“You, Chloe Wong, are a liar!”
Liar? More like a good editor…
“We paid good money for you to take that Princeton Review, two times I believe, and you don't even take the exam?!”
“But I knew I'd do badly. I don't test well so I forgot, honest.”
Well, that part was true—the part about not testing well.
“So you just thought the solution was not to take the SATs at all—thereby wasting my money and mocking me in the process?!”
Jeez. Why was this about him? He already went to college, a really good and hard one at that!
“We have let you get away with murder, absolute MURDER. First, we say nothing when you ‘transfer out’ of Eden Prep, an unthinkable travesty. Then we say nothing when you take up with that, that—pervert of a boyfriend who's hopped up on god-only-knows what kind of drugs—”
“You mean the schvartz?” Zeyde hollered, “There are drugs too!”
Chloe shook her head, totally mortified. How could Zeyde bust out with the word “schvartz” and think it was kosher!
“Well about this ‘urban’ preying-mantis-pedophile we say nothing, we just let you ‘hang out.’ And we say nothing even now while you carouse about town with that Mexican girl—”
“Colombian,” Chloe corrected.
“What difference does it make? She whores through the neighborhood in clothes that would make my poor mother roll in her grave and you have some chutzpa to correct me in the middle of a lecture!”
“But Mexico is a totally different country than Colombia and Sue's part Italian.”
Stan slammed his fists down again.
“You don't know when to quit! Or actually, I stand corrected. You quit everything that you should not!”
This was valid. Chloe Wong-Leiberman was an avid quitter. Viola, dance, track … and field. A borderline C student when she could've got A's, she was a quasi-underachiever fully comfortable with being average. Neither a leader nor a follower, she never quite lived up to her much-touted “potential.” She had always been smart according to teachers but never “applied herself” seriously. And no matter what her friends said to make her feel better about her FD she just couldn't justify that thinking about clothing, even if it was in an obsessive way, really qualified in the applying-herself category.
“And now, Ms. Wong-Leiberman, on the Chinese New Year, no less, a day for our family to come together and celebrate our rich heritage, you decide to ruin it by casually mentioning that you ‘forgot’ to take the SATs and didn't apply to a single goddamn college! A decision which means you will live out the rest of your days like some bum hawking shmatte with the Gypsies downtown! You, Chloe Wong-Leiberman, have disgraced this family. And you have broken my heart.”
Stanley looked about ready to die of some spontaneous epileptic babbling seizure right there, foaming at the mouth all over his prized Hawaiian shirt! (which wouldn't have been so bad). He was shvitzing and shaking all over like the San Andreas itself.
Mitchell's jaw could've snapped off his body at any sec, a la Spring. Zeyde's face was buried deep in his hands. And Lucinda sat frozen as car bo-lite.
But Pau-Pau hopped up, chopstick pointed like a sword.
“Enough, fai-ji!” she spat.
“Good GAWD, Moth-er!” Lucinda cringed. “Pleeeeze sit down!”
“Mo lay yel, Lucindaaa. Cra-zy bok-gui. Enough!”
“Um, like, may I please be excused?” Chloe whispered to no one in particular.
Her arms and legs shook and swayed like the San Andreas too. She had done it. For real.
Chloe had dropped the bomb and killed her family.
Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence
[Didn't Chloe just do that? Oh, you mean in a good way.]
Pre-Party Palazzo Pjs
[Person number one: La Contessa Coco l'Orange]
Wear four-inch heels for special occasions
Wear four-inch heels if you, like, have to walk
Sure she was trespassing but Chloe just couldn't help herself. She loved the thrill of illegal entry. It was as if she was literally being pulled across the street by some invisible yet inevitable magnet.
She had to get in.
Into the Villa, that is. The Villa de la Contessa. You know, the not-so-humble abode of the mysterious buxom lady who was hosting that not-so-humble Chinese New Year soiree. Talk about a scandal. The entire neighborhood couldn't stop blabbing about what this supposed Countess supposedly did to supposedly come into her supposed wealth.
The rumors were wild. She was from Beirut. She was a frequent divorcée. She was a kept woman. She was a Countess through marriage, but after that divorce she got to keep the title and three homes—including the home across the street, making her the first outsider to arrive on the Wells Park scene in well over a decade. Her name in full was the Countess Coco l'Orange. La Contessa, for short.
It was about time Chloe checked out the real deal for herself.
Chloe assessed the entrance situation. It was all high security in front, in back, and along the sides, prepping for red-carpet arrivals. Then there was all that topiary—topiary this and that for days. Hmmm. How to secure entry without snagging her silk or wrecking her heels and, for that matter, SANS invite? She could take her pants off for a small sec (she was wearing cute boy shorts), but with her luck Peter Windemere would jump out from behind a bush and snap a photo. He was, like, her stalker.
Removing her shoes would do for now as she prepared (a) to hop a fence, or (b) to squeeze on past a topiary swan. She opted for b—sliding right between the swan and what looked like some massive topiary David. She almost snagged a silk pocket in the process, but thank GAWD, emerged unscathed.
She was in.
Chloe's jaw dropped to the floor, or rather, the marble. Before her, the grounds swept back and forth in every direction. So it really was some re-created Greco-Roman-revival temple thing happening out here! White on white—like the steps leading to Caesar's itself. (This just vexed Lucinda to no end. After all, Greek revival didn't GO with Avocado Lane! Avocado Lane was strictly an American colonial kind of street.)
Adding to an already obscene list of DON'Ts was the rotunda situation. The woman had the gall to paint her enormous open-aired rotunda flanked by hundred-foot-high Corinthian columns cherry red! AND this cherry red rotunda positioned itself smack dab in front of and above the Beckett home not only making it the “gauchiest” property on the block but also making it the most elevated, overtaking at least three Well Parkers’ entire ocean views.
And then, Chloe was struck—blinded by the light! Or, like, by a statuesque figure glittering up ahead. With languid arms stretched out in the enormous open-aired cherry red rotunda also perfectly framed by gigantic twin palms, La Contessa, the Countess Coco l'Orange, emerged as if from a dream. She was standing alone like the queen of the world, basking in the 360-degree glow of the tranquil Pacific decked out in full-on pre-party palazzo pjs! Waving a long, golden cylinder that she alternately raised to her parted lips, then, in one single exasperated motion, dropped to her side, the Countess appeared to be smoking a fake cigarette. She slouched against a hundred-foot-high Corinthian column, all nonchalant, with a floor-length coat of some endangered species casually tossed across a shoulder. Chloe just couldn't contain herself.
“Is that coat, like, for real?” she blurted.
“Of course it's real,” the Countess snapped, more offended by the question than the crasher. “I don't do fakes.”
Fur, not faux? It was, like, seventy-five degrees. Chloe respected her already—the type of woman who suffered for the cause.
She descended from the rotunda while un-smoking her fake cigarette, palazzo pjs blowing in the breeze. They were yellow silk, a sumptuous one-piece confection, and they billowed wide through the legs over four-inch gold braided mules. Chloe just had to gawk. She had never seen a woman in so much fur and fringe and rocks—previewed in suc
h a dazzling array of colors and sets and styles! Even the Countess's fingernails had rocks. They were like ruby red talons, the tips of each studded with a different stone.
Chloe slipped her peeptoes back on, feeling terribly underdressed and quite apologetic. I mean, she was standing face to face with the real, live, breathing Countess herself! As in the Countess whose image had preceded the real thing in a totally epic way! Had she known they would meet wardrobe to wardrobe she would've changed to mark the occasion.
“I see we're sneaking out for a cig, young thing,” the Countess purred.
Chloe took offense. She hadn't even left with her “cigs,” thank you very much.
“Actually I was just—”
“Breaking and entering!” the Countess cried, inching close. She smelled like jasmine and cherries—an intoxicating scent.
“Was not! Like, I got kicked out of my house, so I was going for a walk, which I quite honestly hate to do but, like, had no choice since my car was taken away. And I don't smoke unless I'm wearing my smoking sweatshirt which clearly I'm not.”
“Come here, young thing.” The Countess beckoned. “Let me take a lookie-loo at your shooooz.”
She raised a jade-framed monocle up to what seemed to be yellow eyes—just like a LYNX—as in the supple, creamy, REAL LYNX coat she had wrapped around her.
“They remind me of a pair Roger made my mother years ago—” she mused. “Shoes like sculpture, that Monsieur Vivier, reaaally. Tell me, are they old or new?”
“Um, they're kinda new but not. I bought them at a store but they weren't right so I hand-painted them gold.”
“Hmmm. So you're an artist then?” The Countess examined Chlo's shoes close, strands of pearls glittering amid gemstones in an ample décolletage.
Chloe blushed. “Oh god no. I'm just a senior, at Roosevelt. This really easy lame school. And no, like, I don't have any postgrad plans so please don't ask about them.”
“Planzzz are terribly overrated,” the Countess cooed. “I try never to plan anything at all! Except for my little Chinese New Year shindig I'm hosting later tonight, that is. Perhaps you and … your father would like to attend?”
Stanley? Was the Countess, like, jocking her dad?
Ew.
“Thanks so much for the invite but I'll definitely be under house arrest on account of me not having a plan—like to go to college—something I broke to the fam tonight. I was actually kinda kicked out. For real. I might be homeless. And even if I were to sneak out which I'll probably end up doing anyhow cuz I'm always grounded I don't have anything appropriate to wear.”
Chloe suddenly felt exposed and wanted to go home and change. And then, her phone rang. Pau-Pau?
“Oh, hey, Pau. What's up?”
“Chlooe-guurl. Your chi-sen-pau need you buy Tiger Balm, tit da jow, Seven-Eleven.”
Tiger Balm?
“Gao-chaw, Pau? Like, I was kicked out, remember?”
“Hui! Pau need you drive. Your bok-gui father left.”
“But what about Mitch?”
“Mitchella, mo-yung!”
For real. But, like, she didn't really want to have to drive her grandmother to 7-Eleven to buy “ointment” for god knows what orifice. Plus what if this was a trap?
“I'm not so sure I can, Pau.”
“Chlooe-guurl, Pau-Pau say time come home!” she clucked. “Go for ride. Then Pau show you how sew welt pocket—hui, five-pocket jean.”
Click.
Pau hung up.
Well, all right. Chloe did need help with welt pockets. But traditionally they didn't even go on five-pocket jeans? What was Pau talking about? Chloe flipped her phone shut.
“Sorry, but I've got to go buy Tiger Balm for my grandma—she just got out of the hospital but she's all right.”
The Countess continued to study Chloe with her yellow cat eyes, quite amused.
“Tiger Balm?” she inquired.
“Yeah, Tiger Balm. It's, like, this weird cure-all Chinese ointment. I know it's random but she doesn't drive or wear anything you can, like, actually feature in public. Well—at least ever since she moved in.”
And got cancer … Chloe started to shvitz nervously. This Countess lady sure was coming close, still puff-puffing away on her fake cigarette.
“Um, well, it's been lovely meeting you, Ms….”
“Just call me La Contessa!” she exclaimed. “I think I'll have Julius send for you after school sometime. He's my number one schmo.”
And away she went—swiveling past the open-air cherry red rotunda, billowing satin palazzo pjs swishing and swaying across the sweeping marble steps.
Hmm. Maybe dropping bombs worked in Wells Park after all. (And also, why did every Chinese pau under the sun swear by Tiger Balm? What exactly was Tiger Balm anyhow?)
Every Day Is Like Sunday
[Person Number Two (and Three!): Sue and Rosy A.]
Aspire to look like you feel
Be so obvious you, like, have to talk about how you feel
Technically, Chloe was grounded until much, much further notice. Quelle surprise. But today she had a three-hour get-out-of-450-Avocado-Lane pass under the sole condition she would be studying with Spring, but I mean, didn't her mom know by now? Chloe never told her the truth. She was going to Sue's.
Sue Arriza had been Chloe's other best friend since her first day at Roosevelt High, the very first time Chloe Wong-Leiberman ever stepped foot on public school soil.
It was like this.
Chloe was wearing a black fedora, a white tank top, and a pair of green Dickies over white shell-toe Adidas. A group of cholas got in her face walking to fifth period. They cornered her and asked the question she had been asked, like, too many times to count. “Where you from, girl?” their ringleader demanded. Chloe couldn't tell you her name but she could tell you her breath smelled like cherries and she wore these fantastic twizzly earrings that grazed her broad shoulders. Chloe complimented them even, but suggested she wear them with a different neckline.
Aloud.
Right then and there tiny Sue Arriza jumped in to defend. Chloe had rescued Sue's beloved hoodie earlier that morning after the zipper totally busted. She had pinned it back together into this rad capelet instead, a crafty save that Sue would never forget in light of the total emergency. Plus, she liked Chloe's style and wanted to check the new prep-school ex-pat out.
The cholas stepped back and have respected Chloe ever since. Chlo didn't know it at the time but tenth-grader Sue Arriza carried lots of clout thanks to her mom, Rosy, the most respected Santera in the hood. Ever since bonding over buying wife beaters at Wal-Mart two years ago, they've been inseparable.
Today, Chloe was feeling nostalgic and all alone and kinda sorry for herself which is why she opted for a blouson tube dress in lemon jersey, something breezy and oversized: An Ode to Easier, Softer Times. With rainbow-laced espadrilles, gigantic Jackie Os to shield herself from the sun, and an elbow-length stack of chunky bangles to hear and feel clanking about, Chloe was practically swimming in the dress and the bracelets and shades but she, like, needed the space.
Chloe felt sick to her core. She didn't exactly enjoy lying to her parents but they really gave her no other choice! They didn't even try to understand who she was so why should she bother telling them the truth? Plus, it was all too apparent she was a part of a family she'd never feel a part of at all. Like, Chloe was convinced she was more space alien than Wong-Leiberman.
Sorry, folks, we DON'T do returns or exchanges.
Not store policy.
Ever since that ill-fated Chinese New Year night Chloe's mom had totally ignored her and Stan had been MIA. Mitchell was gloating in all the Chloe-sucks glory and Zeyde clucked his teeth for shame every time they crossed paths in the kitchen. This meant Chloe communicated with the Wong-Leibermans through Pau, a bit of a challenge but at least it gave them QT alone to sew.
They sewed upstairs in Pau's attic apartment, a nice place to hide and practice her pretend p
ortfolio, a collection Chloe was working on even if at that time she thought she'd never get to apply to Saint Martins for real.
But back to Rosy and Sue. They lived in El Conejo, what Wells Parkers called the ghetto. But Chloe felt safer in the Arriza casita than in any patrolled estate in Wells Park. For real. The cozy cottage always smelled like fried chicken and baby powder and honeysuckle and something sweet like tobacco mixed with caramel. Toddlers always waddled around the meandering yard since in addition to being a rad Santera, Rosy ran a little day-care center from the house. She was, like, the Queen of Multitasking.
The winter day was unusually warm, even for El Conejo. The sweeping valley was always a good ten degrees warmer than Wells Park—sort of like a spiraling, sprawling pit that the sun relentlessly poured into and beat down. Nevertheless, Rosy Arriza's garden always seemed to grow. Her small grove of avocado and lemon trees was always ripe with fruit, and all around tomato plants and herbs and white flowers, gardenias to be exact, burst out here and there from little fountains.
The familiar circle of grass, the tiny pebbles on the path, the antique wooden knocker—all these things made Chloe feel relieved and reassured—like everything would somehow be OK. She imagined this was how it must feel to come home if you actually wanted to go there. Then she felt guilty and weird and nervously adjusted the elastic around her chest. Yep, her ta-tas as Rosy liked to call them were seriously de nadas, for real.
But before Chloe could even step inside the single-story Spanish, Sue rushed out. She was proudly featuring a flirty red circle skirt, pink Chuck Ts, and a hand-dyed signature wife beater, this one ruched at the sides with contrasting yellow ribbons. It was a detail Chloe had added and admired now. Sue could pull off everything from punk-rock chola to subversive and sweet because she, like, meant it.
“Finally. Let's go, space cadet!” Sue rolled her big green eyes—the one good thing her dad left her with since he took off when she was three and never came back. He was the Italian part—making Sue three parts Colombian and one part Italian. Sue was definitely a hottie who knew it but worked her hottie status not just to her advantage but yours too. (She really was a generous and resourceful girl.)
Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Page 4