Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Read online

  “—And I don't bill four hundred an hour so my daughter can look like she pulled clothes outta a trash can!” Oy gevalt. Stan was home. This prompted Wally to start humping a barstool. (Like I said, he looked for love in all the wrong places.) For real, if only Stanley spent more QT with Wally then maybe the dog wouldn't have to hump or eat everything all the time and oh god now he was simultaneously humping and trying to eat Stan's way-too-long headset cord—a cord-ploy Stan deliberately tangled himself up in to avoid conversation. It was crafty … but, like, necessary protection too.

  “But, Daddy, you gave me this T-shirt!” Chloe couldn't believe her bad timing or for that matter that she'd just called Stan “Daddy.”

  “When you were five!” he hollered. “Which, I might add, was when I worked for peanuts at the DA and your mother and I couldn't afford to buy you new clothes.” Her dad should talk! He was currently in his fave uniform of baggy cargo shorts and a beat-up Hawaiian shirt that looked like a pack of Crayolas threw up all over it. The man might have been colorblind but he definitely was not color-phobic.

  “See, Chloe. Naturally, your father agrees. Go change.”

  “But I don't want to!” Chloe cried, feeling all of five.

  “Why must you make everything so complicated? You know good and well that holidays are dress-up days! Easy. Simple. A dress perhaps?” Chloe's mother shot Stan a fierce, please-concur-now look.

  Stan sensed confrontation. He hated confrontation.

  “Chloe Wong, in half an hour I expect to see you at my table changed into something fancy and appropriate,” Lucinda continued.

  “But this is my interpretation of ‘fancy’ and ‘appropriate.’ “

  Lucinda cornered Chloe, ladle pointed like a spear.

  “DO-NOT-PROVOKE-ME-CHLOE-WONG! I AM UNDER A GREAT DEAL OF PRESSSSURE ALREADYY!” Turning red as a beet, she jabbed the ladle in Chloe's direction, inching dangerously close.

  “Hui, Lucindaw!” Pau-Pau interjected. “Let the girl be.”

  She planted herself firmly between them, slurping loud on a piece of gingerroot.

  “Chloee-girl changed already. No need make change one more time.” Pau-Pau shuffled out of the kitchen, farting as she did. Way to go, Pau, Chloe thought. At least there was one ally in the room. And even if she did communicate in bodily noises better than English Chloe felt momentarily vindicated all the same. Holding her nose, she remembered why dairy was such a DON'T.

  The kitchen was totally polluted.

  Spring and Secrets

  Wear protective head covering when about to drop a bomb

  Pretend like aforementioned protective head covering is a yoosual accessory

  Spring lowered her lemon beanie over her golden, freckled face, for shaaame. No wonder she wore a beanie! She'd just gone public with some scandalous information and needed a place to hide.

  Spring Beckett had been their longtime neighbor, friend, and up until Chloe “transferred” out of elitist Eden Prep two years ago, carpool companion since she and Chloe were five.

  But Spring had officially defected to the Right—the other side, the DARK side—the Mitchell side. She was lost and gone forever. Chloe felt as if her entire closet had been raided and ransacked and resold by some sheisty traitor.

  “Relax, Chlo, we haven't really done anything.” Spring opened her bright blue eyes wide, feigning innocence.

  “Rela—This is statutory … statutory something. Spring, it's like incest!”

  Not to mention the highest form of treason!

  Once upon a time Chloe and Mitchell weren't at war but that changed once they were sentenced to Eden Prep and Mitchell became this whole new fake person. The uniform, like, brainwashed him or something.

  Oh, and, the infamous Bow-Tie incident severed their ties completely. Just know for now that it involved a huge fiasco in a Brooks Brothers dressing room.

  Chloe flung off a stack of mismatched Lucite bangles and switched them for a single leather cuff instead—a really tight one.

  “Chloe, Mitch is sixteen and I'm seventeen so really, it can't be statutory anything.”

  “Spring, how can you possibly think this is kosher? You've known Mitchell since he wore, like, bumblebee Velcro shoes and green OshKosh overalls!”

  “Isn't kosher? This coming from Hi-my-boyfriend-like-graduated-from-high-school-before-we-were-even-born!”

  Chloe threw a sequined pillow at her harping friend. Her soon to be ex-friend at this rate.

  “I'm not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  Turning away, she went to the window to light what she promised herself would be her last cigarette ever. Outside row after row of identical manicured lawns glistened, the requisite stamp of a stately Wells Park McMansion.

  “I thought you quit,” Spring whispered, highly concerned. Chloe took a long and pensive drag and ashed carelessly into her mother's pink and peach rosebushes below. Chloe totally rued the day her boyfriend Dante ever gave her that first, ill-fated Marlboro Red. Smoke was horrendous for her clothes. She had a rule that she'd only smoke in her smoking sweatshirt, which was exactly what she had on right now.

  Chloe sighed. “I did quit. But that was yesterday.”

  “But what about today?” Spring asked, her long blond ponytail bouncing to the side.

  “Today I unquit, Spring.” Chloe squinted at Spring's tank top and reached to adjust the lopsided spaghetti strap back over her bra.

  “DON'T reveal bra strap unless bra strap is cute, which today it's not.”

  Chloe couldn't help but blurt this out loud. It didn't look right and when things didn't look right she just had to say something.

  “Sorry, Spring. You know how my FD situation gets when I'm stressed out.”

  They laughed awkwardly. But it wasn't funny. It was for real. Wanna know how this “FD” all came about?

  ***

  CHLOE'S CONDITION: What is a fashion disorder?

  So Chlo had loved any and all things related to clothing, shopping, designing, and accessorizing since forever. She used to escape into her grandma's closet in a diaper and booties and crawl back out featuring full-on wardrobe—scarves tied as makeshift dresses, tangled in a web of crazy beads, eventually teetering around in slides and heels. She ate, breathed, and apparently even breast-fed in separates, shoes, and accessories. Everything always had to go together but nothing could be too matchy-matchy. Accessories had to be angled just so and she'd die if she ever saw anyone else wearing the same shoes she was.

  Her closet had a rotating theme each season and was, like, a color-coded shrine. All her vintage Ts were rolled up perfectly, color coordinated, and arranged by graphic. For instance, her first grouping was Americana so there were sixteen ringers and a bunch of Ts with faded iron-ons of, like, the Dukes of Hazzard, trucks, pigs with little bows … that kind of thing. All her blue jeans were hanging on a solo rack—a wave of dark indigo turning into the palest shade of Pacific blue. Colored cords hung directly opposite white cargos—a crisp wave of buttercream fading into paper white. (Kinda like a Pantone chart but not.) Tops were, like, totally hard to negotiate in a single closet (even if it was a floor-through walk-in), so we won't go there since that would take up too much space. Just realize the system was down. Everything had its right place.

  Dressing herself well was—well, really the only thing Chloe Wong-Leiberman felt she did right! But then, come seventh grade, she wasn't allowed to do it at all. At least, from seven to three when she was forced to wear a uniform at Eden Prep—a really bad one too.

  One day after failing a pop quiz in prealgebra she went outside to get some fresh air (which Eden Prep did have lots of). A sea of loafers after polos after loafers after polos was passing her by when, suddenly, POOF! the uniforms all transformed! In a flash, a select few students featured looks she had totally created and approved! It was like some switch automatically flicked on inside and released something really powerful—again, kinda like serotonin but not.

  By eighth
grade this curious phenomenon occurred outside school too. She could be shopping at the Promenade and boom—change the entire third floor from frumpy to fabulous in, like, two seconds flat.

  Initially, Chloe found this very amusing, a helpful way not to have to look at what was in front of her. Then she realized she couldn't make it stop. It was happening everywhere, every time she set her almond-shaped eyes on any unfortunately dressed person. Plus, she found herself offering commentary—most of the time to herself, but sometimes ALOUD. Kinda like Tourette's.

  That was it. To be obsessed with her own clothing was one thing, to be obsessed with yours was another, to spontaneously hallucinate wasn't exactly normal but at least it was something she could easily hide from other people, but, like, to run the risk of commenting on what someone was wearing with something random—even mean—ALOUD! Now this was unacceptable. A big ol’ horrifying DON'T.

  Chloe was determined to find out what was wrong with her. She concluded she must have a “condition.” So she diagnosed it herself—well, with tentative help from Spring too, way back when she still went to Eden Prep and they were BFF, for real.

  It was a picture-perfect Southern California day and Chlo was wearing these vintage OP board shorts with horizontal orange and gray stripes with a perfectly worn-in Eden Prep T. It was after gym but before lunch and she and Spring were in that Monday morning third-period netherworld called “health”—that dubious elective eighth graders eagerly anticipated in order to nap, slack off, smoke pot, or write text messages to crushes they never intended to send. Mr. Materian was their narcoleptic health teacher, a well-meaning thirty something who prided himself on enlightening the Eden Prep elite about the big, bad world of VD, the merits of condom usage, and the perils of intravenous drug use. Of these no-duh matters, Chloe already knew plenty.

  The only area that really piqued her interest was mental illness and the possibility she might have one—a disease, a disorder, a “something” that could finally explain why for so many years she had been the way she was. She knew there had to be an answer in that bible of mental illness, the DSM-IV, The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. This red leather—bound volume glowed before Chloe's eyes like a sacred tome of the Illuminati. She needed that book. She wanted it right then and there. She announced this to Spring, who being the dutiful friend and strategic klepto she was, snuck up on Mr. Materian during his narcoleptic daze and swiped the text. But after several arduous and frustrating hours the two burgeoning diagnosticians discovered that the right terminology didn't quite exist. No single disorder perfectly described Chloe's ills—yet. So, mavericks that they were, the girls decided to coin a new phrase, thus labeling Chloe's condition a “fashion disorder.”

  They marked the occasion by returning “the Book” to Mr. Materian wrapped in a “festive” pink and blue bow—gigantic F and D eloquently penned over what would be his dubious new book jacket. Chloe would forever feel indebted and connected to Spring for sharing that life-shaping diagnosis.

  Here are the symptoms in full. There are shades of OCD, ADD, Tourette's, and yes, even dissociative identity disorder.

  Symptom #1: obsessive thoughts

  Chloe's clearly obsessed. She is, however, still able to function in the world without her friends and family ever really knowing the extent of her full-fledged obsession.

  Symptom #2: compulsive behavior

  Chloe is compelled to shop, sew, or sometimes even style passersby. There are of course the requisite spontaneous shopping sprees, the items she just can't live without, and she'll never be able to pass up a dollar fabric bin without scavenging through the whole thing. She's also a sucker for online shopping. Chloe costume-changes several times a day to best fit her ever-changing moods, then takes a picture of the look with her vintage Polaroid. She labels all accompanying photos with pink Sharpies and sometimes makes a collage.

  Symptom #3: vocal tics

  OK, so this is that sorta-Tourette's thing. Chloe doesn't blurt obscenities or bark aloud or anything like that but she will blurt nonsequitur comments in the middle of class like “Love your belt” or when making out with her boyfriend Dante she might say, “Lame socks!” Most of the time she keeps this commentary to herself but occasionally something will slip out and she'll have to apologize or pretend like she said nothing at all.

  Symptom #4: hallucinations

  We've covered this one, right? Well, imagine having a pair of built-in glasses that transformed everyone around you. This is what it was like for Chloe. Now imagine not being able to take those glasses off, like, ever.

  Symptom #5: impulsivity

  See symptom number two.

  Symptom #6: distractability

  See symptoms number one and two. Oh, and four and seven.

  Symptom #7: Red Carpetosis

  We also covered this one already. This symptom is probably the most severe since it's been getting in the way of things she was supposed to have been doing like, oh, taking her SATs, going to PE (not that you should have to go to PE), applying to colleges, and stuff like that.

  As you can see, Chlo's FD was a peculiar hybrid. Kinda like her.

  But what about a cure? Well, so far, Chloe hadn't thought that far. She was resigned that this was, like, a part of her that might not heal. She thought she'd just have to deal with her FD forever. Maybe her FD was, like, DNA? But if the FD was genetic there hadn't been any indication she shared symptoms with any other Wong or Leiberman.

  Plus, to look at her FD as something that needed to be cured only made it all seem worse—as if by acknowledging any intrinsic pathology to this desire-to-style-strangers-then-comment-on-their-wardrobe-aloud-thing implied she had something totally unfixable, damaged, alien, irreparable—that she herself was totally unfixable, damaged, alien, irreparable—a big ol’ all-around DON'T. Ironically, however, Chloe was the first and only one to diagnose, and thus, pathologize, herself.

  By this time, at the ripe old age of seventeen and a quarter and under increasing pressure to get a postgrad plan, all her fashion disorder symptoms were getting worse. Her FD was something that, like, not only had become a fixed part of her quirky mind but also was growing into something she could no longer keep to herself.

  “You'll never quit so long as you stay with Dante. He's always been a terrible influence.”

  Spring enjoyed stating the obvious.

  Chloe would've tried to defend Dante but she was distracted by Spring's new Eden Prep dolphin shorts—worn during another grueling three-hour crew practice.

  Spring sure was a glutton for punishment. Crew, soccer, lacrosse, you name it she played it, and well, whether she wanted to or not and usually because her parents told her she had to or else.

  “Did you really sew this pillow?” Spring cooed. “The sequins are amazing!”

  “They're paillettes but whatever. Thanks.”

  “But you made it, like, in a day?” Spring pressed.

  “Yeah, but pillowcases are the easiest thing to make, Spring. It's not, like, couture.”

  “But I can't even sew a button!” Spring exclaimed. “And,” she continued, “I never would've figured out how to cut up my old Eden Prep T without wrecking it. It's totally fitted and cute now because of you!”

  Was the token flattery just to get their friendship back on track? Or did Spring mean it? It was hard to tell lately since Chloe and Spring were drifting apart.

  Mitchell incest aside, Spring was always glued to the pre-SC-Kappa Kappa Kappa crew (hi, gross) and all those Eden Prepsters, like, shared the same brain and boyfriend. And even if Spring wasn't exactly like those girls she sure spent plenty of QT with them instead of Chloe—prepping for nationals or some meet or Las Madrinas deb function.

  For real, Spring would never stray from the designer staples of Wells Park to scour racks at the Swap Meet with Chlo anyhow. This was a sad but true realization especially when Chloe considered all the important history she and Spring shared up and down Avocado Lane. Just thinki
ng about it made Chloe feel all sentimental and bummed out.

  “I'll customize for you anytime, Spring Bean.”

  Spring smiled, relieved. “Spring Bean” or plain “Bean” had been Chlo's nickname for her ever since she suddenly shot up like a sunflower second semester of sixth grade. Practically overnight the girl grew, like, six inches, towering over Chlo like a willowy bean that could be snapped in two.

  Spring's wide and pleasant face always looked happy (even if she wasn't), and her swanlike neck was topped with a crown of flaxen, effervescent locks. Since she usually donned an apple green Lacoste sweater set (a style, mind you, practically identical to Eden Prep uniform), she really did look like a sunflower: yellow on top and green on the bottom, real agile and perky.

  “So you're not mad about the Mitchell thing?” Spring hid her face in a deconstructed catalog Chloe had apparently cut up. She liked to draw over the models with what she would have preferred them to wear.

  “Spring, I'm much more concerned with how embroidery and sewing will never be assets on a UC app. And even if they were, it's too late to dress my way into any college now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Chloe was about to confess when she heard the sudden sound of distinct, choppy footsteps slapping the steps. Smoke still floating between them, she and Spring exchanged mutual “oh shit” looks.

  “Pau-Pau!” Chloe cried, mouth exploding with smoke. She stubbed the flickering butt hard, and then, a thundering knock.

  “Chloee-girl! Chlooe-girl, you inside?”

  Pau-Pau's signature blue house slippers could be seen underneath the door, the only footwear she'd ever seemed to don since moving in. Not bad for a diabetic grandma who just had her esophagus removed and stood all of four feet five, hair included.

  “Just a minute, Pau-Pau. I'm … I'm changing again.”

  Frantic, Spring scrambled to grab a can of raspberry mist. She began to spray in staccato bursts, then practically dumped the whole bottle onto the floor. The girls began to wheeze as an overwhelming berry vapor polluted the room.