Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (17 page)

There was Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, and Kathy Farrell,
the mousy makeup specialist in army green knit stirrup pants and a shapeless nightshirt top. Avis Campion, the
physical trainer was an awesomely buff black woman
with the take-no-prisoners air of a drill sergeant. Marjory Klein, the dietitian, was the oldest advisor, a spare, unadorned woman in her fifties dressed in the cheerful animal-figured loose pants and top favored by nurses nowadays.

And, finally, Beth Marble announced, the winner, be
sides snaring a small role on
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation,
Las Vegas—Temple figured it would be a closeup as
a corpse—would also win a date with one of two male singing heartthrobs: Aiden Rourke of Day-Glo for the sixteen- to nineteen-year-old Teen Queen winner, and Zach French of Boys Ahoy for the thirteen- to fifteenyear-old 'Tween Queen winner.

Thirteen unlucky girls in both categories would go
away losers, Temple thought, but no one mentioned that
except to say that every girl would leave with a brand-
new self. The assumption being that any old self was
pretty expendable. And that even a brand-new self wasn't enough sometimes.

Temple tapped her foot with impatience, one glitzy little mule sliding off her toe.

Instantly, she sensed a camera zooming in on the gesture. Sure enough, one of the camera crew had his lens pointed at her foot.

Good grief! Talk about being under a microscope. Two
weeks of this would drive everyone batty.

Not that they didn't have a running start at it.

As Beth Marble, the cooing cheerleader, formally introduced the coaching judges, Temple eyed Mariah, who was searching the fourteen over-fifteens for Temple. Temple was cheered considerably that Mariah was com
pletely confused for now. Once everyone stood up,
though, Temple would be the only over-fifteen whose stature belonged in the under-sixteen group.

Beth introduced herself as a pop psychologist and self-help author who had designed the program. Aunt Kit Carlson was introduced by her pen name, Sulah Savage,
as a writer of "chick lit fantasy." Huh? Temple had
thought the genre was historical romance. Spin was everywhere.

Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, was a hip metrosexual who probably had done Matt's quick highlighting job a couple weeks ago when Matt had impersonated a dead man for a
few very weird hours. Dexter Manship was introduced
last, a lanky, outspoken, and egocentric Aussie in a tartan
vest who glowered at the assembled girls as if he were thinking of beheading them.

“
This won't be a cakewalk, ladies," he warned. "This is
not some girly pajama party where you play with
makeup. This is a makeover! We're going to tear you
down and build you up right. You don't sweat, you don't starve, you don't bare your pathetic little souls, you don't
fight hard to leave all the other girls in the dust, and you'll
be a bigger failure than you were before. Two weeks,
ladies, to become kick-ass winners. Or nothing.”

A pained look crossed Beth's determinedly pleasant features. Watching people humiliated on national TV had become a countrywide diversion lately. Beth must know that the shows needed brutal drill-sergeant types like
Manship. Simon Cowell had proved that on
American
Idol.
Brits appeared to do scathing better than Ameri
cans. Witness Ann Robinson's schoolmarmish domina
trix and her terse tagline, "You are the weakest link.
G
'bye.”

That was the unsaid mantra for every reality TV show.

Temple eyed the under-fifteens huddled in an excited,
scared girly mess on their side of the massive room.
Mama Molina worried about some nutcase killing their bodies. But what about the process scarring their minds? Did the parents who signed the fistful of papers realize what a risk they were taking with their kids' self-esteem?

On the other hand, the girls who'd volunteered for this all overflowed with oodles of that bounce-back crazy-kid optimism Temple remembered from her own youth. She
smiled, recalling her secret application to San Diego's
Old Globe Shakespearian theater right out of high school.
She'd gotten a very nice letter—encouraging her to apply
again when older—that she still had. And now look at
her, starring as Xoe Chloe on TV! From Shakespeare to reality TV. Her mother, if she knew about it, would have had a cat fit either way, then or now.

Beth had taken over the wireless microphone. "You'll
find your program kits on the library table against the
wall, alphabetically by name. Your roommate's name
is
also affixed, so you can meet and go to your rooms to get a great night's sleep for the program launch tomorrow. Remember, young women, you are likely to be caught on
camera at any time, so be on your best behavior at all
times. We have our own public relations representative. Crawford, will you step up to the mike?”

Temple found her fingernails driving into her palms as a small dapper man with delusions of hipsterdom headed toward the mike.

Like many radio personalities, he'd cultivated a deep,
mellow voice that was reassuring only if you liked buying
swampland in Florida. He wore a lime green jogging suit
and resembled a rather unripe banana. His graying hair
was slicked back and dyed black for the visual media,
with a fringe of curls at the nape of his neck, rather like
an unwanted "ring around the collar" in laundry deter
gent ads.

“Thank you, Beth Marble. Now, girls, if you have any
questions be sure to ask me. My name is Crawford
Buchanan of KREP-AM, and I've logged a lot of live
time on mike and many on-camera miles. I can advise
you on how to look and sound good, even though I'm not an official coach. So come to me any time.”

Temple shuddered at the very idea and was distressed
to see many earnestly naive faces watching him with
gullible intensity.

While she was seething about the stupidity of letting
Awful Crawford loose in a harem of impressionable
young girls, the introduction ended and would-be 'Tween and Teen Queens proceeded to mingle.

Temple shook her head to see Dexter Manship and Crawford Buchanan immediately surrounded by eager questioners.

“
Cool tattoo," a voice said softly in her ear. "I bet
they'll make you cover it with makeup.”

She turned to the svelte and sensuously packaged
champagne blonde behind her, who was ogling the
drawn-on image of a motorcycle on Temple's left bicep—had that been a chore!—and spoke her doom again.

“Bad Girl isn't gonna make it in this crowd."

“Maybe I don't wanna make it."

“That's a new one. Anyway, name's Blondina.”

Temple nearly swallowed her bubble gum. Since the
wad was as large as a ping-pong ball, that would have
been a life-threatening event. Was there any way out of here but blonde?

“
Xoe," Temple said. "With an
X."

“
As in X-rated? All right! See you around. And watch your backside. Everyone else will be.”

Actually, that was Temple's fervent hope. Her selection of provocative piercings and drawn-on tattoos was aimed at distracting people from her face and false hair. Not to mention her lying green eyes.

She didn't want there to be any chance that Xoe Chloe Ozone would be a finalist, much less a serious contender.
This was not a
Survivor-style
kick-you-off show. Every
one stayed until the bitter end when the final talent show and announcement of the winners took place. If she was written off as a sure loser early, she'd be free to observe and protect.

Temple toddled to the built-in bar, which was stocked with nonalcoholic mixed beverages bearing cute names.

She ordered a My Tai Chi—green tea and lime juice—and turned to study the room.

“Pity." The voice behind Temple set her spine on edge.

She whirled. Dexter Manship himself had been eyeing her unawares. A shoulder-hoisted camera was eavesdrop
ping and recording over his shoulder. The man holding
the camera was half-hidden behind the mask of his equipment. Temple guessed they'd all come to take this constant surveillance so much for granted, they'd soon hardly notice it.

“You've got quite a creative look, in your own trashy way, but it'll all have to go, from the tattoos on out. We want little American beauties here, not five-dollar hookers."

“You let me in."

“For a bit of amusement and contrast to the real contenders. This is reality TV, sweets. Freaks sell."

“
You're living proof of that. Maybe I'll surprise you
and get the votes of the real judges.”

He laughed, turning to play directly to the camera.
"Guttersnipe but cheeky. It takes all kinds in America. Or,
rather, America takes in all kinds." He turned to pinch Temple's overheating cheek before ambling off.

Temple turned to the camera herself. "Somebody should tattoo the words 'male chauvinist pig' on his condescending hide.”

Barely had the cameraman cruised away in Manship's wake than a voice near her said, "Tut, tut, tut.”

Beth was hovering nearby, oddly nervous. "You don't want to take on Dexter Manship, my dear. He can be vicious."

“How do you know?"

“
Oh, well. His reputation. He's not afraid to say the
most outrageous things in front of, and about, everybody. I'd stay away from him, if I were you."

“He can't seem to stay away from me."

“That's another warning sign, isn't it? Perhaps if you dressed less provocatively?"

“Tell it to Britney Spears. If you can get past her bodyguards."

“We're looking for a more wholesome female role model.”

Temple eyed the room. Every candidate was dressed to
kill. Even nervous thirteen-year-olds like Mariah wore
clothes designed to show off, if not outright incite. It must
drive their parents bananas.

The word "bananas" brought her gaze back to Craw
ford, surrounded by his gaggle of naive young things
who'd heard the word "media" and rushed like lemmings to any sleazeball therewith associated.

It was really hard to be a sedate thirty pretending to be
today's exhibitionist nineteen. Temple had the same
mixed feelings toward the Teen Queen contest as she did toward strippers.

These young women and girls were desperately up
wardly mobile. The tangible rewards they fought for were
superficial, and in her heart of hearts she felt they were selling themselves short.

“Don't be glum, dear." Beth squeezed Temple's upper left arm, motorcycle tattoo, ladder of little chains on herknit top, and all. "I know your edge is just an act. You'll learn here that you can be yourself and still succeed.”

Not really, Temple thought. The only way I can suc
ceed here is to
not
be myself and keep Mariah safe.

Only what was she saving Mariah from? A lurking
killer, or the corruption of becoming a Material Girl?

Chapter 19

Chicklets

"Wow. You look cool-io. No wonder you didn't buy a
thing at the mall without metal on it.”

Mariah stood in the middle of the room they shared, staring at Temple. Admiringly. Especially at the skimpy hot-pink stretch top with the short silver chains that were all that held the slit sleeves together.

Temple caught Mariah in a quick embrace, even
though the thirteen-year-old was already taller than her five-feet-nothing and probably hated to be hugged.

“
Careful," she whispered in Mariah's ear. "I bet we're
all on
Candid Camera
here 24/7. Supposedly we don't know each other.”

Temple drew back. "You're a pretty cool chick your
self, kid. I was thinkin' I'd draw Suzy Square for a
roomie. You look like a with-it kitten."

“Thanks, but I've got a lot to work on."