Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong)

by Carrie Rosten

  Whoa. That was kinda profound. Totally something the Countess would say. Even Pau. (Well, maybe not say it but she would definitely agree.) Chloe stood quite pleased at this little strand of pearls. Change was definitely in the air.

  “Yo, what are you trippin’ for now, Wong?”

  “I'm saying that sometimes it takes time to know if you do or you don't. If you want in, or out.”

  Feeling resigned and kinda over it all, Chloe looked at Dante's long skinny scarf, his rugged goatee, his stupid Charger (well, all right, it was a pretty hot car). She finally saw him clearly. Sans flags and all. Sure Dante had always looked like a cool boyfriend. But he certainly didn't feel that way.

  “Dante, I think I'll just walk home. Even though I'm really not wearing walking shoes.”

  Dante stood there stunned in his perfectly imperfect wardrobe, styled soo like-I-don't-even-care-but-maybe-now-that-Chloe-left-me-I-might cool.

  “But I'll pick you up tomorrow after school, right?”

  Chloe secured her thigh-skimming minidress and turned to go.

  “No thanks, Dante. Besides, you always wanted a groupie more than a girlfriend.”

  SO … Chloe got out of that and was gonna start and finish something else—something positive once and for all. She felt a surge of simultaneous panic and inspiration. She FINALLY was gonna mail her Saint Martins app FOR REAL.

  To whom it may concern,

  I know, I know. You already know she applied, duh, you're reading this. But you might want to know what happened next.

  After the whole mailing the Saint Martins app thing was said and done … it was like this.

  To Prom or Not to Prom

  Experiment with mixed-media materials

  Mix with materialistic media

  Chloe's complete portfolio was currently under review at Saint Martins admissions in London. She had grouped together what was her very first, pretend, real collection. Would her Ode to Cali theme be well received way out in the UK? Chloe was shvitzing all over just thinking about it.

  West Coast WASP did turn out fab-tastic, a neat ensemble she designed with Spring in mind; all bubble-gum pink and herringbone tweed. Then there was Punk-Rock Chola for Sue, an easy transitional school-to-bar look combining chola-femme trims but with punk-rock hardware. Velour Relief was an eclectic tribute to Pau and Zeyde, a departure from the world of wovens for finicky, harder-to-handle knits. And her Swashbuckling Siren would wear a silk taffeta extravaganza befitting any bombshell, operagoer, circus performer, or risqué contessa. Then there was this, the final look, her pièce de résistance, but would it ever be featured?

  Chloe pondered the possibility while she and Sue were glued to the terrace … kinda like Lucinda but not. They couldn't stop gawking at all the activity going on across the street. Enormous boxes had been coming and going for weeks and there hadn't been a summons from the Countess forever! Where was Julius? Was the Countess moving? Was she, ohgodno, dead?

  Chloe was too afraid to ring the bell and say hello—she would never pop on over SANS invite. So she resolved to write the Countess a little thank-you note instead, deep inside the closet.

  So you know by now Chlo's closet was, like, her sanctuary. Even though he would never admit it aloud, Stan knew this too. For Chloe's sweet sixteen Stanley even commissioned some rad architect to totally revamp the space. He designed three tiny keyhole windows that looked out into the garden, an expansive range of purple mountains fanning wide in the distance. Airy and bright with impossibly high cathedral ceilings, the creamy gardenia space was a sacred temple only Chloe was ever allowed to enter to pray—I mean arrange.

  No matter how down and out Chloe felt, cataloging her closet always gave her, like, hope. Color-coding sweaters, scarves, and skirts brought about clarity, even inner peace. Adding little heart stickers or notes to an accessory's accompanying Polaroid provided intense relief. It was like meditation. Or medication. Or was it just serotonin again?

  Chloe sat down to hand-sew her signature at the bottom of her little thank-you note. She sealed it with a fancy-pants wax seal, the kind the Countess would just adore.

  Dear Countess,

  A little note to say thank you for changing my life. I don't know yet if I got into Saint Martins, but, like, your letter of rec still meant so much. Are you going away? I hope there is time to see you before you leave. I would like to show you what I am making for prom—even though I'm not going.

  Sincerely with love,

  Chloe

  So Chloe was definitely not going to attend prom. After all, she clearly did NOT have a date. She wouldn't be the right date for Peter over at EP either. He deserved to go with someone cool who wanted to go for real, not pretend.

  “I don't get why we just don't go to that club of your folks’ to lie out. There's a bigger pool there. And a bar.” Sue was now sprawled out on the balcony working on her already perfect tan.

  “Sue-Lou, is that all you can think about? Besides, you'd get us kicked out for indecent exposure.”

  “Very funny, Wong, and hello, you were the one who crocheted this halter for me! And what's more important right now is this: Are you feeling prom or not?”

  Chloe didn't want to think about prom. She was enjoying refolding cream cardigans. It was like planting flowers in a garden but not.

  “C'mon, Chlo, it's one night of the rest of your life. Plus I make a much hotter date than Dante any day!”

  Chloe laughed. “Sue-Lou, relax, I already said I'd make your dress.”

  “Wong, this isn't about the dress! It's about showing up, like, to represent.”

  Sue hopped up, all serious.

  “Que what?” Chloe laughed. “I don't feel all too representative of Roosevelt, Sue.”

  “Not Roosevelt, girl. You, you fool!”

  She threw her hands up and rolled over on her back.

  Oh. Chloe hadn't thought about it like that.

  A Bow Tie Is Never Just a Bow Tie

  Admit when you need help fixing your tie

  Assume ties can be fixed overnight

  Chloe felt like she was getting some kind of postgrad thing together. There was nothing left to lose and nothing more to hide. She had gotten off academic probation (barely) and even reluctantly confessed to her dad about the whole applying to Saint Martins scenario and how even if she didn't get in or they wouldn't let her go she still felt better and transformed for finally finishing something for once. Stan wasn't exactly bouncing up and down at this information (can you imagine?) but he did listen to her without taking a single incoming call—a huge improvement.

  And apparently Stan had been doing some homework of his own about Saint Martins—shocked to have learned from a revered and trusted client that Saint Martins was an A-list kind of place.

  So Stan had a change of heart—sort of. If things didn't work out he said he'd put in some calls to a big client in “shmatte” and try to hook her up with a summer internship at a “tried-and-true Newport design firm.” Chloe didn't want to ask for favors but she felt relieved that her dad was on her side for once. He even promised her that together they'd “figure out a plan.”

  They discussed these “plans” over frozen yogurt. And, to her total pink surprise, the girls over at FroYo Palace took all her stylin’ cues and transformed their uniforms to a tee. It was CarboLite FroYo on the house and much-needed points with Stan for Chlo! Chloe couldn't help but blush when they came over to thank her, a gesture that I think made Stan burst right outta his Hawaiian shirt with pride! Oh, and Chloe told Stan that she and Dante were done, which of course made him have to spontaneously go to the bathroom while also making, like, his year.

  But what about Lucinda? It might take a while before she could admit that her firstborn wasn't going to a college on the Wong-Leiberman list but at least she wouldn't gripe about it if the Bacon Bringer was on Chlo's side. Oh, but wait, that's right, Lucinda hadn't really been home. She had left on a month-long Ike-bana tour of Japan. Kinda like rehab.


  Would this discovery trip be critical to Lucinda's evolution and, dare I say, survival? To all the Wong-Leibermans’ survival? Because if Chloe didn't get in to Saint Martins they would all still be living under the same ten-thousand-square-foot roof.

  Oy vey ew.

  Oh, all right. Half-oy-vey-ew. Life just might be acceptable. Not ideal, but acceptable. And then there was a tiny knock on her door.

  Mitchell?

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Chlo asked, fully engrossed in collage. She was making a new collage of Polaroids and didn't really want any distractions of the Young Republican kind.

  “I need your help, Chlo.” Mitchell walked into her room hesitantly, treading really really light. His baby pink oxford was untucked and open at the neck, three buttons undone, chest exposed—all out of character. Chloe was confused by such an unusual, ungroomed sight. In his hands he cradled a sorry-looking bow tie. It was a crumpled, severed mess.

  “My bow tie. It—I don't know how it broke. Do you think you could fix it?”

  Chlo's eyes bulged, a la Zeyde.

  “As ifffff, traitor!”

  “Hey, Chloe, can we like, try to keep the peace? You might be living here, uh, unexpectedly and I'd like to feel like I'm not in a war zone. Besides, diplomacy is the new way to shock and awe.”

  “Give me one good reason why I should be nice to you!”

  Mitchell dug his hands deep inside his khaki pockets.

  “I'm waiting—”

  Mitchell kicked the shag rug and looked away.

  “Spit it out, Mitch—like, please.”

  Mitchell swallowed hard. And then he blurted the unthinkable.

  “Gypsy.”

  Gao-chaw?

  “That's low, Mitch. Real low.”

  He hadn't brought that up, like, since, forever….

  “But it's true. Gypsy is a good reason.”

  Mitch looked uncharacteristically shy, small even.

  “I don't get it, Mitch. I don't get you either.”

  “Look, Chloe. You and I might think like different breeds. You are, however, still my sister which means we are related (although sometimes I don't know how), and so, if nothing else, we share significant … history. I still remember how it used to be. And for some reason, that very first time you showed me how to wear a bow tie, well, clearly I can't seem to forget it.”

  “But it wasn't, like, for real, Mitch!”

  Chloe couldn't believe the conversations she was having lately.

  “But you liked the way it looked.”

  Was he kidding?

  “But, Mitchell, it wasn't like, supposed to be interpreted literally.”

  “Well, I'm a literal kind of guy!”

  Chlo paused to consider this valid point. But, like, what was his point?

  “You're telling me that, for real, you remember the time I showed you how to tie a bow tie and that it affected you?”

  Mitch shifted in his Top-Siders. Yep, still sans socks.

  “I remember everything, Chloe. Kin da like you but—like me.”

  Then why did he pretend not to remember at all? Should she try to forgive and if not forget then move on? Or, like, take this talking-about-things-aloud thing in stages?

  “Give me your stupid bow tie.”

  Chloe assessed the damage close. Definite repairs were in order. No immediate turnaround here. The fabric was ripped and not just at the seams.

  “Mitchell, if I do this for you can you at least, well, like, could you be open to mixing it up sometimes, maybe an untucked as opposed to a tucked button-down? You know, keep it a bit imperfect—try to make it, like, ironic?”

  Mitchell looked confused.

  “Never mind.”

  “Well then, Chloe, I guess I'll check the status after prom. You are going to prom, right?”

  Gao-chaw?

  “C'mon, Chlo—the people need something new to talk about.”

  Huh. This was true.

  “I do have a fabtastic dress, or suit, rather.”

  “I'm sure you do.” Mitchell looked Chloe straight in the eye, resolved to, like, drop some kind of bomb.

  “Chloe,” he ventured, “this might be hard for you to believe but I went into Brooks Brothers that day thinking of you. I thought you'd think the bow-tie decision was different. Alternative. Maybe even cool.”

  “How could you think that?” Chloe blurted. “You assumed because I dressed you up in a bow tie when you were seven that I thought it would look good for real?”

  “I thought it would make me more mature. I guess you could say I got attached more than anything—to the bow tie—to what it reminded me of—oh, whatever, Chlo. It wasn't about the way it looked, all right—it was about the way it made me feel. You of all people can understand that. Right?”

  Was he, like, trying to relate or apologize or something?

  This was complicated.

  “Hey, Gypsy,” Chloe sighed, “instead of making assumptions why don't you just ask me what I mean. I'll even try to do the same. And, like, I'm sorry for dissing your bow tie way back when.”

  Mitch nodded, extending his hand. They shook firmly. It was a bit tricky, but it was a start.

  Represent

  Try new people and places

  Let new people and places try you

  “TRL—Totally Roosevelt Live!” Read the Cheez-Whiz banner strung high across the thirty-sixth-floor ballroom of the El Conejo Hyatt. Energetic. Exuberant. Exposed. All the things a high school prom banner should be. Sue and Chloe rolled in last minute, holding hands and checking out the scene.

  “Promise we'll only stay, like, ten minutes max?” Chloe begged. This was, after all, so embarrassing.

  “It's prom, girl! And yes it's lame but we paid. We're here. We look fabulous—it's a testament to our survival. We made it through high school!” Sue seemed more convinced that chillin’ for the night at the El Conejo Hyatt might actually be a good time. In a plum bikini top and a voluminous ballgown skirt, black Chucks poking out, Sue looked just like a chola princess, a hottie-tottie, but polished, for sure. It was an Ode to Sugar and Spice, the decided-upon theme for her night.

  The only reason Chloe came at all was to feature her last look, period. She decided that this final high school look would be her true pièce de résistance. Dante didn't deserve to be credited with that.

  Her Last Look merged, by far, the most complex elements Chloe had incorporated yet.

  These were her notes for inspiration:

  PROM IS:

  Open

  Closed

  Punk Rock

  Contessa

  YSL (smoking or not?)

  Hat or Hibiscus?

  Buttercups—yellow, not peanut butter

  Buttahcreammmmmm

  Opaque bands

  Lace inserts

  Crystals? Sour lemon ones

  Satin ties NOT bows

  Leg-o'-mutton slash angel-wing sleeves

  Fur slash feather sacrifice

  Edward ian Victorian

  Rock and roll

  Ballerinas

  Gold dust

  Fantasy

  Fritos

  SUE-LOU IS:

  Bikini

  Beads

  PLUM

  Clouds

  Ballrooms

  Ruffles

  Chuck Ts

  Rubies

  POLISHED PUNK ROCK

  Chloe had spent hours poring over old photos and books getting inspired. She had firmly decided on a suit rather than a dress and wanted to merge several fabrics and eras together as one.

  She was in lovelovelove with this white YSL tuxedo-y getup Bianca Jagger made famous decades back when she wed Mick (an event the Countess had recounted fondly even though she insisted that, contrary to popular belief, La Bianca did not wear pants). Chloe wanted to reinterpret her wedding look now—the feelings of celebration and commitment, not the literal look. She also was in love with leg-o'-mutton sleeves, these crazy drumstick-looking thin
gs made popular in Edwardian England. Or was it Victorian? Huh. Well, she wanted to do something like that too. And then of course she had to be tough, so there had to be something punk rock thrown in the mix. In the end, she pulled off all three.

  Chloe created a suit that was white but in varying shades. Accessories and embellishments were yellow with the tiniest hints of red and gold. She definitely didn't want to wear a gigantic hat like Bianca so she settled on a crystal, yes crystal, diadem, “a little gifty” also from the Countess (who apparently had been gifted lots of crystal-y gifts …).

  Chlo's jacket was kinda Victorian—a high collar that fastened with delicate crystal (yes, crystal) buttons the color of lemonade. The structured bodice had a fitted peplum with tiny piping in soft buttercream and tiny snippets of lace. The sleeves were, like, a hybrid. Leg-o'-muttonish and like angel wings. (I say leg-o'-muttonish because the shoulders were like big embellished, furry, feathered mutton-sticks but angel-like too because they wrapped around and attached like wings.) The detachable sleeves could snap off at the elbows, like, if she got hot in all those feathers and fur. They snapped onto ribbed cotton cuffs at the elbows—really long ones that grazed the knuckles and wrapped into the fingers, like punk-rock fingerless gloves. Or cuffs. Glovecuffs.

  Her pants were fitted knickers, also shown in ivory silk wool. Yellow lace inserts were sewn along the seams—little floral webs that exposed the tiniest bit of skin, running the length of the hips. The fabric gathered at the knees with a buttery ribbed cotton band, yellow silk lining sewn underneath it all.

  Chloe's ruby round-toe shoes balanced on slivers of real gold heels (also courtesy of La Contessa), long ruby and gold satin ties lacing around her calves like a schizophrenic ballerina goddess.