So that makes Craft Club the equivalent of a satanic temple. And here I am, her son, breathlessly rushing inside first thing on a Sunday, ready to go absolutely bananas in aisles full of horrifically accessible art supplies.
I float through the store, turning into the seasonal decorations aisle instead of walking down the central one, where clubbers (the employees, dressed in branded, bright-magenta polos) hand out promo cards. (I have my coupons on my phone, like a professional.) I walk through shrines of glittering gourds and life-size robot witches cackling over cauldrons. One of the witches has been knocked over, and her top half has dissociated from her legs. As her head turns this way and that, it looks like she’s writhing on the white tiles. She is, quite literally, cackling her ass off.
“Same, girl,” I say as I step over the twitching witch and into the kids’ section. Surrounded by watercolor kits, I pause to review my list.
I need:
• Gems—Sea Foam Dream #6
• Adhesives—E6000 x 2
• Adhesives—glue gun sticks
• Fabrics—netting for trawl shawl, 3 yards
• Fabrics—crochet cotton lace (eyelash edges), 1.5 yards
• Foam—clay
• Foam—bevels
I push my sunglasses farther up my nose. I’m sneaking—in disguise. I pop the collar of my coat like a cartoon spy, and I get to finding.
Most of the list is easy. I fly through the fabrics first, knowing that’ll take the longest. When a clubber asks if I need help, I say, “No, just browsing,” as kindly as I can, and they drift off.
I pick up some new scissors, since my fabric ones are pretty worn. I also get a few fresh box cutter blades. Then I start looking at respirators, since the ones they have here are much nicer than what you can get online.
“Basket, Raffy?”
I jump; the clubber talking to me is much closer than I realized. She registers the surprise on my face, and the skin of her nose crinkles, amused. She’s got a basket for me, and I smile thankfully before I dump the many items I’ve collected into it. The clubber gives me a wink before she goes.
I heave my basket to the gem aisle, knowing I’ve already stayed too long. Am I really here so often that they know me on sight? I’m thinking about this when I accidentally clip another shopper with the corner of my basket.
“Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my eyes down. I pass the individual packets, then find the bulk gems. I’m annoyed that the store is slowly filling up, and I’m annoyed that my palms are itching as I begin to overheat from carrying around this basket, which I’ve filled with too much stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Nonessentials. Indulgences. And now I’m rushing to find the one thing I actually really need—these idiotic stones. I pull the label from my pocket, checking the name, and begin searching for the exact color.
“Sea Foam Dream, right?”
It’s a clubber helping another shopper. The person I just bumped into.
“Ah, here they are. We’ve got a few sizes. Anything else you need?”
The clubber looks at the shopper, who is looking at me, but I am looking at the stones. The exact stones I myself am here to buy.
“This is what you were looking for, right?” asks the clubber.
“No. I mean, yeah. Thank you, I’m all set,” says the shopper. He’s as young as me, by the sound of his voice. But he sounds unsure, even embarrassed, and I don’t know why. The clubber goes away, and then it’s just me and this guy looking at the same jar of Sea Foam Dream rhinestones. As with almost all product labels at Craft Club, the face of Elizabeth Worthy, founder of Craft Club, mother of current CEO Irma Worthy and iconic wearer of ringlet curls, stares back at us with a warm smile. We return her inviting smile in silence, until:
“Raffy, right?”
I nearly drop my basket. What is happening? Why does everyone know my name? Instead of sprinting away, I face him. The first thing I register is that this guy is soaking wet. And then I register his smile, and the strangeness of his appearance is immediately eclipsed by the realization that I have never, ever, ever seen a more beautiful face.
He’s got dark hair and dark eyes. He’s in some sort of sports uniform, his shorts revealing tan thighs brushed with grass stains, and slumping white socks pool around his narrow ankles. His tank top is tie-dyed with sweat. The tank clings to his muscular body, and he plucks at it bashfully.
“It’s Luca. From bio?”
At first, the image of this boy doesn’t fit, and then it does. Luca Vitale.
“Oh, I didn’t recognize you. You’re so…wet.”
“I play soccer. I had practice this morning. It’s why I’m gross.” He shrugs, and I force myself to blink rather than stare for another second at the sheen on his exposed shoulders. “I’m not usually this gross. Or wearing cleats. Or, I guess I do wear cleats a lot, and I guess I play soccer a lot, but, like…” He rocks on his feet, rambling, and I hear the click-click of his shoes on the tile floor.
“Usually I shower right after practice,” Luca says definitively.
“But today you went shopping?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“At Craft Club?”
“Yeah.”
“For aquamarine flat-back rhinestones.”
He shrugs. I look at the wall of glittering plastic gems and pearls. I look at Luca, who appears to be uncomfortable in front of me but unaware of how out of place he is here in general.
“So, I’m Luca,” he says again, smiling.
I roll my eyes. “I know.”
“And you’re Raffy.” A playfulness threads his brow, like he’s guessing. Is he flirting? He’s not flirting. People don’t flirt with me.
“Sorry if I stink,” he says, but he’s not sorry. I know because he gathers his big arms across his chest, flexing so that the small muscles near his elbows jump. His skin glows. I’m blushing.
“Yeah, I’m Raffy. And you’re fine,” I say.
I’m used to guys like this categorically avoiding me, as though interacting with me is going to leave them exposed to whatever gay contagion I suffer from. This guy is doing it all wrong. He’s doing his best to connect with me. And he seems…interested. I’ve never received attention like this, but I’ve seen it in movies. By the way Luca leans in, I think he’s seen the same movies.
I scramble for a question to ask him. I come up with: “What are you making?” I know I need to go, but I’m not sure when else in my life I’m going to have such a distinct upper hand. Here in Craft Club, I’m on my own home turf.