Mature? Mitch? How could they all be fooled by the bow tie and blazer? Mitchell was an emotionally stunted coward! An overindulged brat! A complete and utter traitor to the cause! And he was only fourteen months younger than Chloe anyhow so to act as if he was some epitome of maturity at, like, six, was total MISREPRESENTATION.
Politically, Mitch leaned as far right as you could go without falling (which went contrary to the original Wong-Leiberman way even if it pleased his Eden Prep peers and their benefactors well). Over the years he had managed to amass loyal followers of both sexes of all ages everywhere—at school, at the Shore Club, at the local banks even, where tellers greeted him by first name! And then there were the ladies—like, he made them all drool.
Chloe wouldn't be surprised if he secretly financed his portfolio by doubling as a male escort for the neighborhood lunch-then-yogilates set, like, during holiday breaks or really late at night. She had tried, honest, to be open to her brother's potential assets if not merits but then his stupid bow tie would remind her of the Brooks Brothers fiasco and she couldn't see anything else.
“In other news, Mom, I got straight A's, again.”
Of course. He handed Lucinda a twenty-page report card with color-coded charts and graphs and everything while she cooed and oohed and aahed.
“Well, well, well. That is just splendid, darling.”
Chloe rescrunched her sleeves to endure the inevitable.
“Behold: a bold departure from the honors assignment, but Professor Jecker is thanking me for the stock tips already.” He whipped forth a glossy brochure from his cordovan briefcase. It read, in a bold font, “The Gunthrup Value Fund.”
“It's outperformed every other fund in its peer group. We should buy now while it's still below the radar.”
“Oh, Mitchell, dear. You make me so proud, really.”
For real.
Lucinda grabbed the thick brochure like a prized pair of Tod's at an after-Christmas Neiman's sale, transfixed. Nothing pleased her more than to see her favorite child take to the stock market like a fish to the sea. It was like through Mitch's glory, Lucinda could vicariously live out her Master, or rather, Mistress of the Universe fantasy.
“And don't forget rich,” he muttered. For just a teensy second, Mitch blushed at the indulgent comment.
Like, what went wrong? And furthermore, why could Mitch do no wrong—even when he tried? Granted he was varsity everything, definitely Harvard bound like Stan, and always in Eden Prep uniform, but was that any excuse for Chlo's mom and dad to let him be such an emerging, gluttonous, capitalist pig? For all his multifarious accolades, financial coups, and winning luck with the Wells Park ladies, Chloe knew the truth about Mitch. One day the rest of the world would see what only she saw, revealing the tiny emperor he really was, sans bow tie and all.
But it wasn't always like that.
Once upon a time, way before Eden Prep and that ill-fated trip to the Promenade Brooks Brothers, Mitchell, like, was normal. He was even, dare I say, fun. Chloe and Mitch weren't, like, BFF—but, they hung out. Especially at Pau's, when she still lived in Great-auntie Li's three-story Victorian in San Marino (that's almost L.A.). They entertained each other lots and laughed all the time with, like, games. There was this one game in particular, their most favorite game of all, and it was called Gypsy.
Gypsy was like this.
Chlo got to be the pirate queen who dressed Mitch, the Gypsy slave, in whatever she wanted him to wear. They'd only play this game at Pau's, and in her closet—well, in Auntie Li's closet since that was the place with the better accessories. (Lucinda would freak if they ever tried this at home.) They'd play Gypsy for hours, even coming up with some really fashion-forward looks. Together they'd break into hysterics while draping piles and piles of ridiculous women's clothing on each other like costumes. Chloe sometimes designed full-on outfits for little seven-year-old Mitch. Seriously. Then one day Lucinda caught them in a precarious state of dress and their free-spirit Gypsy days were o-v-e-r.
“Wha-at are you doing in your auntie's closet?” she boomed, her shadow spilling across the powder blue wall.
“And furthermore—whyyy is Mitchell wearing your grandmother's clothes?!!”
Chloe and Mitch hovered in a corner, not knowing what to do.
“She made me, Mom!” Mitch accused. “It's all her fault I'm dressed this way.”
Chlo's jaw fell to the floor.
“Ut-uh!” she protested. “You wanted me to dress you like that, you retard!”
“Don't call your brother a retard when he's the one who got A's on his report card last year, missy!”
Shamed and silenced, Chloe gave up. Lucinda grabbed Mitch's tiny hand but before he could go Chloe needed to correct one last thing—the bow tie she had just finished tying on his little chubby neck.
“It was crooked. Now it's straight.”
Mitch couldn't look her in the eye then and he hasn't looked her in the eye since. Like, in that one moment he chose Lucinda over Chlo—and he did it again and again and it has been like that ever since. So, to rub salt into the proverbial wound—or, like, to add schmaltz to the stain, the day they were about to be sent to Eden Prep together, as, like, hesitant allies, not like full-on foes (since the five-year interim did give them some space to heal)—well, it was like this.
You had two options: to bow tie or to regular tie. Mitch elected to bow tie and Chlo was like, How could you? And he was like, How could I what? And she was like, You know I hate bow ties—like, you know what they remind me of. And he was like, I have no idea what you're talking about. And she was like, Stop pretending, Mitchell, I'm serious. And he was like, Shut up, Chlo, I'm serious too—give me that bow tie. And then Chlo grabbed the bow tie from Mitch and ran out of the store and the Brooks Brothers manager came running after her calling “Security! Security!” and, like, she was accused of shoplifting a dumb-ass Brooks Brothers polka-dot bow tie! And, like, of course, that was a scandal that made the Eden Prep wires before she, like, even ever stepped foot on that circular, sun-kissed drive.
And it was like that.
What it was like now was observing a six-foot tan and navy peacock enjoying his reign from the kitchen throne.
“Feel free to peruse the accompanying prospectus while I get dressed for the Club's benefit.”
Safe as usual, Mitch disappeared up the kitchen stairs as smoothly as he had slithered on in.
If only Mitch would die. OK, or at least have a near fatal accident that rendered him limbless—speechless—drooling even would suffice! Chloe sank farther down on her stool, mortified by his shameless pitch. Then she reminded herself that her gauzy skirt wrinkled easily and, on autopilot, sat up straight.
“Chloe Wong, either you will dress appropriately for the firm's benefit too or you will stay home with your zeyde and pau. Naturally, you are still grounded and will not be going anywhere without my approval.”
Lucinda marched off and Chloe collapsed on her barstool all alone at that kitchen island—her report card a crumpled, sweaty ball now bleeding pink into her palms, kinda like Caitlin Lee's.
“What's wrong with me? I didn't even tell her about my suck-ass report card let alone my plan!”
Something felt terribly, irrevocably wrong for sure. Chloe felt like how your feet feel after navigating the streets in heels when you really should have worn flats. Swollen, raw, painful—longing for something more comfortable, like cushy sneaks, but totally unwilling to, like, admit to the pain and change! Committed to suffering for the cause—I mean the shoes.
Instead of telling her mom what mattered, like hi this was an even bigger crisis than her not-applying-to-college crisis, she had annoyed her and looked bad in front of kiss-ass Mitch. And she had insulted her by saying she was wearing fattening pants.
Chloe hopped off the barstool and locked eyes with Pau. Chloe, and obviously everyone else, had totally forgotten she was sitting in the breakfast nook this whole time. Chlo watched Pau polish off another bowl o
f ice cream, part of her hidden stash. The woman had balls, and stealth. Lucinda would freak if she caught her mom breaking the cardinal no-sugar, no-lactose DON'T. Pau raised a tiny finger to her lips and grinned. Their secrets would be safe with each other for now.
Academic Interests, Volunteer Work, Personal Perspectives, and Life Experiences
[Chloe had lots of interests, volunteered plenty (at least, like, her opinions), and had unique perspectives (hello, her FD) and a decent amount of life experience. They just weren't… well, “academic.” But shouldn't they still count?]
Spring's a Deb
Trust spring will return to Wells Park
Return to Wells Park next spring
Ah, the first rites of spring—a welcome respite from the bitter snow and cold, a promise that life will start anew, a time for the debs to come out to the world.
OK, so in Southern Cali the only real part of this change-o'-the-seasons was the deb-coming-out part. Like, every month looked the same in Wells Park, spring or not. It sure looked the same tonight way up on the Shore Club rooftop deck—a perfectly raked stretch of sand spreading forth, fluorescent sun melting into the golden sea. Tables of near-identically dressed nuclear fams sat sipping sunset cocktails or virgin daiquiris—eating popcorn shrimp and Thai chicken satay, Brie-en-filo and tiny tuna rolls. Tonight was the night to celebrate Spring Beckett's about-to-come-out ball, slated for the following Saturday night at the Ritz. This was a big deal and all for any deb, especially Spring. And yet another thing for Lucinda to rue when she admired photos of Spring's billowy marshmallow gown—something very Gunne Sax a la 1988 or Jessica McClintock 19—every year (same thing, different designer)—and a style that proudly hadn't changed for, like, a century.
Chloe had felt honored when Spring asked her to design the special pre-deb-event dress but she almost cried when Spring asked her to style her too! That, like, required serious trust. Chloe realized this night would mark important history for Spring and even if she and Spring had less and less in common they still shared history which was an important thing to share, even, dare I say, celebrate.
Spring looked just like a frothy lime soda in tea-length tulle, her wavy locks threaded through a rhine-stone tiara. Even though Chloe knew she had to work within definite deb parameters like DO work with duchesse satin and DON'T expose toes, Spring really let Chloe step it up a notch by allowing her to introduce both a new pattern and a bold accessory. The confirmed look was altogether acceptable for Chloe, a refreshing variation on West Coast WASP. Cute and conservative, but also fun and free.
Spring flitted about, greeting well-wishers with a polite nod and kiss, her satin slingbacks playfully slapping the ballroom floor. The shoes, thank gawd, were not dyed to match, a coup for Chlo, a leap for Spring, an upset for her mom. Instead, they were a contrasting tulip pink and they complemented her little vintage polka-dot clutch, a really cool find in Mrs. Beckett's “Goodwill” closet. That old thing? Just like Lucinda, Mrs. Beckett belittled all things vintage, preferring things to be brand-spankin'-new—excluding scandalized divorcée neighbors, of course.
The Eden Prepsters arrived in appropriate droves, waltzing back and forth in sweater sets and khaki suits, fruity shifts and silk capris. Chloe could really go Red-Carpetosis-crazy watching alternately well-fed and well-starved bodies feature a predictable array of “classics.” She hightailed it to the other side of the deck, shielding her eyes from the view. Being at the Shore Club ALONE (as in sans Dante) and UNARMED (as in dressed “appropriately”) was tricky for sure, definite slippery ground.
Chloe had dressed “appropriately” out of respect for Spring, semi-appropriately that is—like, an Ode to Classics with a Chloe Twist. Her chosen Lilly Pulitzer dress was vintage, a compromise, but she refuse-refused to wear a headband even though it could've been kitschy and cute. Instead, she put her hair up in a high-knotted ponytail, with fuchsia chopsticks poking out haphazardly. Then she needed some noise, claro, so she added an elbow-length stack of lime bangles with crazy charms.
Chloe hesitantly craned her neck to look out for a sign of friendly life but was blinded fast by a Red Flag, a bedazzled one, and its name was Crystal Court.
“Chlo-e Leiberman? Omigod? It is you!”
Flanked by: Peter Windemere (like, did they get back together?), the skeevy Logan girls (ew), and Mitchell (quelle surprise); Chloe couldn't decide who to correct first. Unfortunately, Crystal actually had style—not Chloe's style but Crystal style which meant Chloe couldn't correct anything since it was for real (the style part).
“What's up, Crystal?” Chloe tried being “cordial.” Plus, she could appreciate the sexy-preppy thing Crystal had going on. A pink and green strapless Lilly number—lemon cashmere cardigan with star-shaped Swarovski buttons tossed around her shoulders, a chunky pearl cuff (hmm—forward for her) worn with closed-toe pointy heels and a yellow satin clutch—Kate Spade? Coach? She couldn't tell but it worked. Touché …
“The yoosh—prepping for SC with the girls. It's so exciting! Where-are-you-going-to-college?”
Crystal spelled this last part out, like, in twisted sign language, her type of joke. The Logan girls snickered. Mitchell skulked away. No doubt the association with his non-college-attending sister was bad PR. He had some schmoozing to attend to over by the bar for the investment club anyhow.
“I'm actually not a fan of colleges, Crystal. It-goes-again t-my-cult.”
The girls guffawed unilaterally. For real, they guffawed. (You know, like the sound of really manic caged birds? Well, that was the sound.)
“Real-ly, you don't say? What cult is that?” Crystal asked.
“Oh, I was just initiated. It's a cult for people who are allergic to school. Sometimes we even make sacrifices late at night for, like, our gods.”
The guffaws stopped. Suddenly, Crystal looked confused.
“Is that, like, a real Lilly dress?” she huffed, eyes bulging wide.
“Uh-huh, like, it is,” Chloe replied.
“Hmm. So is mine. But yours looks old.”
“Chlo's dress is vintage, there's a difference,” Peter interjected.
That was bold. Peter didn't have to like—defend her?
“That means it's unique.”
But he just did.
“Unlike some, Chloe wouldn't risk attending a crucial event like this in a dress that someone else could've bought, or maybe seen her buy, then decided to wear. As in, copied. That just might be grounds for murder—in her aforementioned cult.”
So he was on her side after all!
“Hmm. That's alternative, Chloe,” said Crystal. “Well, it's refreshing to see you at least take a fashion cue from the right people. We were starting to worry about you.”
“Thanks for your concern,” Chloe deadpanned.
“Well, ever since you were ‘asked to leave’ Eden Prep people can't stop talking about the colorful company you keep and the, like, shady road it's taking you down. I mean, considering you're not even going to college.”
Chloe just might have had to do some serious re-enactment on the psychodrama therapy tip and bite Crystal after all.
“Crystal, it must suck being you—being, like, bitter and jealous and always in a cardigan.”
Crystal shifted in her little kitten heels and laughed. “Excuse me? Jealous of you? You're kidding me, right?”
“You've always taken pride in being a third-generation Eden Prep girl—someone who's really educated. We even petitioned together for Intro to Psych. Remember? Ninth grade? People only talk shit about other people when they secretly deep down inside can't stand who they are—and sometimes, maybe in this case, might even want to be like the person they're talking shit about. So that must be it. You must wish you were like me. Or maybe, Crystal, deep down inside—if, like, that was actually a place you could go—you just wanna … hook up with me?” Chloe added that last part just to really freak her out.
Which it did. Crystal gasped and recoiled.
“Nothing's c
hanged, Chloe Leiberman, since you bit me in third grade! You have no class.”
She stormed off now, little court in tow. Peter stayed behind.
“You know, threatening to get physical with her gets her good,” he said.
Chloe inhaled deep. “Crystal is quite afraid of confrontation. But then again, sometimes so am I.”
She lit a cigarette, sans smoking sweatshirt. Peter looked all concerned.
“And please don't tell me I shouldn't light up right now, Peter, cuz I already know I'm not wearing my smoking sweatshirt.”
Peter smiled.
“Actually, I was gonna tell you I think you look extra … hot tonight, Chloe.”
He blushed. She blushed. Chloe took a long, embarrassed drag.
“Oh,” she muttered, looking down, then honing in on Peter's—oh jeez, Bass loafers? Like, why? Chloe just couldn't help but comment.
“Peter, have you ever thought about getting, like, different shoes? Maybe one day we can go shopping and I'll make some suggestions.” Wow, she was actually being nice. Wait a sec—who opened her mouth and offered to hang out with Peter? Peter Windemere, as in, the Stalker?
To her pink surprise Peter didn't respond like a stalker freak.
“When some time frees up. I know you got important things to finish, Chloe.”
Then they locked eyes, just for a sec. Peter had really nice eyes. They changed color depending on his mood. OK, so he had nebbish style but, for real, he was kinda a mensh.
Huh.
Should she go to prom with Peter? That would make her folks pleased and she certainly could use some extra credit there. It would cause a brouhaha at EP, no doubt, but it also would make it up to Spring, who had felt left out of her world forever. And, of course, it would make Crystal seethe and topple over in her Kate Spade kitten heels! It would be just as friends, of course, and she needed a … friend. She certainly needed perspective in the male department. He was, after all, jeez, nice. She couldn't remember a single time when Peter hadn't let her go first or she had sneezed and he had forgotten to say “bless you,” even way back in second grade. Oh, and FYI, he always remembered to open doors.
Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) Page 10
