Unknown - Cat_In_A_Hot_Pink_Pursuit

“Yeah, I got a great metabolism but no boobs. You, kiddo, could have a J-Lo figure if you don’t let adolescence pack on the pounds.”

“Really?”

“Really. That’s why the diet and exercise program for you. What you do now sets your babe appeal-o-meter for life. Capische? Suffer now or pay later.”

“You’re not entirely flat.”

“Thanks,” Temple whispered to Mariah, “but I’m implementing things for my role as the Bad Girl candidate.”

“No, really.” Mariah, a quick study, whispered back. “You look cool. What’s with the wig, though?”

“I know some of the folks around here, and don’t want to be recognized. ‘Cuz they know me too.”

“Oooh, too bad. I keep forgetting you’re here to finger a bad person.”

“Thanks for the compliment, kid.” Temple lifted her voice to a normal tone. Time to play to the concealed mikes.

“I like to go by ‘Mari.”

“Why, girl?! You’ve got a great name. Look at Mariah Carey. She’s cool.”

“And she’s just changed her name to ‘Mimi.’ My mother liked that name, but even Mariah Carey thought it was lame.”

“Listen, if I knew why my mother named me what she did, I’d have a Ph.D. in parental psychology.”

“So you hate Xoe?”

“No, it gets attention and distracts them from who I might really be. Oops.” Whispering again. “Neglected Basic Step One in Spy-Girl 101.”

Temple then proceeded to check the large room and adjoining bathroom for all the usual suspect places for hidden cameras and bugs. Mariah watched with round eyes, then joined in the hunt.

“What a posh joint,” Temple exclaimed for the unseen recording devices. “Wonder why the dude who built this place went bankrupt? It’s on sale for four-point-six million. I bet somebody will pounce on this white elephant once it’s become famous on national TV.”

“Like us?” Mariah asked.

“Well, I hope somebody doesn’t pounce on us … unless we want him to. How about that win-a-date thing? You like the boy band guy, Zach French?”

Mariah shrugged. “He’s okay. For a kid. I like the guy your age group gets, Aiden Rourke, way better. He’s such a stud.”

“Now, how do you know that? He could be a dud. You young chicks always go for the older guy. It’s a stage.”

“The whole world is a stage,” Mariah retorted, spreading her arms and shamelessly playing to the presumed cameras.

Temple wished she had spotted something but maybe it was too early. Or maybe there was some law against secretly filming underage kids like Mariah. There oughta be.

Though the place seemed clean, so far, Temple advised her roomie via whisper that they’d better discuss “real stuff” only in the bathroom from now on.

“Gotcha, girlfriend.” Mariah high-fived her. “You really like my name?”

“I love it. Your mom, who’s way off base on s0000 much, was dead-on about that one.”

“She is kinda square.”

“Not square, hon. Wrapped tight. Probably because she worries so much about you, which mothers do. I had one of those myself once. Still do.”

“What would she say about your being here?”

“She wouldn’t say a thing, Mariah, because she’d be passed out cold in a faint on the entry hall floor.”

Mariah giggled again. “You are so funny. This is gonna be a riot.”

Temple devoutly hoped not.

That night they found that the Pink Fairy had visited their closets. Each had a pink Teen Queen sleep T-shirt and terrycloth robe and matching jogging suit and workout wear, all with their names embroidered in silver on the shoulder.

Once clothed like Stepford-wife wannabes, each contestant was singled out from the herd after breakfast on the patio and marched off to either exercise regimes or consultations with the coach/judges and various gurus.

Savannah Ashleigh told Temple her Goth look was “dead,” never getting the humor of the pronouncement. She also said it was “aging,” as was her Cher hair, and had to go.

Dexter Manship, told her she had control and authority issues. Surprise. He did too.

Her Aunt Kit Carlson said Temple needed to find a more positive cultural role model and expressed dismay that her talent selection would be a rap number she would write herself.

Beth Marble told Temple her persona hid a sensitive soul that needed to fight free and fly.

She was given a schedule of meals, exercises, and appointments with all of them, and signed up for a shopping expedition with a wardrobe consultant on the second-to-last day.

In the mansion’s sprawling den, Temple found several of the contestants sprawling on the off-white upholstered furniture.

They eyed Temple as warily as sheep would a wolf when she entered the room. Mariah was still undergoing interviews, but some girls her age sat on the floor trying to get the Xbox to work.

Like the other media equipment in this room, it seemed to have been disabled.

“No distractions,” a lanky blond girl commented, watching Temple take in the scene. “Come on in. I’m Norma Jean. All we can do here is exercise our butts off, consult, train, primp for the ever-present cameras, or hang and get on each other’s nerves. You don’t look like any competition to worry about.”

“Thanks.”

“Too short,” another girl said, her long legs stretched out on the floor and her hair color so blond it touched dead white on the color scale. “I’m Blanca.”

“Too dark,” said yet another blonde, this one even yellower. “Call me Honey.”

“Too flat,” pronounced an ash blonde with platinum streaks who filled out her spandex top like helium does a balloon. “I’m Silver.”

“Too freckled,” complained a dishwater blonde who’d bothered to come close enough to ogle Temple almost nose-to-nose. “I’m Ashlee.”

So much for sisterhood.

Every girl in the place except Temple hailed from the merry old land of Clairol.

At least no one said “too old,” which would have really given the game away.

Temple took a seat on a giant ottoman, not sure how one began talking with piranhas. The last time she’d been in a female competition had been high school softball, although some might say females were always in competition.

As the aura of all that blondness grew familiar, Temple saw that none of these girls were as picture-perfect as the magazine ads. Yet they all had terrific facial bone structure, like the radical makeover candidates on The Swan. These reality show producers were savvy enough to start with a good foundation before they worked their “magic” transformation.

“Hi. I’m Amber. Don’t listen to them.” A lanky strawberry blonde with thunder thighs joined Temple on the ottoman, which could probably seat forty. Temple didn’t envy her. That body type was hard to change. “We’re all hyper-nervous about our own evaluations. Have you done your interviews yet?”

Temple nodded. Suddenly, she was the center of everyone’s interest.

“Are they too beastly mean to stand, like Simon on American Idol?” Silver asked.

“They’re pretty blunt,” Temple said. “It wouldn’t be good TV otherwise. You can see the cameras and you know they want to make you sweat.”

“Who could see you sweat with that mop of dyed black hair?”

“You sound just like Mr. Adair, the Hair Guy. At least I stand out in a crowd,” Temple added pointedly. “Why did you all want to be in such a pressure-cooker, anyway?”

“Same reasons you did,” Ashlee said.

“I don’t think so.”

Temple doubted anyone else in the crew was a plant. Or a mole … oh. There actually could be a fake mole, as opposed to the real mole part Temple was playing. Reality shows loved to use fake contestants as insiders who could stir up trouble, keep everyone on edge, and rat to the producers on them all.