Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  “Sorry, Sue-Lou. I was spacing and lost track of the time.”

  “It's healthy to daydream, hija.” Mrs. A glid out of the house and planted a gigantic kiss on Chloe's cheek.

  Chloe couldn't help but, like, kinda gawk. I mean, Rosy Arriza glowed just like the moon! She was a vision in silver and white, her beaded tunic paired over extralong white cotton batiste pants, with flat goddessy sandals featuring a dangling coral accent at the toe. Her hair bounced down the slope of her back in a single, perfect braid—swaying gently like a leaf. Why couldn't her mother's hair sway gently like a leaf?

  “I'm sure you're the only adult who feels that way, Mrs. A. Like, sometimes I think my kind of daydreaming might be hazardous to my health. It probably is a good thing my folks took my car away cuz I'm highly likely to cause a major accident—again. Are you coming shopping with us?”

  “No, she's not,” Sue said, hooking Chlo's arm. “She's working, big surprise. C'mon, Mama, keys please.”

  “Ai, hija. Calmate. First, I wanna hear what's going on with my other little star?”

  Little star. Just hearing Rosy say that made Chloe wanna curl up and dieeee.

  “Did you send in your application to fashion school yet? It's in London, right? How exciting! It's inspiring to wake up in the morning and see a different view.”

  “Ma-ma,” Sue interjected. “Por favor. Like, will you leave her alone? Isn't it time for your next registro anyhow?”

  Oh, so, registros were what Sue's mom was, like, famous for. In between running the day-care center she gave special readings called registros that were kinda like therapy but not and involved Santeria orishas, which are, like, gods of the Santeria faith. The orishas communicated through rad Santeras like Rosy—but that's a whole other story. Just know for now that it was a really big deal to get a registro from Rosa Maria Arriza.

  “Mrs. A, my parents aren't too thrilled with that prospect, actually. Like, I'm not even allowed to apply.”

  “No te preoccupadas, little star. No worries. It'll all work out and you'll make the right choice. Your folks will see. No one can decide what's best for you—not even them. Ai, I should listen to my own words!”

  She spun Sue round to hug her close, all zerberts and kisses.

  Rosy always said or did things like that, sincere, but not, like, serious. That's probably why people came to her for advice since Rosy never seemed to worry or freak out. She usually let Sue do her own thing too—even if a choice might be a mistake—including Sue's recent decision slash “mistake” to wait to apply to college. Sue wanted to work on a vineyard in Naples and get back to her mystery dad's roots, punto. As in, Naples, Italy, not Naples, Florida. Waking up to a different view, for real. Sue was leaving on a jet plane right after graduation and no one was gonna stop her.

  “Ma-ma, pleeeze!” Sue cried, buckled over at the waist while Rosy continued with the kissing flurry, something that was definitely more welcomed than dissed.

  Chloe's mom never kissed her, like, ever. Chloe felt just a little jealous. Come to think of it, Lucinda never kissed anyone. And if it was fine for Sue not to go to college yet then why was it so bad for Chloe not to go at all?

  “Ai, now I'm dizzy from all this kissing. OK, hijas, con cuidado por favor. Be careful on the 405. Oh, and it probably is better if Sue drives.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No worries, Mom. C'mon, Chlo. Let's go.” Sue hurried Chloe down the path, pausing to pick up Chloe's discarded smoking sweatshirt. Chloe sometimes left it in the bushes when she was trying to quit.

  “Since you won't be needing this anymore, Wong, can I borrow it?”

  Sue tied the sweatshirt around her neck.

  “I'll just make you one already!” Chloe exclaimed.

  “Wong, if I had a dollar for every time you threatened to do that then I'd be rich like you!”

  “I'm not rich, Sue, my dad is.” She hated when Sue mentioned the difference in their “social” status even if there was quite a difference indeed. Like, Chloe felt ashamed for having money and guilty that Sue had none and uncomfortable and irritated that it was even an issue for her at all since it wasn't really an issue for Sue.

  “You'd get rich too if you just sold your clothes, already. Prove to your parents there's a, whawould Mitch call it, a market.”

  “Sue-Lou, Stan and Lucinda still have yet to recover from the latest …”

  “I think they'll get over it, Wong. Besides, today's the first day of the rest of your life! It's all good.”

  Sue smiled reassuringly, just like Rosy, whose gorgeous gauzy tunic was shining brightly in the sun. If only Chloe could wear life like one of Rosy's carefree cotton tunics—loose and embroidered by hand and flowing real easy when she walked, I mean when she “glid” (cuz she kinda glid more than walked).

  Now that was something to aspire toward. For real.

  Sacrifice

  [Person Number Four: Pau]

  Sacrifice for the right cause

  Sacrifice just because

  You could say things eventually got back to the yoosh at the Wong-Leiberman household.

  Water polo and lacrosse were in full swing for Mr. All-Star Everything so Mitchell was always at some game or rally or party for the team. (Besides, free time was a Mitchell DON'T that might just give him too much time to think for himself.)

  Currently, Stan and Zeyde were at war. Zeyde had shacked up with the infamous Christmas La Jolla “hunny,” a plump little fan of control-top and hair-spray he met kibbitzing at one of his senior citizen pancake breakfasts. Stan was, to say the very least, perturbed by his dad's indiscretion.

  The latest feud, however, couldn't have been all that tragic since Zeyde still made an every-so-often guest appearance. Chlo could hear him snoring—lying dead as a doorknob in his maroon poly blend “Pierre Cardin” or “It's Sergio” track suit, tiny patch of fur revealed above a woolen plaid or flesh-toned grandpa sock, like, gathered at a bony ankle—an orthopedic, gray sneaker—the “comfort” kind with soft, ventilated soles for “breathing,” dangling at the foot of a four poster bed.

  Ever since Chinese New Year, Lucinda hadn't said another word to Chloe about college, going to college, or anything else for that matter—electing to direct orders in monosyllabic sentences or notes through Lupe or Pau which was cool cuz Lupe never busted Chlo for smoking and Pau, well, she offered instructive, if unusual, company.

  Every day way up in the attic Pau and Chloe would sit and sew something from Chloe's pretend Saint Martins portfolio, whose theme Chloe chose to entitle Five Cali Pieces. The app would have required her to submit, like, sketches only (she had them for months) but Pau insisted that Chloe make everything for real even if she wasn't applying to the school for real.

  So while easy-listening favorites Linda Ronstadt or Kris Kristofferson played in the background, Pau nudged and prodded Chloe to hand-stitch hems (very therapeutic), perfect buttonholes (a bitch to do, for real), and finish seams (French ones, like, to prevent fraying).

  All the Wongs and Leibermans, including Chloe, seemed to forget Pau was in remission from the C word. Even Pau forgot she had ever had the C word! Or, at least, she didn't act like a sick person with a C situation. They could, like, be in the middle of trimming threads when, all of a sudden, Chloe would turn and Pau would be gone—venturing the hood in her velour tat-tat-high, whistling loud to catch the bus. Either that or she'd be screaming “No whammies!” from the breakfast nook. She just loved the Game Show Network and, as bizarre as it might sound, telenovelas, which FYI are Latin soaps. Pau was doing all right adjusting to the Wong-Leiberman world thanks to Lupe and TiVo and maybe Chlo.

  Chloe was working on An Ode to the Tiger. She draped some muslin over a dress form and thought about clashing patterns, hidden seams, stripes, and tangerines. She wasn't too sure if the Look would be a part of the original Five Cali Pieces or just a continuation of the theme but she felt inspired by the Chinese New Year and jeez, by Pau?

  “Crap,” she muttered, dropping anothe
r pin. The pin rolled along the creaky floorboard and came to a stop next to a bright lacquered dish. Peanut brittle and Andes mints were piled high atop slices of fresh ginger, twin satsumas, and a big stack of laysee, which, FYI, means new money for a new year. The laysee was folded in bright red and gold envelopes stamped with the Chinese character double happiness, and you burned the envelopes to make offerings to ancestors and Buddha and stuff since they were supposed to bring you good luck. Luck. Something Chloe certainly lacked. She perched on her elbows staring at the New Year shrine, and, even though she felt kinda lame, made a wish.

  “Chloee-girl! No time for fat-mung. Need one more look. Last look.”

  The Last Look. Something Chloe hadn't figured out quite yet.

  She watched her grandmother's hands, plump and wrinkled and strong. Chloe pictured all the fabric that had passed through them—all the cheongsams Pau-Pau had pieced together—cut, trimmed, and sewed every day, maybe every night in that hidden sweatshop (and it was a sweatshop) in Chinatown, many years before. A room she imagined, like, had no light, or had really bad fluorescent light. Not even a room but more like a hole—without a proper chair or anything—a hole where she probably made no more than a pinche buck an hour creating what was really couture while wearing some totally unflattering smock. No wonder her mom hated to sew. No wonder Lucinda hated Chloe to sew too….

  Huh. Something suddenly made sense.

  “Hi-yaaa, luftming,” Pau clucked.

  Chloe giggled at her grandmother's latest unconventional word choice. “You mean, luftmensh, Pau. No doubt I'm that. A luftmensh, or ming, or both.” She planted a kiss on her grandmother's cheek and watched her hands maneuver and negotiate the folds with ease—the consistent hum of the machine zipping back and forth, back and forth, just like a lullaby.

  “Chloe-girl, treat time for Pau-Pau. Sweet treat.” She rubbed her belly and arched an eyebrow, all partner-in-crime like.

  Chloe laughed and rolled her eyes.

  “Hui, sur-jen! Only Oreo. Just five. Pau-Pau cut back.”

  Chloe looked at her little sewing machine and released the presser foot (you know, the part that latches onto the fabric). Then she went downstairs thinking about Pau-Pau's little altar and sacrifice and wished she could figure out a way to apply to Saint Martins for real.

  Extracurricular activities

  [Do people and shopping count? How about shopping with people?]

  El Conejo Swap Meet, the Promenade, and Crystal Court

  Keep where you shop to yourself

  Keep to yourself while shopping

  Chloe and Sue always went shopping on Sundays. It was like church. Or temple. Together they faithfully followed whatever flea market or swap meet was happening and this morning meant going to the El Conejo Swap Meet to process and review.

  “Wong, you can't blame Spring for thinking Mitch is kinda hot—in a—Hey, what's that white guy's name? The one she likes to watch on TV with the bow tie?”

  “Tucker Carlson and please don't encourage their twisted relationship.”

  Sue arched a lightly penciled brow in that you've-got-to-be-kidding-me-for-being-a-total-hypocrite kind of way.

  “What?” Chloe asked, feigning ignorance, just like Spring. Sue arched her brow higher. “I know you were gonna call me a hypocrite but for real, Sue-Lou, I'm just, like, confused.”

  She hoped that shopping with Sue would help her get perspective. Shopping with Sue always helped Chloe get perspective. It was a goal-oriented, focused activity. Looking for that specific something she just had to find helped her feel together and in control. Finding that specific something made her feel accomplished and relieved. Chloe couldn't begin to make sense of her recent familial disgrace situation until she coordinated a new look. Then there was making sense of Dante, who hadn't called, texted, or e-mailed for four, make that five whole agonizing days! Now what was up with that?

  “Yeah, Chlo. The public needs to know: Why do you still date that emo-punk-rock loser?” Sue tilted her head, Eden Prep style, clearly mimicking Spring. Chloe elbowed her to stop-it-already. Even though her two best friends came from completely different planets it really would help out if they could try to relate to each other. But after two trying years it was all too clear that neither Spring nor Sue was about to stray from comfort zones or home turf. Chloe, on the other hand, well, she never felt at home anyhow so it didn't really matter to her if she went back and forth. She was used to feeling in the middle, sometimes a part of one world, sometimes all alone in her own—kinda like a schizophrenic Ping-Pong ball never landing in one place. Or like a random-colored pair of shoes desperately seeking the right outfit to match, or rather un-match, perfectly.

  “How quickly you forget who introduced him to me,” Chloe retorted. “And Dante's now a post-emo-punk-rock loser, remember?” They snickered at the distinction—something Dante was apt to point out lest he be lumped together with regular emo bands, a label he cringed at being labeled with.

  Oh, the saga of Dante Spinoza: ongoing, tortured, no end in sight. Dante sure was dark and brooding, lead singer of the very dark and brooding emo-punk or rather the post-emo-punk band The Mourned.

  Every time Dante smiled at her Chloe just melted and opened up completely. It was lame and embarrassing to admit, but for real. Like, Dante really saw who she was. He noticed what she wore and everything, commenting on key details like her new pink cocktail ring or a cool pair of mod tights, for example. And he told her his feelings—confessing his darkest and most tortured secrets which he then tried to write songs about. Dante even called Chloe his muse, which means she inspired his art thank you very much, and well, that just about killed Chloe with glee. Chloe never felt invisible or disposable or space alienish around Dante. Chloe felt seen and significant and, dare I say, special.

  I mean, she was his muse?!

  But, muse or not, Chloe and Dante were not a legal couple, which might be obvious given she was seventeen and he was twenty-six. Like, that's just not legal. Not like Chlo cared about what was legal or not but … she did care about all those red flags she was starting to see. It was a curious phenomenon, maybe part of her FD, and it had recently spread to him. Like, she was starting to see literal red flags pinned to his vintage Zeppelin Ts and French military caps, flapping about, from the Red Carpet, of course.

  Red Flag #1: He's the lead singer in a band. Need I say more?

  Red Flag #2: He smokes. Chloe's trying to quit. This means he's prone to other addictions too—a red flag times, at least, three!

  Red Flag #3: He talks about himself or his car, this tricked-out ‘68 Charger (total agro-but-hot-dude car) for at least ten minutes before asking Chloe how she is. This means he is a self-obsessed NARCISSIST, which is definitely not a good thing even if Chloe can relate (to being self-obsessed, not to the Charger, she's more of an old Bronco kind of girl).

  Red Flag #4: He never calls when he says he will. Flaky? Or is that just plain, old-fashioned LYING?

  Red Flag #5: He's always late or doesn't show up at all and THEN acts like nothing out of the ordinary occurred—not exactly one to own up to things.

  Red Flag #6: He sabotages everything good for him. For example, every time he's actually on the verge of getting signed after one of his trillion showcases he'll do something totally drastic like drive to Alabama or Kentucky and decide to raise chickens or something random like that… leaving the band, and Chlo, in his Charger dust.

  Despite the obvious warning signs (I mean, literal red flags are pretty ob-vious), Chloe was in love. So she did what anyone else would do who's ever felt completely and totally and hopelessly in love; she ignored them all and hoped they'd eventually go away.

  “I thought you guys broke up last week. Again.” Sue tried to say this all nonchalant. She realized she had a narrow window of opportunity here to contest Dante's latest bad boy behavior since she was the one, unfortunately, who hooked it all up. Who knew an intended one-time hookup with her cousin would turn into such the two-y
ear saga? Dante and Chlo weren't actually supposed to, like, like each other and end up all tortured boyfriend slash girlfriend! And that was exactly-what-happened. She and Chloe had been discussing this complicated situation over a rack of shirred and fur-lined parkas, real Brooklyn ones Sue just adored.

  “So I'm not too good with follow-through, Sue. Oh look, here's a good one.” Chloe checked the lining of a puffy parka now. She would have to rip it out of course and sew in a new silk one in hot pink, Sue's signature color.

  “That's your family talking, not you. You always follow through for me.”

  This was true. Where Sue was concerned Chlo was on point. She would back Sue on anything, anytime. How could Chlo ever forget how they had rescued each other that first trying sophomore day?

  Chloe had had no one to eat with that first day at lunch and was, like, kinda mortified by the strange phenomenon. Even if you'd never say she was “popular at EP,” not that she'd ever strive to be that, Chlo always got by. Then, at Roosevelt, it was like she had been shipped off to an even stranger planet than Eden Prep. Besieged with Red Carpetosis to the extreme, she could barely hold a normal conversation without busting out with some random fashion vocal tic which was why she had to escape to the bathroom for a … you thought I was gonna say a cig, didn't you? Noo—this was still pre-Marlboro, I mean pre-Dante. There she encountered Sue, in the third stall, all crying hysterically, clutching her hoodie and looking about ready to jump out a window.

  “Are you, like, all right?” Chloe had asked.

  “Does this look all right to you, china doll?” Sue spat.

  “Whoa … that was unnecessary. You don't even know me and I was only trying to see if I could help.”

  “I don't need your help! No one can help! My fucking hoodie is fucked and none of my stupid friends get it. They're like, it's just a stinkin’ hoodie, girl—and you know, it's not just a stinking hoodie. It's my hoodie, my oldest hoodie, my favorite hoodie, from, like, my dad hoodie! Nobody gets it. Why am I even telling you this?”