Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  CARPETOSIS DIAGNOSIS:

  SUBJECT: The Mourned

  FAMILY HISTORY: N/A and too much to print anyhow

  STYLE SYMPTOMS: clashing prints, Jesus sandals (not like I have anything against Jesus’ style), ancient Gap chambray button-downs, stonewashed Eddie Bauer pants with LOTS of double reverse pleats, and oyveyEWWW—Guido-y metallic shirts with jumbo jivy collars ALLERGIES: original belts, clearly socks, and one-of-a-kind accessories

  Hi, me, it's me with today's Red Carpetosis Diagnosis. Subject: The Mourned.

  I'll start with Dante. Hands down, he has all the style. He's trying to work with what he's got and it's just not much to work with. Let's diagnose. Look at T.C. I mean, T.C. is lead guitar! Lead guitar needs to look good and he looks contrived at best—like he's aspiring Rat Pack or rockabilly and the band is neither. Like, the other night he was featuring some Swingers-esque shiny shirt that was over before that old movie even came out. And today he's trying too hard again—this time in some trying-to-be-Ashton getup with a trucker hat and contrived western button-down and, like, it's not one-of-a-kind, it's from Macy's. James is marginal. Like, at least he's monochromatic in dark denim with nondescript but nonoffensive shoes but he's hidden behind the drum kit so what good is that? After all, who cares about dressing the drummer? You can't even see the drummer! Then there's Paul on bass. Paul thinks Gap chinos are high fashion. He should buy stock in the Gap. Maybe Mitch could help with that? OK, oh god, here's Martin, the fairest of them all: the King Channeler of ex-hair-band cover boys who decided to go “natural” but kept the hair.

  It breaks my heart to say it but they just DON'T go together let alone match their genre! The pressure can't always be on Dante to look good for everyone all the time, even if he is the front man. Hmmm … maybe it's, like, deliberate? Like, maybe Dante doesn't want anyone else to look good next to him lest he pale in comparison? Well, regardless, his boyz just gotta get it together if they ever want to go into rotation on VH1, let alone TRL.

  Carpetosis Prognosis: Downhill and Grim. Total Vomitosis.

  ***

  Coming back from the in-depth coverage, Chlo felt ready to pass out. She gasped and blinked twice as her eyes focused on the unfortunate sight of Martin's very hairy toes.

  “DON'T!” she blurted. A shaggy head whipped around. “You just DON'T play a show in TEVAs!”

  Chlo cupped a hand over her mouth, mortified.

  Martin was not amused. “Dante, tell your crazy bitch to shut the fuck up.”

  Sue jumped up. “What waz that? What did you call her? And whacha tell her to do?”

  Oh god. Oh no. She had done it again. She had instigated. A brawl was about to break out and no, not between her boyfriend who was, like, supposed to defend her, but between, like, one-hundred-pound Sue, ready to throw down any sec, and the three-hundred-pound gorilla.

  “You heard me,” Martin challenged. “Don't get crazy with me too or I just might—”

  “Stop it!” Dante shrieked. He grabbed Martin by his collar—oh wait that's right, he doesn't do collars, so by, like, the sleeve.

  “Let's all be mature here and settle the fuck down. That includes you,” he said to Martin, “and you,” he ordered Sue.

  Martin and Sue backed down.

  “Dante, he can't be expected to be taken seriously! You can't be expected to be taken seriously! Tevas, like, undo all street slash rock slash punk credibility you are trying to create let alone keep! Don't you get it? Don't you watch MTV2? Fuse? All right, so maybe videos are never on TV anymore but image still means everything.”

  “Chlo—stop trippin'. You're cute but … you're giving me a headache.”

  Shaking his shaved head, he crawled out onto the fire escape to join Martin for some “air.”

  “Fantastic. Now I hurt Dante's feelings.” Chloe felt so sick of herself—her vocal tics—her lack of control. Why couldn't she just stop thinking altogether? Or at least not blurt these things out loud! She hadn't wanted to but she just couldn't help it. What was inside her invariably popped out. “Ignore that macho fool Chloe. The boyz always back down.”

  They sure did—especially in Sue's family, where they often disappeared altogether. “La familia es todo” might have been tattooed across Dante's back, like, sprawled in these ginormous butch Olde English letters, but for real, he wasn't all that committed to the cause.

  Nevertheless Dante and Sue could sling insults back and forth like it was no big thing. Their love would always be sealed in blood. No matter what either of them said or did, their “familia” would always welcome them home.

  Chloe tried to reclaim Dante's attention one more time. It was no use; he was still on the fire escape pretending not to see her.

  Evaluate a Significant Experience, Achievement, Risk You Have Taken, or Ethical Dilemma

  [Ethical Dilemma? Hmmm. Chloe's had several.]

  Gifts

  Accept gifts from strangers

  Assume all gifts are good

  Chloe's cell phone shook all the way across her vanity from one side to the other, knocking down her latest Polaroids. She picked up without checking to see who it was, something she quickly regretted.

  “Oh, hey there, Spring.”

  “Chlo! Where have you been? I've called you like fifty times!”

  Fifty-six was more like it.

  “I've been over there every day checking on you. I've been worried sick. Your mom said something about you being on a retreat—like, what's that about?”

  “She said that? That just means I'm grounded.” Chloe sighed and looked out into the wide hall for any signs of Lucinda life.

  “Mitch hasn't mentioned anything weird at all. When I ask about you he just shrugs all nonchalant. SO, like, did you tell them or what? Cuz they didn't seem upset so I'm assuming you didn't?”

  “No, Spring, everyone is just being their typical shut-up-and-smile selves. I did tell them everything and kinda got kicked out and it royally sucked. I even considered shlepping to Sue's but was, like, in my favorite gold peeptoes so I only made it across the street. Oh, and that's when I met that neighbor lady—the Countess, the scandalous one, even though I don't think she's scandalous at all, I think she's rad. She has diamonds for days. I wish I could've stayed for her party to check out red carpet arrivals but, like, Pau needed me to buy her Tiger Balm. Then Sue and I went shopping for parkas—oh but if my mom asks I was with you, OK—and we, like, couldn't get to Crystal Court in time to meet you and honestly I didn't wanna see Her Glitterina Highness in the flesh. Plus I've been on FD overload—it's been epic.”

  “Whoa, wait a sec. That was way too much information to be delivered over the cell. Can I just come over already? You can't still be mad?” Spring held her breath.

  “Not a good idea, Spring Bean. Not today. And no, I'm not mad at you but I gotta feel this not-going-to-college thing out alone. More importantly I gotta figure out how to sneak out of the Tower. Dante's playing and Lucinda knows I've been escaping.”

  “Can I come?”

  “You need an ID, Bean. A good one.”

  Spring fell silent.

  “It's not my policy, Spring. It's California's.”

  Silence still.

  “Look, I'm not gonna play this pouty why-can't-you-get-me-in game right now when I have my entire future collapsing around me!”

  “I'm sorry, Chlo. It's just, Sue doesn't have an ID and she always goes.”

  “Sue slept with the doorman! And that only earns her privileges for so long anyhow. Listen, Spring Bean, I gotta go. By tomorrow, I promise I'll have pre-deb-dress sketches to show you!”

  “Promise?”

  “Swear.”

  “All right. I love you.”

  Chloe grimaced. Why did Spring have to say I love you, like, every five seconds?

  “Me too,” Chloe managed to reply. With that she flipped her cell shut, just as her door swung open.

  Lucinda stood framed by the door, arms folded across her ivory cardigan. She held tw
o Nordstrom bags in one hand, a Williams-Sonoma bag in the other.

  “Hi, Mom,” Chloe whispered, not knowing what to make of her mom's sudden appearance. Swathed in ivory cashmere, she looked soft, innocent even. Chloe blinked. It must have been a mirage.

  “The door was open so I didn't knock.”

  “That's all right. It is your house.”

  Lucinda took a grand step forward. “It certainly is. For a girl who strives to dress like she's been in a blender you sure do keep a neat room.”

  Chloe was confused. Was that supposed to be, like, a compliment?

  “These are for you,” Lucinda announced, depositing the bags on Chloe's bed.

  Chloe was way confused. “Gifts? I don't get it.”

  “You should consider them gifts.” Something in Lucinda's tone suggested these, in fact, would not be gifts at all.

  “Chloe Wong,” she began, “your father and I have taken some time to recover, and yes, discuss your limited options at length. Seeing that you have now missed all deadlines for acceptable state universities, which we had thought were the last resort, AND since you failed to take the SATs altogether, you shall do the following: enlist in city college right after graduation and hope you might one day be accepted into a decent state school. Of course, you will be living here since we will not support or finance any ‘plans’ that don't include attending a real college, particularly of the fashion variety. If you refuse, should you dare—then behold your only other options.”

  Lucinda pointed to the bags and stepped back. These were definitely not gifts. Were they bombs? Would her mom seriously consider blowing her up?

  “What's inside?” Chloe asked reluctantly.

  “Open one up and see for yourself.”

  Chloe gulped. Was it some humiliating Nordstrom Mommy-and-me getup? Could it be Chloe's violated holiday novelty sweater? Did Lucinda chop up her favorite fuchsia pea coat?

  Tentatively, Chlo removed three silver boxes from the bags and untied the first gigantic silver and gold bow. She lifted the lid and unfolded the white tissue, feeling something heavy and rigid underneath its perfect folds. It was definitely a uniform. A maid's uniform. Just like Lupe's.

  “I don't get it,” Chloe uttered while holding a smocked apron high.

  “Get this, Chloe Wong. It is what you will in fact be wearing every day for the rest of your life since you think you don't need a college education! Or, if you prefer, you might be wearing what's in here.” She pointed at box number two.

  “Open it,” she demanded. “Now!”

  Chloe's stomach dropped. This was certainly cruel and unusual punishment. Her mom was making an example of her. She was attempting to make some vindictive and ridiculous point with costumes—bad ones at that.

  Opening box number two, Chloe took out a white blouse and pair of black slacks, the undeniable uniform of a Shore Club valet.

  “Did you know they let women park cars now too? Things in this patriarchal world are changing every day!”

  I mean, whose battle was this anyhow? Chloe felt angry and afraid and even sorry for her mom. Then Lucinda let out a strange and solitary cackle, pushing the final box forth. Clearly, she had gone mad.

  “Last one—open, please.”

  Chloe was horrified. Out popped a plastic badge revealing her first name, next to the words hi, my name is.

  “I figured you could use your vivid imagination for that one.” Lucinda's eyes glazed over, pupils dilating wildly. She began to tap her toes. Yep, black and tan flats. Patent leather. Probably Chanel. She must have owned, like, seventeen pairs.

  “What am I supposed to do with these, Mom?” Chloe ventured.

  “Why should an aspiring working-class ingrate need nice, upper-class clothes? An uneducated girl has no need for an educated person's wardrobe. She only needs the uniform of the working class, people who live in neighborhoods where they kill each other and steal things, like the neighborhood your friend Sue lives in!”

  “Why do you have to put her down too? You've made your point. I'll get a plan. And it won't involve wearing one of these.”

  Chloe bunched up the apron in a ball and threw it at Lucinda just as a salt-and-pepper beehive peeked into the room. Pau was eavesdropping?

  “Mother?” Lucinda queried, turning around. Pau-Pau slowly shuffled into the room and began to pick up all the things strewn across the floor.

  “Hi-yaaa, Lucinda. Just like a low-mean pau.”

  Chloe knew exactly what that meant. It meant an-old-mean-lady. Her grandma had called her mom an old-mean-lady! She didn't know which was more offensive, the old or the mean part.

  Lucinda teared up and threw her hands down. “I have to check on your juk, Ma. Juk I made for you!” Like the petulant adult-child she was, she stormed out.

  “Thanks, Pau,” Chloe whispered. “You saved me again.”

  “Tut. For long time Pau-Pau wear smock like this.”

  Pau-Pau smoothed the smocked apron and examined the tiny folds. Chloe felt a wave of guilt but didn't know why. She focused on the tiny folds instead, firmly pressed creases.

  “Your ma, Chloe-girl, Pau-Pau like call, mo-dom. You come upstairs. Pau show you how make tickpins.”

  “You mean pintucks?”

  Pau waved the correction aside.

  “Maybe later, Pau. I, um, like, have to go to the library.” Why did she just lie? She didn't have to lie to Pau.

  “It's for a big assignment, on Chinese history actually.”

  Why'd she, like, lie again? Pau tossed a piece of ginger into her mouth and pulled a bag of Fritos for Chlo out of her robe. Chloe felt even more guilty since Fritos were her favorite all-the-time anytime snack.

  “Thanks,” Chloe whispered, popping open the bag.

  “You think pintick hard?” Pau remarked, helping herself to some chips. “Mo lay yel. Not so bad. You come up later. Pau-Pau show Chloe-girl how.”

  She zipped her navy velour robe high and walked away, distinct little tat-tat-high slapping.

  Chlo felt pathetic: grounded, disowned, and now a compulsive liar too? Lying to her favorite family member no less—the only family member on her side? She had to escape. To quote one of her all-time flashback favorites, Morrissey, when he was still in The Smiths, “What difference does it make?” What difference did it make if she snuck out again? Sneaking out was a big ol’ DON'T in theory, but, like, in truth and practice it was the only thing she could DO in the fortressed Wong-Leiberman world.

  Red Flags Get Redder

  Try to match your fake ID

  Identify with anything fake

  The Red Room was just that, all red. And The Mourned was set to open the night before the rest of the shitty bands that usually made the round on the local downtown scene. Again. Like, they had played the Friday night showcase for two years, convinced there finally would come a night when the “big” A&R guy from whatever record company was gonna show and sign them.

  “Sunny Fujimoto. I think that's the best one yet, Chlo.” Sue examined Chloe's fake ID close, but Chloe was fat-munging, again.

  “Chlo, hello-o-o. Earth to Wong!”

  Chloe was nowhere near Earth. She was seeing red flags pinned to Dante and it was really distracting. You see, whenever Chloe saw a problem of the wardrobe variety walking down the hall a red flag would follow them too—until she literally “corrected” them with a look more to her liking. Sometimes, text messages floated inside the flags—like constantly shifting Internet pop-ups, really unexpected and annoying. Messages could vary at any given moment, from “mall victim” to “label groupie” to “I know I wore this yesterday.”

  It wasn't like she enjoyed seeing red flags flapping about. Trust me, it kinda sucked. Like, say, now. Dante was doing sound check. He was strutting back and forth onstage, like, more times than necessary, just to preview himself. A gigantic banner-sized red flag was pinned to his deconstructed military button-down and it said “ALL ABOUT ME” (remember, we kinda covered this narcissist thing already).<
br />
  Chloe was beginning to feel dizzy and claustrophobic in a sea of so much red when suddenly a six-foot Amazon popped into view. Oy. Vey. Ew. It was the Brazilian shopgirl. Siena.

  “Forget that puta,” muttered Sue.

  Forget her? How could she forget someone with that much fake tanner? The girl was like a gigantic orange—but smeared with lip gloss. Not exactly jealous, Chloe was more insulted that Dante used to date a girl like her, someone who considered board shorts and body suits high fashion.

  “How can she go out like that? She's at a bar, not the beach!”

  Sue laughed. “Que what? Is that all you're thinking about? Her style?”

  “More like her lack of.”

  “All right. Stupid question. But Chlo, he doesn't even like her. He never even did! Who's more insecure—you or him?”

  Touché.

  “Wong, they're, like, history, OK. I'm just telling it like it is. Just … don't think about it.” She spat out an olive pit, messily.

  Just don't think about it? Chloe's gao-chaw look said it all. Maybe Sue was the kind of person who could say “Just don't think about it” and do exactly that—not think—but Chlo, she was not the type of person who could just not think about something and be cool with it, the kind of girl who could just forget that her boyfriend was probably cheating on her with a Brazilian ho-bag, that she had disgraced her family name, and that she was still sans postgrad plan! At that moment, Chloe felt totally hopeless. She felt nauseous and grossed-out and all alone in the world—crazy and afraid and trapped with her stupid FD. Was she always going to be like this?

  “We don't have to come every week you know,” Sue offered.

  “Neither does she. Anyway, then you wouldn't see you-know-who.” Chloe tilted her head in the direction of Omar, the burly doorman, who nodded back, winking at Sue.