Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  “Heck, there's even that design school in London? Had a cousin's son who went there—what's it called. Central Saint Martins.”

  Mixed embellishment AND spring greens. The next theme for the closet! It could be, like, an Ode to Salad but not.

  “Central Saint Martins is pricey but your folks have money.”

  He handed her a brochure and Chloe snapped back to the room, peeved. What. Was. He. Talkingabout?! Weren't they supposed to, like, have had this discussion junior year? As in last year?

  “Saint Martins is, like, for seriously talented people, Dr. David.”

  “Well, there's no harm in applying. Your grades are stellar, you're real good in art, and your parents are encouraging this.”

  They. Were. Not! Whaaat was wrong with him? Was he insane?

  “Excuse me, Dr. David, but I obviously missed the deadline.”

  He scrunched up his eyes. “Lemme see. Nope. These foreign schools take international apps real late. You'll have until April fifteenth for Route B. You're right on track—ahead of track, even, for a junior.”

  For a junior? Hold the phone. Like, as if they were in some totally bizarre mistaken identity show—Chloe was beginning to realize Dr. David thought she was someone else. But who? He chuckled and stuffed the application into Chloe's hand.

  “Thanks, Dr. David,” she whispered.

  “Of course, Caitlin—”

  “But it's Chloe.”

  “Wait a sec here—” Dr. David scratched his head.

  “Jeez Louise—I was looking at Caitlin Lee's profile. See—says right here in this memo. Lee—want-talk-design-schools-foreign.”

  Caitlin Lee? The comatose Asian one hiding in the book? That's why she was in the office? Her parents wanted her to apply to Saint Martins?

  Hugely offended by the flagrant mistaken identity, Chloe crossed her arms, supremely annoyed.

  “So you're Ms.—”

  “Wong-Leiberman—the senior on academic probation!”

  “Oh yeees. That's who you are!” Dr. David took off his glasses and looked at Chlo, as hard as it is to imagine, like he was sorry.

  “Well then, I'm afraid you'll need to shape up these grades. Art school or not—you can't get in anywhere on academic probation, the reason you're here today, right?”

  Chloe shrugged. Wasn't he supposed to be telling her the reason?

  “There might still be time to get back on track. Well, ya don't wanna repeat the twelfth grade, do ya?”

  Chlo just got the meaning of, like, a rhetorical question.

  “You're a smart girl, Chloe. I mean, you're part Asian, right? It says right here in this memo. Other—Asian and other stuff. I have every bit of faith that you'll figure out a plan.”

  F-ig-ure-o-ut-a-pla-n. The words rolled out in way slow slow motion and Chloe's head took off like a balloon. She traced the brown leather piping around her tote and drifted even further away. What if she couldn't find the perfect satin trim for Spring's slip? What if Spring hated the dress? What if she hated the dress but pretended to like it anyhow? She was the type to pretend—sometimes, but only when she thought she might make Chlo feel bad. I mean, she might have to deal with clients who pretend to like her, I mean her designs, one day, right?

  “And that's all,” Dr. David said, rubbing his watery eyes.

  Chloe had no idea what he'd just said.

  “Thanks, Dr. David. Um, like, may I please be excused?”

  The horrendous fluorescent lighting might just lead to Red Carpetosis. It featured Dr. David's too-tight poly button-down, little yellow pit stains under each arm—a detail that, HELLO, did not need to be featured.

  “Yes, Caitlin, I mean Chloe. It is Chloe, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Chloe said. She smiled politely, then practically puked out the door. Caitlin Lee? She had been mistaken for that afashionable loser? Why was she applying to Saint Martins? But wait! April 15? So she hadn't missed the deadline yet?

  This was it. Chloe had to preserve some shred of dignity.

  She had totally given up on applying to Saint Martins for real, but today, as crazy as it seemed, she just had to step up. She just had to apply. It would have to be a covert operation (duh?), but it was a risk Chlo was willing to take. But who would give her a letter of rec? She, like, didn't know any of her teachers. And, like, what would her parents do to her if they found out she applied? Or worse, what if she actually got in?

  The Virtues of Silk

  Go down to quirky places

  Let quirks keep you down

  Julius, La Contessa's number-one schmo, had summoned her again! Chlo felt compelled to refeature her wool crepe dress—you know, the little round-neck one a la Mary Quant. The Countess again featured a swaucy bias-cut satin number, tumbling forth and cascading back—a statuesque column of lace and silk which was the chosen topic of that day's lesson, silk that is. The Virtues of Everything Silk, to be exact.

  “Do youuu know, Chloe dahling, why I just simply adore silk, do you, hmmmm?”

  Chlo shook her head and her beret fell off. She was wearing a tiny knit cap to, like, protect her head—this one in soft buttercream.

  “Of course you don't know why which is why I ask the question! It is imperative we ask questions all-the-time!”

  The Countess's voice boomed throughout the grand salon—like a powerful freight train on its way toward way important places.

  “Anyhoo, back to my point and do you know what the point izzz?”

  Chloe shook her head again. Was that a rhetorical question too?

  “Of course you don't know, silly. How could you possibly know the point when there are several! None of which I have even mentioned yet? The point is—”

  And with this she drew very close—even her diamonds, la infamous rox, they too smelled like jasmine and cherries, her intoxicating signature scent.

  “Pure silk, Chloe dahhhling, absorbs everything. Did you know this? It absorbs even better than wool?”

  She brushed up against Chloe's wool skirt, like, to illustrate some point.

  “No, no—I didn't know that actually,” Chloe sputtered.

  Like, what was her point? Weren't they just discussing her portfolio? The Five Cali Pieces she would submit for her Saint Martins app?

  “AND, Chloe, silk keeps one cool in summer while keeping one warm in winter. How perfectly phenomenal and contradictory is that?”

  She handed Chloe a giant swath of silk, kinda like a one-sheet but not.

  “AND silk looks so delicate and soft and yet, and YET—it is the strongest natural fabric EVER. You do recall what I said about nature, don't you, Chloe dahling? Ah, yes, the glorious natural silkworm—mysterious, magical little gem really. But did you know this?”

  Chloe shook her head, rapt with attention. So this was kinda a lecture—but a good one.

  “The silkworm, dahling (which is not really a worm at all but is a moth), spins a tiny cocoon and inside this very cocoon of swollen mystery lives its thread. Then, this tiny cocoon must be boiled and steamed—SACRIFICED even, to yield and unravel its silk. AND did you know this process smells just horrendous? Offensive even? So disgusting you would never even want to touch it and yet—and YET, it produces this.”

  She whipped out a finely spun fan and ran it over Chloe's knee—again, to emphasize her point—which, like, Chloe was kind of getting but kinda not. Didn't the Countess want to review her portfolio? Her Five Cali Pieces?

  “Chloe, I digress, forgive me, please. I think of China and I get all teary-eyed, weak in the knees—sometimes I miss her so.”

  “You mean you, like, lived there?” Chlo's eyes went wide. Like, her own mother had never even been there and she was supposedly Chinese.

  “I've dabbled in Asians—I mean Asia. Shanghai, to be exact. That is where I fell in love …,” the Countess reflected, “with silk of course.”

  She winked.

  “Now let's see those sketches, dahling—I quite enjoyed last week's looks. What did you call your�
�”

  “Five Cali Pieces!” Chlo exclaimed. “An Ode to West Coast WASPs is Look Number One. That's, like, named after my oldest friend, Spring, who lives next door—to me, not to you—but your rotunda blocks her mom's view. And then there's Punk Rock Chola Princess—like, my ode to my other best friend, Sue, but she's not really a chola, she's sweet. And then Look Number Three is Velour Relief—like, a tribute to my grandparents—they gotta be comfortable, right, but, like, they can be comfortable and look cool—kinda like those palazzo pjs you were featuring the first time I met you and was amaaazed cuz they looked so rad! Oh and then Look Number Four is all about Swashbuckling Sirens and I'm not sure why yet but I'll let you know when I figure it out, and then of course the last look, my final look, will be all about love—and Dante—he's my boyfriend, I think. We're kinda having some issues right now … but that's OK. I'll sort it out.”

  Oh god. She was doing it again! That rambling thing she always did whenever she was close to the Countess. A curious thing occurred every time she sat on the Countess's little tufted cushion, enveloped in softness and warmth, jasmine-cherry scent wafting above and around. Like, she couldn't stop talking. (But not in an FD vocal tic kinda way—like, she talked about things she really wanted to say.)

  She even made sense. Well, in her own quirky way. Quirky. That was the adjective the Countess had used to describe her the other week. “Chloe, dahling, you are positively quirky—just full of splendid little quirks!”

  And a quirk, you probably already know, is a peculiar habit or mannerism, something that apparently didn't bother the Countess at all. You might not know, however, that the word “quirk” also means—in fact its number one meaning is this: a strange and unexpected turn of events. Something Chloe considered now.

  “Oh, yes, that Beckett woman. She doesn't care too much for my rotunda, does she? And I thought red complemented her garden—really.” The Countess raised her signature fake golden cigarette to her lips and languidly puffed away.

  “Oh, but she's lame, Countess. She's just crazy jealous of you cuz you're rad and you've gotten so much attention without even doing anything or wanting it at all. But, like, that's been really inspiring, you know—like, to witness. Someone who does things differently here. Someone who's not afraid to be who they are. I think it's rad—red rotunda and all.” God, she did it again!! She used the word “rad,” like, twice in one paragraph!

  The Countess waved the compliment aside with her gem-encrusted cylinder and rolled over on a hip.

  “I DO believe I DON'T have any more time for lessons today. Show me the portfolio when you are done, young quirky thing—I DO look forward to our little meetings so….”

  Chloe blushed. Like, hel-lo…. She loved coming to the Villa almost as much as … the El Conejo Swap Meet? The Promenade? The Bowl? Huh…. Like, she secretly wanted to move in! Couldn't the Countess just hide her in a corner somewhere—a little alcove? A closet even? She liked closets! The Countess probably had really grand closets with plenty of space. Surely there was one big enough for her? Maybe she and the Countess could come to some mutual agreement? Maybe she could pay rent somehow—fetch her swatches or ice cream—let Julius take the day off every so often and hang by her side. Oh jeez—oh wait—she was sounding so desperate, so transfixed, so under a crazy spell of fawning adoration—

  Ew.

  She felt like a stalker.

  That wasn't cool.

  Chloe skipped down the marble steps in her white go-go boots, extra loud, lapping up each and every single Contessa word like a … piece of silk? Didn't she say silk was way absorbent?

  Hum. Maybe Chloe understood the meaning of the message after all.

  Close Encounters of the Lucinda Kind

  Be true to people you love

  Say you love them if it's not true

  Lucinda was home early from Ikebana. Lately, it was all about Ikebana. You know, the strange but beautiful art of Japanese flower arranging that was even featured in that Lost in Translation movie. It was kinda progressive for Lucinda. Maybe it was even therapeutic. Lucinda definitely needed therapy. She was exhibiting many signs of post-traumatic stress. Like, she had upped her Pilates classes to compensate for the added mimosas she was imbibing over brunches at the Shore Club—a response to being forced to digest the word over who got in early to college where—news that sent her into a shopping frenzy, her kind of cardiac arrest.

  Today, Chloe felt just like juk. You know, the crazy soup with assorted gross stuff in it. Her head throbbed from all that Red Carpetosis and Wheel of Fashion and the entire day was spent in total FD. It felt like watching every single crappy music-video fashion faux pas EVER! Like, where all the extras converge in “da club” in one overwhelming, mixed-up throng of the worst hoochie-fashions and everyone is so not going together and you alone MUST wade through it all and make it all look right. You must fix EVERYONE! She couldn't take it. It was like channel-surfing in her head without control of the remote.

  Should she take her chances? Be bold? Drop the latest bomb in one sudden assault then run for cover? What were the chances of making it past Lucinda without saying anything about academic probation?

  After all, Dr. David spaced and forgot to call. But then again if he remembered to call he might suggest applying to Saint Martins too. And he was the one who brought it up. If Chloe didn't say anything period then maybe it would be like this whole sucky-grades-and-probation situation never happened at all! Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil—the family code, right?

  “Chloe Wong, hand me those Brazil nuts please.” POOF! Chloe stood face to face with the Enemy herself. Hmm. But the Enemy was talking to her. Was it a trap?

  Tentatively, Chloe handed Lucinda a teak bowl. Lucinda was preparing Wally's special meal—something mushy made from “live” Brazil nuts and acorns. (Now that they were over Atkins/South Beach they were on to “live” and “raw” foods only.) As Lucinda chopped and diced with precision Chloe prepared to break the latest, searching for the right words. But what she ended up saying was so un-right.

  “Pleats make you look fat!” she blurted, quickly cupping a hand over her mouth, shocked at her lack of impulse control.

  Lucinda went ashen. Chloe kicked herself in the shin.

  “They do?” she cried. She began smoothing the creases over what, minus the gigantic pleats, were really un-lumpy hips.

  “Pleats like that add ten pounds, Mom. Or in your case, fifteen.”

  Omigod, Chloe! Stop it already and control yourself! You DON'T comment on your mom's fattening pants when you're about to tell her you're on academic probation, just have to go to fashion school in London, and might not even graduate!

  But it was no use. It was too late. In moments like these it was as if a force greater than herself pried her lips wide open again and again, forcing insults to keep spontaneously popping out.

  “So do I really look fat? You think I am fat. That's it. I am officially a fat Chinese lady.” Lucinda sank down upon a bench, on the verge of something, cradling a calico pillow to her chest. Wally waddled over to support.

  “Mom, you're not fat at all. I said pleats like that make one, as in anyone, skinny or fat, LOOK fat. This doesn't mean you are fat. You're nowhere near fat, for real!”

  Chlo bit her lip and then—

  “But those pants do makeyoulook fat.” Omigod! She couldn't stop it. Once it had started, like—her mouth took on a life of its own.

  “This low-carb-raw-food plan just isn't working,” Lucinda lamented. Wally moaned and rolled to a side, either because he agreed or because he was experiencing some serious post-binge heartburn.

  “Why don't you try quinoa, Mom? Mrs. Arriza says it's, like, almost a protein.”

  This, Chloe thought, was a helpful way to try to make peace. Mrs. A cooked red quinoa all the time and it was really good—in a nutty, I'm-supposed-to-taste-healthy-but-that's-OK kinda way.

  “Does Mrs. Arriza think you should wear clothes like that in public?” Luci
nda challenged, clearly not pleased with the tip.

  “I mean would it really kill you, Chloe, just once, just one time, to wear something ….”

  Chloe braced herself.

  “… like Spring!”

  Like Spring!?!

  “Since when did Spring Beckett become the style maven?”

  Spring had several endearing traits but she was not the authority on style. Like, style required imagination which is exactly why Chloe was designing Spring's pre-deb-event dress, thank you very much!

  “Spring, Chloe Wong, represents Eden Prep well.”

  “But I don't even go there anymore!”

  “Don't,” she began, arm raised to deflect the imaginary paparazzi, “remind me. Plenty of girls, Chloe Wong, would give their right arm to attend Eden Prep, to live in a beautiful community like ours, to lead the life you choose to spit upon! Your problem is you are spoiled and just have no idea how privileged you are.”

  All right. So this might be kinda true. But wasn't her mom spoiled too? And anyhow that wasn't exactly the problem she was thinking of sharing today….

  And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw the side door swing shut. Mitchell waltzed in—gym bag casually slung across his broad shoulders, an Eden Prep Lacoste cardigan tied loosely around his neck. For real, Mitchell looked like a walking advertisement for the place, an aspiring demagogue, coiffed to perfection and about to tell you why he's so much better at lacrosse than you'll ever be so don't even bother trying to get on his team.

  “Chloe suffers from a highly unusual but fortunately noncontagious disease. I like to call it please-feel-sorry-for-me-cuz-I-don't-live-in-the-ghetto-with-my-ghetto-friends disorder.”

  “Fuck off, Tucker.” Chloe threw a napkin ring at her annoying little brother.

  “That's a compliment.” He snickered, ducking as the napkin ring fell into the raw soup situation.

  “Chloe Wong!” Lucinda cried. “Your childish antics amaze me. Really, they do. Why can't you just follow your brother's lead and try to act mature?”