I know that’s right.”
“That’s so sexy.”
Indija struck a pose near Joi. “You got to sell your merchandise. Pretty isn’t enough. I’d name your line ‘Tail Feathers.’ This baby should be ‘Street Grackle.’”
“Wait ’til I hit the club wearing one of those.” Kamiska stood up and shook her generous behind. “Talk about shaking a tail feather. I’ll need an extra large, all right?”
Another of Indija’s girl pack stepped up. “Could you do a necklace—Oh! I know what you should call them. Buttlaces. I want a buttlace made of blue jay feathers. Blue jays are the original gangsters at my mother’s bird feeders. Definitely street.”
Joi looked stricken. “I’m sorry but I can’t do blue jay feathers. They’re protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. So are cardinals and grackles and almost every other local bird, except mallard ducks. Even if I found the feathers, I’d be in trouble if I used or tried to sell them.”