Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  She was laughing and crying and Chloe felt compelled to take a look at this fucked-up hoodie situation and try to fix it herself.

  “Oh, but I know. A hoodie is never just a hoodie. Like, I totally get that.” Chloe reluctantly assessed the damage up close. It was kinda severe. The zipper had caught on something and wasn't about to let go either—tiny teeth clutching the cotton fabric with all its life. Chloe maneuvered the pullie back and forth and slowly, like magic, the zipper teeth released. The hoodie was like new. Well, like old-new, and Sue was beside herself, big emerald eyes bulging wide.

  “You know,” Chlo suggested, “it would actually be kinda dope if we made this hoodie into a capelet—with, like, snaps. We'd keep the original fabric but just change it so you'd never have to deal with a busted zipper again.”

  Sue was intrigued.

  And that was that, two and a half years ago.

  “Post-emo might be over,” Chloe surmised. “But Dante and I are not, OK. He's familiar and comforting and—hmmm, I guess he's like smoking, something that's bad for me but I like it anyways. And if someone tells me I have to do anything you know I won't even if I should. Put it this way, if they were actually good for me then I'd probably have no problem quitting them.”

  “Que what, Wong?” Sue modeled the parka and admired herself in the mirror.

  “Like shopping late at night, Sue, secretly online, or even doing what we're doing now.”

  Sue groaned. “But why is this bad? Wrong? Everything with you is bad or wrong? Why's it always gotta be like that?”

  Chloe was going to respond but then, an oasis in the midst.

  “Look, Sue! Gypsies!” She grabbed Sue by her messenger bag and the girls started giggling in excitement. The Gypsies were Chloe's ultimate favorite vendor at the trusty El Conejo Swap Meet, an outdoor sprawling ghetto-fab affair. Sue and she would get these in-saaane acrylics and maybe get a hat airbrushed for Dante or find some new baby thermals and then, sometimes, if they were lucky, find the Gypsies.

  Today's plan was like this: Procure the goods for Chloe's back-to-school prison look and sew something new for Sue. But first, they'd have to find the Gypsies and buy the following things: a macramé appliqué, gold thread, three yards of black and white handkerchief linen (the really thin transparent kind), and something striped with stretch for her prison-y cap. Then they'd go to the Promenade (all roads somehow ended there) and find basic, cheapy tanks and tennis skirts for Sue to dye and spray-paint. If there was time left they'd go to Baker Hardware for metallic dyes (they had this amazing pewter that glowed), then go back to Sue's and sew.

  Chloe originally was supposed to meet Spring at Crystal Court at four but she really had no interest in being in Neiman's-Nordstrom's land where she might run into her mother and get busted. Plus, Spring would probably be with the Wells Park crew led by her all-time nemesis, Crystal Court, who, like, the whole shopping complex was named after. Can you imagine?

  Ew.

  You might think Chloe would think this was cool, but oh, au contraire. To think that a million people would publicly associate you with the name of just one shopping experience, even if it was a supposed luxury complex, would be terrible mass exposure pinning you to a single bogus label you had to wear for life!!

  Well, just in her opinion. Which was an opinion she openly voiced way back in eighth grade when the Crystal Court opened its fifty-foot doors, little Crystal herself decked out like a Swarovski princess, cutting the ceremonial white bow while simultaneously blinding the well-wishers with her bedazzled getup. She and Crystal had hated each other forever, well, ever since third grade.

  It was like this. One day in morning assembly Chloe noticed that Crystal was really starting to bite her style, like, down to the way she intentionally mismatched her socks. This, initially, was a compliment. But then, the next day, Crystal took it a bit too far and had the nerve to say Chlo was copying her! At which point Chloe called her out on this blatant lie on the handball court (maybe she did get a bit too close with the ball but she wasn't really gonna get physical). Crystal freaked. She shrieked like the Texas Chainsaw murderer was coming after her and then bit herself in the leg. Then she told Mrs. Grossman that Chloe bit her!

  Even though Chlo had pretty good support throughout the class, at home, Chloe, claro que si, was the big fat liar. Charles Sr. promptly pulled his entire account from Schmukla, Schitty, and Schizer, which was blamed on Stan, who in turn told Lucinda, who of course grounded Chloe forever and made her go over and apologize to the entire Court family during brunch at the Shore Club. She even made her wear this totally heinous and wussy Kermit green Peter-Pan-collar dress with white sandals. You know, the Buster Brown kind with rubber soles and brass buckles. Chloe still hates white sandals to this day. And anything with brass.

  It was totally wrong and unforgivable and even though Crystal had apparently, like, blacked out on this experience, Chloe would never forget it. Crystal now pretended to actually like Chlo, in part impressed by her stellar Fake ID connections but probably more afraid that one of her “ghetto” friends might kick her ass. Which was altogether possible since Sue had some notorious anger management issues.

  So you see, Chloe just had to flake on Spring. Spring would understand. It was just one of those understood things.

  But getting back to the Swap Meet, the Gypsies were way out of place in El Conejo which made them an even sweeter find. Their majestic purple booth was draped like a full-on harem tent with rolls of heavy brocade and candy-colored silks piled high on opulent rugs. Chloe had yet to meet the mysterious owner herself, a woman named Agostina DeZahl, self-appointed Queen of these Gypsies. There was a portrait of Agostina sprawled across the Gypsies’ billowing tent—a profile view featuring her apparently signature white cashmere snood and a pair of tortoiseshell wraparounds concealing her eyes.

  This was a good sign.

  After all, the Gypsies were Chloe's most affordable vendor for fabric since shopping sola naturally meant Chloe was on a sorta-budget. (Stan would never support sewing, a “useless, mindless hobby.”) To support her habit Chloe sometimes sold discovered treasures on the sly, online. She was, after all, crafty too. But all too often she'd fall hopelessly in love with her find and at the last minute decide to keep the rescued gem all for herself. Even if she would probably never wear a pair of patent leather gauchos or a size 22 floor-length se-quined caftan—she might need them one day. One never knew what wardrobe an unexpected life event might call for.

  After-school Activities

  Pursue after-school activities

  Actively pursue boyfriends after school

  Do you remember Julius—the tiny schmo who'd been carrying La Contessa's chapel-length silk-satin train? Well, he had finally sent for Chlo. And today would be the day, after school at four.

  Chloe rang the bell wearing a structured ensemble of black, white, and green. Her black wool dress fell just above her knees, single green grosgrain ribbon demurely wrapped below the bust. Smart but sweet. For the auspicious occasion Chloe chose a round-neck style with slender bracelet sleeves. The sleeves helped feature her chosen accessory, an opera-length strand of alternating jade and pearls (definitely “fancy”), which she preferred to wrap around her wrist three times so she could hold the excess beads in her left palm like a rosary (not that she owned a rosary).

  Her white go-go boots, dead stock—la bomba, zipped midcalf over opaque black wool tights. Demure and impressionable but structured and serious too, exactly how she wanted to merchandise herself today. After all, an invitation to see the Countess was no joke. To impress would be impossible, but nevertheless, she had to represent. Of course, she couldn't look tooo sweet or serious. So her white go-go boots were mod and punk with exposed metal zippers up the sides. (Chloe had sewed them in herself all haphazard-like.) Last minute she slanted a tartan butcher boy's cap, just so, to partially conceal her choppy bangs. Overall, Chloe felt very pre-cocktailly and that was the attire, per La Contessa's request:


  Chloe's footsteps echoed loudly throughout the foyer. Oh how she just loved the consistent sound of a good heel clickety-clacking away. This sound was soon replaced by the distinct hiss and coo of the Countess Coco l'Orange stirring deep within.

  Julius and some other schmo unlatched two enormous French doors and waved Chloe into what was the most ENORMOUS little parlor ever, a domed room ablaze in fire engine red and bulbous yellow chintz. A giant taxidermy tiger sprung across the doorway—the memorable lens that focused in on La Contessa's grand salon.

  The salon was awash in cream and chocolate, a hint of peach or orange here, a dash of white tiger peeking from there. The Countess appeared to be draped in ropes of pearls and pendants that poured into a silky V plunging down her back. Behind three panels of silk, each one embroidered with silver cranes and flying dragons and pagodas floating atop bright lily pads, Chloe instantly recognized the veiled outline of what was apparently the Countess's signature accessory: a long, golden fake cigarette. Holding court in bias-cut crepe de chine, an eye-popping canary gown completely slit up the thigh, she towered over a little schmo on a stool. The mute little man held a mile-high stack of fabrics, which the Countess either nuzzled to her face or tossed to the floor. At present, she was commissioning new peignoirs in luscious silks, buttery chiffons, and paper-thin georgettes.

  “Gooood,” she considered, running a swath of silk against a cheek.

  “Better,” she purred, while the little schmo began to sweat but didn't dare move or wipe his brow.

  “Best!” she cried, erupting in delight. “Finer than a cobweb.” Tossing the whole tray in the air like a salad, she spun around twice and collapsed onto a bright satin divan, braided gold and ivory tassels coiled around its feet. The poor man ducked to avoid the flying tray and was now on his haberdasher knees, trying to pick up the pieces.

  “And you know, Chloe dahhling,” she chortled, “I am only interested in the best! After all,” the Countess continued with a sigh, “there is so much talk polluting our world today about what is bad—bad parties, bad collections, bad husbands, ha! Why support anything bad at all? I choose to live in a world of bests—am constantly on the prowl for that which is even better than best!”

  She beckoned Chloe near with a bedazzled pinky. Her emphasis on “bad husbands” piqued Chloe's interest for real. How many bad husbands had this Countess had? And wasn't she the one rumored to have cast, like, some evil irreversible spell on all six of them?

  “Lesson Number One, Chloe: You must always believe there is room for improvement—that it is possible to make something better—even the best.” She arched a brow and turned to assess Chloe.

  School? The Countess had summoned her for class?

  With a diaphanous wrap draped across a shoulder, the Countess began to circle Chloe like a cat. The wrap even matched her single gray tendril of hair—you know, the one that curled around her cherubic face and all.

  “This little thing, Chloe dahling, came from a type of llama, a baby vicuña. It was once an endangered species but I secured a few precious cloths even then through a Gypsy friend named Agostina DeZahl, the finest purveyor of black-market fashions. I do wish it was shahtoosh, not to be confused with charmeuse, or shantung, which is a heavy but delightful silk from China, the great mother of all things exquisite. But, alas, I have created enough scandal in my life so vicuña shall suffice for today.”

  Agostina DeZahl? Queen of the El Conejo Swap Meet Gypsies? What a weird coincidence?!

  The Countess returned to her divan and sprawled herself out again. “Come here, child, and touch it.” Chloe tiptoed close but felt, like, awkward to say the very least.

  “Well, go on, dahhling, touch it I say!”

  The Countess hurled the gauzy wrap into Chloe's hands and Chloe felt like she had caught something quite scandalous indeed. She let the fine wrap glide through her fingertips, light as a feather. So soft, it put all Chloe's nine cashmere sweaters to shame, vintage Pringle and all.

  “Lesson Number Two: Never wear synthetic anything. Nature, my child, will never betray you.”

  She pulled Chloe down by her side, losing a gold mule in the process. Chloe lifted the shoe, not a mule but a sandal, startled by its beauty.

  “You like? That, my dahling, is authentic Ferragamo. Salvatore gave them to my mother herself. They are his ‘invisible shoes.’ See these tiny bands here? Nylon, disappear onto your skin—life-is-but-a-dream.”

  This was too much. The Countess had real original Ferragamo shoes! When, like, Ferragamo himself actually made them! Chloe, like, only had a magnet.

  “Now stand up please so I can take a good look at you, pretty young thing.”

  PYT? Chloe gushed, chest concave, clutching wrists and pearls all nervously.

  “Well, you can't stand like that and mean it now can you?”

  Chloe didn't know what to do or say or how to stand! She felt totally retarded.

  “I see.” The Countess hummed, jade-framed monocle helping her to appraise.

  “Mary meets Marc—Mary Quant, that is. And you do know which Marc I'm talking about, that Jacobs fellow. I do like the little sautoir wrapped round the wrist—rebellious, yesss for sure. An uncut diamond in the rough. Potential to be polished, but still unfinished. Thoughtful, willing, and willful, self-disciplined—sometimes, curious like a kitten, not quite a cat. Simplee deeevine.” She leapt up in a single exuberant motion. Chloe once again was, like, taken aback at this fervent but accurate assessment.

  “Now tell me, dahling, something about your styyyyle.”

  Chloe immediately relaxed. That was easy! “Well, today, Countess, I was going for an Ode to an English Renegade Schoolgirl thing—”

  The Countess swelled.

  “Yes Yes Yes!” she squealed, tapping her invisible shoes. “ENGLISH RENEGADE SCHOOLGIRL—English Renegade Schoolgirl!” She grabbed Chloe by her wrists and began twirling her fast.

  “That is exactly your present style—Chloe the English Renegade Schoolgirl with the perfectly imperfect pedigree. Stay exactly this way—teachable and smart, but daring too and filled with whimsy. It's quite charming and suits you, or rather since you don't strike me as the suit type in the traditional meaning of this word, although a fabulous white tuxedo suit would suit you well a la Bianca … Bianca Jagger, that is—anyhow, this, you, your English renegade schoolgirl style, unsuits you, BEST.”

  Pleased with this evaluation, she collapsed on the divan, clearly fatigued. “You already knew Lesson Number Three.”

  She did? But what exactly was the lesson? And what was the question?

  “Now what shall it be this afternoon? Irish coffee, espresso bean, cherry whip, or all threeee?” Like magic, a mountain of colored ribbons, swatches, and slippers appeared for the Countess's review. She raised one of several strands of opera-length pearls and began chewing on a strand.

  “Which do you prefer, little English Renegade Schoolgirl?”

  “Which color, Countess?”

  “No, dahling, which flavor? Ice cream, of course. I always do ice cream at half past four.” The Countess yawned and stretched. Her fingers were, like, a dizzying array of enormous, flat baguettes. Who needed pepper spray when you had diamonds like that?

  “I dooo believe that was enough lesson for one day. Time for my treat. A sweet treat.”

  But it had only been, like, half an hour. Chloe wanted to stay longer. She wanted to learn the difference between chinoiserie and crepe de chine. She wanted to know how to tell if fabric was fine or false. And which was the good silk—shahtoosh or shantung (or was it charmeuse)? What was lesson number three? Didn't things come in threes? As if reading her steam-rolling mind, the Countess just grinned.

  “Please do keep coming back,” she purred.

  And with that the Countess winked and rolled over on a silky side, waving ta-ta.

  I'm With the Band

  Dress for the team

  Dress the team too

  Every time Chloe rode the freight
elevator with the band she felt part of something important. She'd never admit this aloud but that's how she felt. Like she was this punk-rock cheerleader, an anti-cheerleader who still offered support, but not, like, obviously, and she made Dante look good. Like any good girlfriend slash anti-cheerleader she made an extra effort to really look the part: hot—but not like she was trying-too-hard-to-be-hot hot. Of course, this effort was maximized in the presence of other dudes. There was nothing a little bit of jealousy couldn't cure was what Sue would say. Unfortunately, Dante wasn't the jealous type—or at least he pretended not to be.

  Chloe had planned this outfit well. She wanted to look perfectly unperfect. She tossed a charcoal striped soccer jacket over her shoulder and felt pleased, although spent, with what she was wearing. Feeling stressed made her just have to wake up last night at three to rummage through her dad's old sock drawer and “borrow” something new to wear. She had located some old tube socks and a Hanes V-neck T, the really thin, transparent kind. Armed with her trusty scissors, she cut away. Cutting deep into the neck on both sides transformed it into a slouchy, reversible V. She clasped the gathered fabric at her belly button with a jet brooch shaped like a lotus, and in back the cotton folds did quite a lovely drapey thing. Her dad's undershirt was now a saucy reversible number! In an army green cheerleader skirt and fourteen-hole boxing boots, her dad's yellow and white striped tubies poking out, Chloe looked like a cheerleader—a punk-rock cheerleader, that is.

  “James is never on time,” Dante complained. He was stomping back and forth in heavy creepers and then, he noticed Chlo. “New shirt, right?”

  Mission accomplished. Dante ran a hand through Chloe's pleats and kissed her cheek.

  “Thaz how it is with all drummers, Dante—can't rely on them for shit cuz they do their own thang,” offered Martin, the hairy guitar player. He definitely did his own thang too—in a nutty-crunchy I-love-soy-nuts-and-smoke-alot-of-pot kind of way. Chloe was yet again transfixed by how wrong his wardrobe was. And then, like lightning, she was on the Red Carpet again.