Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  “Omar? I'm over that fool. Besides, there's this new hottie over at the Fix. Bartender—hel-lo, free drinks? Maybe we should just go there.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes, sipping a watered-down Coke. Free drinks. That was all Sue ever thought about lately. Chloe hated to drink but definitely needed a cigarette. This meant she needed to go back to Sue's to get her smoking sweatshirt, which, ironically she'd forgotten. Maybe she should just bail. She felt sick and tired of sitting in that crimson booth staring at the puta's bad beachy clothes. Who, FYI, crossed the stage and handed Dante a note, skanky wardrobe coming into center-stage view.

  Noooo … way…. Can't be!

  Chloe went ashen. Her jaw dropped right next to the bowl of mixed nuts. The Brazilian Shopgirl Puta was wearing her shoes! They were wearing the same shoes! Chloe didn't know whether to laugh or pass out. How was that possible? She had bought her shoes in Chinatown three years ago! As in San Francisco Chinatown, not L.A. Chinatown! And even though they were mass-marketed now, no one in the surrounding Wells Park environment even knew where Chinatown was, L.A., S.F., whatever! And here, tonight, right before her eyes, were HER shoes, her pink cotton (NOT mesh) kung-fu slippers with the single white peony embroidered on the toes? On someone else? On the Brazilian Shopgirl Puta Ho-bag?

  Things couldn't get worse.

  But apparently they just had.

  “I—I gotta go, Sue.”

  Totally discombobulated, Chloe made for the swinging doors. Sue hopped up.

  “Hey, wait a sec. What's going on, Chlo?”

  “Too much. Look, I gotta get outta here.”

  “One of your hallucinations? Red flag?”

  “Kinda. Listen—I'll see you at school.”

  “What do I tell Dante?”

  “Just tell him … something suddenly came up.”

  She had heard a girl say that on an old TV show once and apparently tonight was her golden opportunity to say it herself. That was it. She was going back to Rosy's to get her smoking sweatshirt, or wait, maybe it was time she … went home to work on her fake Saint Martins app?

  Thank gawd the coast was clear back up at the Tower. Chloe had mastered the art of sneaking out and, conversely, breaking in. Her house might have been a gated fortress from afar but it was an easy entry once on the roof. She climbed the familiar sycamore, leapt onto the rooftop shingles, tiptoed to the French window wrapped around her room, and was in. Phew.

  Chloe landed firmly in her flats and caught a glimpse of herself. Something about her looked different but she couldn't put her finger on it. She decided to Polaroid her entire self: face and all. Why, she couldn't tell you yet. It was a new and strange impulse, for sure.

  She added the Polaroid to her latest collage and reviewed. Sure, she had distracted herself at the Swap Meet with Sue, bargained at the Bowl, and sketched sixteen pre-deb dresses for Spring, but she couldn't stop thinking about Dante and Chinese New Year and her mom and those “gifts.”

  Chloe went into her closet to think. She wistfully admired her neat stacks of Converse, all lined up in a row. She changed into a favorite white pair and lovingly switched the worn laces, storing them in a Lucite box for repairs. She, like, had collected three dozen different laces ever since she learned to tie them in second grade. Yes, second grade. Until then she had no need for ties since she was in love with Velcro. Speaking of Velcro … I mean love, why'd she even try so hard? Were she and Dante—oh god, she couldn't say it. Were they … done?

  Chloe used to imbibe each and every tortured Dante word like some cashmere elixir. Listening to and consoling him felt like she was eternally wrapped in her favorite fuchsia pea coat! In the beginning she could go for days without Polaroiditis. At school, she felt calmer, thought less, and her vocal tics improved a lot, almost going away completely. She wasn't beset with wacky visions or compelled to blurt fashion commentary on the street. She could even sit through dinner and not suffer from Red Carpetosis when Lucinda walked in! Staring into Dante's big amber eyes, totally focused on him, Chloe could forget all about her fashion disorder. Chloe had believed and hoped that in Dante, she had found love. And that in love, her FD might finally be cured.

  But, FYI, no human could have relieved her of what was deeply rooted inside and the spell and allure of Dante were starting to fade. Being his besotted Lolita was getting tired and Dante's glossy sheen was getting dull, revealing what Dante truly was, dim-witted. Underneath the obligatory rimless aviators was a self-absorbed, narrow-minded punk, not of the musical variety but of the asshole variety. There was nothing poetic and soft and kind about him at all. And he probably was cheating on her with Siena. That was just what he needed, a fawning, faketanned aspiring supermodel who didn't talk.

  Once upon a time Dante just went well with everything. He worked like a charm, an accessory for all seasons. Or wait a sec, was she, like, his accessory for all … shows?

  Dante and the Dork

  Try to relate to good people

  Stay in relationships just to look good

  Surrounded by at least a thousand other under-achievers at Roosevelt High, Chloe Wong-Leiberman felt right at home: average, below the radar, and free to come and go and, most importantly, dress, as she pleased. By 3:03, Roosevelt was a deserted wasteland. Papers, bottles, and abandoned textbooks lay scattered across the cement “yard.” Chloe kicked the curb, annoyed. Dante was late. She was jonesing for a cigarette but didn't have her smoking sweatshirt. Plus, if the evil principal, Ms. Luftinker, caught her smoking again on campus that would be her third offense already this year, placing her on “citizen probation” again. Well, that old hag would only have 104 more opportunities to bust her, since there were only that many days left till graduation, if she even made it to graduation.

  Chloe rocked back and forth, wishing her slashed peasant skirt could flutter in the breeze, if only there was a breeze, which there wasn't. No coastal breezes here in the sweaty “inland empire”—more the inland armpit, for real. Roosevelt sure was a galaxy far, far away from bucolic Eden Prep, where the light always made pretty patterns on cobblestone paths, seaside temperatures kept everything cool, and the sun was carefully filtered through what were supposed to look like aged and mature trees.

  Today, the pavement sizzled. The longer Chlo stared at the throng of exiting seniors the dizzier she became, and now, all together, a stream of clothes, shoes, and accessories collided at once. She blinked to stave off the oncoming inevitable, but it was no use. On a day as bad as this she couldn't help but totally hallucinate.

  BOOM! A pair of ratty flip-flops became polished vintage sneaks. POW! A baggy, shapeless sweater was transformed with a fantastic jeweled clasp. WHAM! Dozens of bad logo Ts got fabulously chic—shirred or ruched or turned inside out with exposed zippers and contrasting seams—POOF! Horrendous pleated pants morphed into slim mod trousers. All bad denim be gone! In their place—POOF! Stark white twill, trimmed with back pocket patches or metallic thread … As the last Roosevelt kid whisked on by she needed to breathe deep and shut her eyes to make it all stop. Think of something pleasing, think of something nice, think of never ever having to go to school again!

  Well, that did it. The hallucinations stopped. Ahead, nothing for miles but sizzling concrete. Chloe squinted at the sun and quietly pondered her fate. Would she be grounded just in this life, or in the next three too?? And if she did have to go through the pain and torture of high school again, would she have to wear a uniform as eternal punishment? Or worse, would she be the type of person who'd enjoy it?

  By this point she could've walked home, if that was, like, a real option, which it wasn't. Although she was wearing old green Cons—beat up to perfection—the only shoes that felt appropriate. They were a sentimental pair she had kept in her locker ever since seventh grade and they reminded her of softer, easier times when life was much more certain, less complex, and you didn't have to wait around and worry about whether your supposed boyfriend would forget to pick you up.

  Then, while
staring vacantly into the light, an all-too-familiar shadow suddenly popped into view with nowhere to hide. It was the stalker himself: Peter Albert Windemere the Third.

  “Oh, hey, Chloe. What's up?” he asked, trying to act all nonchalant, like this was some spontaneous coincidence they ran into each other in the Roosevelt parking lot when he didn't even go to Roosevelt!

  Peter had been stalking, or, like, really into Chloe since forever. Or, at least, since second grade. For real. During recess he used to bury his face in her hair and beg to smell it.

  At least he had the sense not to come and stalk her still in uniform. Peter went to Eden Prep, and an Eden Prepster just might get his Dockers-clad ass kicked hard if he hung around Roosevelt much longer. And what was up with the Frodo footwear? Clogs? Sandals? Sandalclogs? Open-toe shoes like that, on dudes, made her picture leaping furry hobbits. Not exactly the epitome of hotness.

  “Peter, why don't you just give up already? I mean, I'm not even nice to you!” Why did guys always seem to like you more when you were mean? Chloe jumped up and clutched her python satchel close, prepared to use it as a weapon if things got out of hand.

  Then, unable to control himself, Peter blurted out the unthinkable, even surprising himself.

  “Chloe, will you be my date to prom?”

  Gao-chaw? (Remember? That means she shot him a look of the you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me variety.)

  “Just as friends,” he added, quickly stuffing his hands into his chino pockets. “Spring would love it. We could all go in the same limo. It would be really fun.”

  Quelle chutzpa.

  Chloe shook her head and walked away. Like a lost puppy, Peter sniffed the air dreamily and bounded down the parking lot after her. In the distance, the long and sleek hood of Dante's 1968 Charger appeared, roaring up the road. Help was on its way.

  “Listen, Peter, it's not even March! Why don't you ask someone who, like, actually wants to go with you?” I mean, how mean did she really have to be?

  “Anyhow, you should know by now, I'm not exactly one for school activities particularly of the Eden Prep variety.”

  Peter had come this far and wasn't about to give up now.

  “But it'll be an opportunity to buy a new dress!”

  Hmmm. Chloe whipped around. He was a shmen-drick for sure but a smart one with a point. Amused at her stalker's moxie and perception, she paused. She actually entertained this strange offer—for like, a second.

  But then the Charger rumbled to a halt and Dante honked the horn. He lowered his rimless aviators and stared the Dork down, hard. Peter dug his sandalclogs in the grass but matched Dante's stare, much to Chlo's surprise.

  “So maybe I'll call you this weekend after you've thought about it—that is, about what you'd wear. And I mean, I'll wear anything you think I should, Chloe. I mean it. I wanna do this right.”

  “Peter,” Chlo began, “it would behoove you not to act so desperate and strange. But since I'm feeling a bit out of it, not to mention charitable, I might actually consider this unconventional proposition.”

  Peter lit up like a firefly, ready to take off for the nearest light and knock himself out.

  “Well, that's just great, Chlo. So I'll call you, or you'll call me, or wait, you don't have my number…. I'll just see you after school Monday.”

  “Relax. I'll be in touch.” With that, she slipped into Dante's Charger and shut the door.

  Chloe nervously fidgeted with the seat belt, an old-fashioned buckle type that had inspired her to make Dante a real belt last summer for his birthday. She had gone into KustomKars to source the buckles and everything—using vintage rubber and all. She even made a really cool accompanying cuff out of an old Charger license plate, a Cali plate too. But that was back when he always opened the door for her. Once upon a time Dante always opened the door.

  “Have I been replaced?” Dante asked with a smirk. Chloe rolled her eyes. Didn't Dante realize she was in crisis? That she hadn't applied to a single college? Did he even know what college was?

  Chloe turned her thoughts to Saint Martins and proms and dresses and how there was no way she could apply or get in or go to prom and be a fun date for anyone. Better just to design a dress than, like, go for real. She was a freak, after all, and Peter was normal. She wasn't like Crystal Court. And she hated those kinds of things anyhow, formals, meet-and-greets, “young socials,” team activities.

  Chloe clutched the chrome handle while Dante spun a U and peeled out recklessly, leaving a dark plume of smoke, and Peter Windemere, in his too-cool-for-school wake.

  Educational Data

  [Just a warning: It's pretty grim.]

  Academic Probation

  Report the latest

  Be late with your report

  “Off with her head!” would have been the imperial decree had Chloe not intercepted her report card. Each day was getting progressively suckier at school—two D's in French, a missed pop quiz in English, a bungled project in PE. (Like, how could they give homework in PE?) Her dad still would barely speak to her, Zeyde plotzed every time she walked in the room (like, in the bad way), Mitchell continued to bask in all the Chloe-sucks glory, and, of course, there was that not-so-teensy matter of Dante and the Brazilian Shopgirl. And now, this sucky report card.

  ENGLISH: B- (that was cool)

  FRENCH: C (not so cool)

  U.S. HISTORY: B- (2 out of 3 …)

  CHEMISTRY: C- (oy vey ew…)

  ALGEBRA II: D (crappers …)

  PE: F (for reall…?!)

  COMMENTS: CHLOE DOES NOT LIVE UP TO HER POTENTIAL. WE ARE CONCERNED FOR HER ACADEMIC FUTURE AND THEREFORE MUST PUT HER ON ACADEMIC PROBATION.

  Academic probation! Again? That was it. Chloe was definitely not on the right list. She was screwed. Oh wait, that's right—she was screwed already. Ha. Why did it matter what grades she got senior year anyhow? It wasn't like she was going to college. Hmmm. Was there any way to white out the attendance part? She hadn't realized she had missed PE, like, oh wow, sixteen times this semester.

  Chloe waited outside the school counseling office in a mildewy green velour chair and drew over her pink slip—a series of slips actually, little floaty numbers she knew would be just stunning layered for Spring's pre-deb event dress. So far, all proposals had been dissed (typical I'm-not-gonna-tell-you-what-I-want stuff), and Chloe was getting really frustrated trying to read Spring's mind. She was on a mission. You could even say she was obsessed. She tried letting this designing-a-deb's-dress thing be a bonding experience. She had to prove to herself and to Spring that she could make her dress perfect. Was it that bad then that she had ditched PE from time to time to go shopping for the appropriate tulle?

  “Sahaid Ali, Caitlin Lee, Mandy Duncan, Chloe Wong-Leiberman?” Dr. David, the obese and slovenly school counselor, read the names off a list in his signature slow and lethargic drawl. He was such a shlub. Plus, he totally smelled like McDonald's.

  Everyone grunted at once like a slouching, pre-verbal group of Neanderthals. Some shrugged like this was no big deal, just the yoosh, par for the course, others (including just-too-cool-for-school Chloe) utilized the free time to focus on much more important things like, hello, her real pretend life.

  One girl looked like the tundra. Was she dead? She could barely move, her pink slip a crumpled, sweaty ball. The Asian one. Caitlin Lee. Of course. She looked about ready to pee all over herself in those purple elastic-waist pants. Why did the Asian girl always look ready to jump off a bridge after a trip to the school office? It wasn't, like, the end of the world. Chloe had been in this office plenty and knew the drill well. You got a mini lecture, then, like, had to write some dumb-ass essay on what you did wrong and why it was wrong and then the parentals were called but if you lucked out and three o'clock rolled round before he got to you, Dr. David might just forget about you altogether or absentmindedly cross your name off his list. (Public school in Cali meant staff was spread way thin and stressed way out. Teachers always did random double o
r triple duty so it was no surprise that Dr. David was the college advisor, IT guy, and, oddly enough, nutrition counselor.)

  Chloe witnessed each senior disappear one at a time behind two frosted glass doors, like dumb and mute lambs to the slaughter. And then, Mrs. Witchell, the school secretary, blocked her view. She was drowning in a purple “Save the Whales” sweatshirt with what appeared to be a photo pin of her deceased cat, denim culottes paired with very white aerobic Aerosoles. Chloe zoomed in hard but before she suffered the oncoming inevitable—Dr. David shouted her name. “Chloe Wong-Leiberman!”

  Chloe rubbed her temples and followed Dr. David (who, FYI, waddled more than walked—kinda like a brontosaurus) inside. Then he grunted for her to sit. (Kinda like a bronty too. But brontys were herbivores which Dr. David most certainly was not.)

  “Chloe Leiberman, is it?” He folded his hands in his lap—all awash in fast-food crumbs.

  “Sometimes Wong,” Chloe replied.

  “Hummm … sometimes a lotta things according to my records.”

  Dr. D rested his flaky elbows on a stack of files and lowered his Coke bottles, all serious and stern. Chloe wondered what it would feel like to be cross-eyed, bald, and sentenced to a lifetime under bad fluorescent lighting. She felt momentarily grateful for everything, FD and all.

  “So. Let's talk about college.”

  POOF! Chloe suddenly went all china doll, mute and glassy-eyed. Her thoughts drifted to the embellishment she needed for Spring's dress. She really needed paillettes.

  “Don't you want to go to college?”

  Maybe some grosgrain ribbons too? To sew along the hem, like, in contrast colors.

  “A girl from your kind of family should be going to college.”

  She was feeling lime for Spring—stepping the green thing up a notch.

  “I hear you're a creative type, real good with that fashion stuff. How about FIDM or Parsons?”

  Spring was the right time to bring back green … an Ode to Renewal, an Ode to Rebirth, an Ode to Reinvention….