it to her face.” A single tear fell, followed by another. “How could you, Chloe? How could you post all those pictures? They’ve gone viral, and now I’m the butt of hundreds of jokes. You’re horrible and ugly and . . . mean!”
With a sob Kim ran to a small red hatchback, and I turned to Leila. “What’s she talking about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know about the pictures, because you’re a lousy actor. And a lousy friend.”
I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling uncharacteristically unsteady on my glides. “What pictures?”
“The ones you posted this morning on your OurWorld page.”
“What? I canceled my OurWorld account last week. I haven’t posted on OurWorld since winter break,” I said, but Leila didn’t hear me because she hurried after Kim. I ran after her, but she slammed the car door in my face.
Sweat slicked my palms, and I almost dropped my cell phone as I called up OurWorld there in the middle of the parking lot. I canceled my account, so there was no way I could have shared hurtful pictures of Kim. No. Way. I tried to log in using my old access information. To my shock, Gabe accepted my user name. With trembling fingers, I punched in my password. DENIED!
Have you forgotten your password, Chloe? Gabe asked.
Cars whirred around me, but I didn’t move as I logged in to Merce’s OurWorld account. Of course I knew her log-in info, because that’s the kind of stuff best friends shared. On her Neighbors page, I clicked on the Chloe avatar and landed on “Chloe’s” home page. My stomach lurched as I stared at the photos I’d taken at the Del Rey School’s fall production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Someone had Photoshopped each image, and not to whiten teeth and airbrush zits. In a photo of Kim leaping across stage in a pair of tights as she played Puck, someone had enlarged her butt so it resembled two giant cantaloupes and added the caption, “Kim Ramon in Her Big A$$ Role”.
Definitely mean.
Someone had reactivated my OurWorld account and smeared Kim and the entire drama club. In my world, only two someones knew my original password and log-in ID.
My fingers curled tighter around the phone. Like Dos Hermanas’ rotten tomatoes, the Mistletoe Ball had become old news, but Brie, for some twisted reason I still didn’t understand, continued full steam ahead on the bash Chloe train.
Beeeeep
.
Good morning, Chloe, it’s Ms. A. Lungren. I wanted to wish you the best of luck on your radio program this evening. I’m thoroughly impressed with the amount of work you’ve put in this week preparing your show’s content and learning the technical aspects of radio. I’m confident that you are fully prepared and capable of excelling in this exciting new endeavor. Believe in yourself, Chloe. Believe!
Beeeeep
.
End of messages.
I SAT AT MY WHITEBOARD DESK FRIDAY NIGHT STARING AT MY I. Miller blue satin platform lifts with rhinestone buckles, circa 1950. Tonight I needed the extra bling. Unfortunately, the bling wasn’t shiny enough to distract me from my serious case of nerves.
I was about to reach for the supersize bag of Twizzlers I tucked in my purse when a piece of paper soared across my desk. It was intricately folded and had spectacular hang time. The Sparrow, but not my version. This one had a longer tail and flaps on the back stabilizer. It floated onto my lap, where I noticed writing on the wing.
Stop worrying. It’ll be FUN .
When I glanced into the control room, I met Duncan’s calm, steady gray eyes. Yes, fun was everywhere, in empty office buildings with garbage and in graveyard portables—with struggling radio stations with a bunch of misfits. Duncan was right. Ineeded to stop worrying about those horrible OurWorld photos and Brie’s continued vendetta against me. I had to focus on the debut of Chloe, Queen of the Universe , which was going to rock the radio world.
“Get your butt in the control room, JISP Girl!” Clementine’s fiery
With a sob Kim ran to a small red hatchback, and I turned to Leila. “What’s she talking about?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know about the pictures, because you’re a lousy actor. And a lousy friend.”
I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling uncharacteristically unsteady on my glides. “What pictures?”
“The ones you posted this morning on your OurWorld page.”
“What? I canceled my OurWorld account last week. I haven’t posted on OurWorld since winter break,” I said, but Leila didn’t hear me because she hurried after Kim. I ran after her, but she slammed the car door in my face.
Sweat slicked my palms, and I almost dropped my cell phone as I called up OurWorld there in the middle of the parking lot. I canceled my account, so there was no way I could have shared hurtful pictures of Kim. No. Way. I tried to log in using my old access information. To my shock, Gabe accepted my user name. With trembling fingers, I punched in my password. DENIED!
Have you forgotten your password, Chloe? Gabe asked.
Cars whirred around me, but I didn’t move as I logged in to Merce’s OurWorld account. Of course I knew her log-in info, because that’s the kind of stuff best friends shared. On her Neighbors page, I clicked on the Chloe avatar and landed on “Chloe’s” home page. My stomach lurched as I stared at the photos I’d taken at the Del Rey School’s fall production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream . Someone had Photoshopped each image, and not to whiten teeth and airbrush zits. In a photo of Kim leaping across stage in a pair of tights as she played Puck, someone had enlarged her butt so it resembled two giant cantaloupes and added the caption, “Kim Ramon in Her Big A$$ Role”.
Definitely mean.
Someone had reactivated my OurWorld account and smeared Kim and the entire drama club. In my world, only two someones knew my original password and log-in ID.
My fingers curled tighter around the phone. Like Dos Hermanas’ rotten tomatoes, the Mistletoe Ball had become old news, but Brie, for some twisted reason I still didn’t understand, continued full steam ahead on the bash Chloe train.
Beeeeep
.
Good morning, Chloe, it’s Ms. A. Lungren. I wanted to wish you the best of luck on your radio program this evening. I’m thoroughly impressed with the amount of work you’ve put in this week preparing your show’s content and learning the technical aspects of radio. I’m confident that you are fully prepared and capable of excelling in this exciting new endeavor. Believe in yourself, Chloe. Believe!
Beeeeep
.
End of messages.
I SAT AT MY WHITEBOARD DESK FRIDAY NIGHT STARING AT MY I. Miller blue satin platform lifts with rhinestone buckles, circa 1950. Tonight I needed the extra bling. Unfortunately, the bling wasn’t shiny enough to distract me from my serious case of nerves.
I was about to reach for the supersize bag of Twizzlers I tucked in my purse when a piece of paper soared across my desk. It was intricately folded and had spectacular hang time. The Sparrow, but not my version. This one had a longer tail and flaps on the back stabilizer. It floated onto my lap, where I noticed writing on the wing.
Stop worrying. It’ll be FUN .
When I glanced into the control room, I met Duncan’s calm, steady gray eyes. Yes, fun was everywhere, in empty office buildings with garbage and in graveyard portables—with struggling radio stations with a bunch of misfits. Duncan was right. Ineeded to stop worrying about those horrible OurWorld photos and Brie’s continued vendetta against me. I had to focus on the debut of Chloe, Queen of the Universe , which was going to rock the radio world.
“Get your butt in the control room, JISP Girl!” Clementine’s fiery
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