Last week, I went to a clothing swap. Maya had forwarded me the e-mail; another artist-type she knew was hosting a clothing swap in her Williamsburg loft to raise money for a homeless shelter. Each attendee was to bring five items of no-longer-wanted clothes from her closet, along with a $10 donation, which would serve as admission price. At 8 p.m. sharp, everyone would put her unwanted clothes into a mass pile. At 8:10, each person would begin digging for five items to take home. Remaining clothes, if there were any, would be donated to a thrift store.

“Ladies: Pass this invite on to your friends,” the e-mail read. “But only hip, stylish chicas!” I felt complimented to have made the cut.

Now, you might be thinking, “What would Eve want with a clothing swap? Pretty soon she won’t fit into anything normal.”

Well, I would have thought that too. But the “what to bring/what’ll be there” section specifically said “maternity clothes” (the “what not to/what won’t” section said “bathing suits” and “anything from Ann Taylor”). That piqued my interest.

Of course, I knew I was taking a risk. I had two weeks to go until the jinx-free end of my first trimester. So far, I’d managed to keep my pregnancy under wraps by blurting out my news to the ripple-effect-free Celebrity and getting my pregnancy-obsessed fix by reading the scintillating posts on the citybaby message board. Searching a communal pile for maternity wear wasn’t exactly the best way to keep my status a secret.

But the clothing swap was being hosted by a random artist acquaintance of Maya’s. I doubted I’d know anyone else there other than her, and Maya herself wasn’t the type of person who’d be in my face asking, “What’d you get? What’d you get?”

And, even if she was, I reasoned could take the gamble. A recent post on citybaby had read, “Poll: how much $ have you spent on maternity clothing?” and the lowest number was $600. How couldn’t I leap at free pregnancy outfits, especially ones from hip, stylish chicas?

I figured the worst thing that could happen was that, having scored some clothes, I’d tell Maya early and swear her to secrecy.

And so, a week later, at 7:30 on the dot, I picked Maya up in Dumbo. She was carrying a large Barney’s Co-op bag which, I assumed, contained her unwanted frocks.

“Is any of your swap stuff actually from Barney’s?” I asked, wondering if a prearranged trade would be a no-no. “No way,” she said. “I’m not that charitable.” I felt considerably better about my own offerings, the highest-end of which was a too-deep v-neck sweater I’d bought without trying on at Century 21. “I’m so glad you were driving,” Maya said. “Thanks again for the ride.” “No problem,” I said. I had to move the car that night anyway. I took this fortuitous bit of timing as a good omen – two birds, one stone had to mean I’d luck out with some good maternity clothing. We arrived at the swap a bit before 8. We gave $10 to a woman in feline eyeglasses, her jet-black hair cut in a sharp short-banged bob, who was presiding over the door. “I hope that doesn’t mean all the stuff will be vintage,” Maya whispered as we made our way into the loft. I wondered: What did chronic vintage types do for maternity clothes?

Wear Peter Pan-collared muumuus? Did anyone have that level of commitment?

Any fears of a vintage pregnancy were quelled upon entering the apartment. The group, about 25 women strong, was made up of attractive women in their 20s and 30s, all carrying shopping bags. The collective style could best be described as Brooklyn Chic. There were people in handmade-looking skirts, people in black hoodies, a lot of people in designer jeans, but no one in anything corporate or dressy. The swap’s potential was looking up.

At 8 sharp, a petite woman with a pixie haircut stood up on a chair.

“I’m Libby, your host,” she said, and thanked everyone for coming. She then reiterated the rules. In a minute, she’d say, “Drop!” and we’d release our clothes on the big, beige Oriental rug in the center of the room. Afterward, we would have a minute or so to scope out our positions. When Libby shouted, “Swap!” the fun would begin. She reminded us about the five-item limit. “You’re on the honor system, ladies,” she said. “Remember, this is all for charity.”

Without much further ado, she said, “Okay – DROP!” and everyone dumped their bags, and clothing cascaded to the ground. Moments later, we were standing before an ample, if somewhat indiscernible, pile. People began circling the pile, picking out their goodies, in a way that brought to mind a form of reverse musical chairs, only without the chairs. Or the music.

Who knew what kind of feeding frenzy would begin once Libby gave the go-ahead? I could only get so physical. With no way to tell what if anything was maternity, I picked a spot and hoped for the best. At the “Swap!” command, women began to dive onto the rug and ferret out their treasures. I hung back a few moments, until I was confident of avoiding bodily harm. Before I knew it, I got lucky, laying my hands on a long-sleeved, black, maternity T-shirt, decorated, in a way meant to echo those yellow car signs, with the words “Baby on Board.” I held up the shirt for closer scrutiny. Maya was on the other side of the rug, immersed in her own scavenging. The coast clear, I put the shirt in my bag. Just then, I familiar voice rang out behind me, “Eve?” I turned to find Courtney, my openly pregnant nemesis standing behind me. The look on her face said it all: She’d read the T-shirt and seen me take it. “Courtney,” I said, rising up from my knees, “what are you doing here?” She was less “hip chica” than Banana Republican. “A friend of mine works for the charity this benefits,” she said, still giving me the eye. “She said there might be some maternity clothes here.” I figured it best to play dumb. “Really?” I said, preparing to head over to Maya and praying that with speed I could dodge this bullet. “Well, good luck finding them then.”

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.