Chloe Leiberman (Sometimes Wong) by Carrie Rosten

Author:Carrie Rosten [Rosten, Carrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-48282-2
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2005-11-18T05:00:00+00:00

Red Flags Get Redder

Try to match your fake ID

Identify with anything fake

The Red Room was just that, all red. And The Mourned was set to open the night before the rest of the shitty bands that usually made the round on the local downtown scene. Again. Like, they had played the Friday night showcase for two years, convinced there finally would come a night when the “big” A&R guy from whatever record company was gonna show and sign them.

“Sunny Fujimoto. I think that's the best one yet, Chlo.” Sue examined Chloe's fake ID close, but Chloe was fat-munging, again.

“Chlo, hello-o-o. Earth to Wong!”

Chloe was nowhere near Earth. She was seeing red flags pinned to Dante and it was really distracting. You see, whenever Chloe saw a problem of the wardrobe variety walking down the hall a red flag would follow them too—until she literally “corrected” them with a look more to her liking. Sometimes, text messages floated inside the flags—like constantly shifting Internet pop-ups, really unexpected and annoying. Messages could vary at any given moment, from “mall victim” to “label groupie” to “I know I wore this yesterday.”

It wasn't like she enjoyed seeing red flags flapping about. Trust me, it kinda sucked. Like, say, now. Dante was doing sound check. He was strutting back and forth onstage, like, more times than necessary, just to preview himself. A gigantic banner-sized red flag was pinned to his deconstructed military button-down and it said “ALL ABOUT ME” (remember, we kinda covered this narcissist thing already).

Chloe was beginning to feel dizzy and claustrophobic in a sea of so much red when suddenly a six-foot Amazon popped into view. Oy. Vey. Ew. It was the Brazilian shopgirl. Siena.

“Forget that puta,” muttered Sue.

Forget her? How could she forget someone with that much fake tanner? The girl was like a gigantic orange—but smeared with lip gloss. Not exactly jealous, Chloe was more insulted that Dante used to date a girl like her, someone who considered board shorts and body suits high fashion.

“How can she go out like that? She's at a bar, not the beach!”

Sue laughed. “Que what? Is that all you're thinking about? Her style?”

“More like her lack of.”

“All right. Stupid question. But Chlo, he doesn't even like her. He never even did! Who's more insecure—you or him?”

Touché.

“Wong, they're, like, history, OK. I'm just telling it like it is. Just … don't think about it.” She spat out an olive pit, messily.

Just don't think about it? Chloe's gao-chaw look said it all. Maybe Sue was the kind of person who could say “Just don't think about it” and do exactly that—not think—but Chlo, she was not the type of person who could just not think about something and be cool with it, the kind of girl who could just forget that her boyfriend was probably cheating on her with a Brazilian ho-bag, that she had disgraced her family name, and that she was still sans postgrad plan! At that moment, Chloe felt totally hopeless. She felt

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