Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

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 detergent 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. Everyone 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 eavesdropping 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 Crawford, 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 upwardly 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 succeed 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 yourself, 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.”

“Like what?”

“Like my weight.” Mariah opened her pink glossy folder. “Look at this slop they have me eating.”

“It’s called vegetables and fruit.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Gad!” Temple mimicked a heart attack and fell back on the huge king-size-plus bed they’d share. “Heaven forbid! I’m just trying to help Bugs Bunny sell his line of veggie delights.”

Mariah giggled and sat on her side of the bed, a full body-length away. “You look like you’ve been living on radishes.”