"Hey." Carter grinned at him. Carter was, by his own admission, "a trendy faggot." He was flexicoated battleship gray with white trim, a minimono style. But the real M’n’Ms would have spurned him for wearing a luminous earring—it blinked through a series of words in tiny green letters— Fuck ... you ... if ... you ... don’t ... like ... it ... Fuck ... you ... if —and they’d have considered that unforgivably "Griddy." And anyway Carter’s wide, froggish face didn’t fit the svelte minimono look. He looked at Carmen. "No girls, Harpie."