Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit (18 page)

“
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."

“Yeah, I got a great metabolism but no boobs. You,
kiddo, could have a J-Lo figure if you don't let adoles
cence 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 se
cretly 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 con
testant 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 ap
pointments 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.

“What are your reasons?" Honey asked as if beeswax wouldn't melt in her mouth.

“
Needed to get away from the family, such as they
are." Temple snapped her gum for emphasis. "My brothers' bike club was keeping me up nights."

“
You're brother's a biker?" Blanca asked with a cur
dled expression.

“
Brothers. Plural. I have . . .
six, I
think. Yeah. You
ever heard of the Demon Dozen?"

“No."

“
Why'd they let you in here?" Ashlee made no secret
of the fact that this was a comment on the bad taste of the
producers, not merely a question.

“That's a no-brainer. I'm the only one here who isn't a Paris Hilton clone. Thin and dumb is getting old."

“
Would you please stop chewing that tacky gum!"
Blanca said.

“If it weren't tacky, it wouldn't be gum, sis. Can't stop. It's my weight-control secret."

“Gum?"

“Yeah." Temple blew another big pink bubble, then
reeled it back into her mouth. "Burns calories. The longer
you chew it, the more you lose." Now that she had their
rapt attention, it was time for a kicker, the more ridicu
lous the better. "And if it's green tea gum—very rare, that
stuff—you'll lose a pound a day."

“
Really?" Amber edged near, her lips almost quivering
to acquire a wad of green tea bubble gum.

Temple was seriously wondering how she could "manufacture" such a thing.

“
All right, girls. Ready to rock-and-roll on the exercise
mats?”

They all turned to regard the Barbie doll in bright pink spandex yoga pants and top. "I'm Brandy, y'alls personaltrainer, and an hour a day keeps the cellulite away. We'll be working out by the heart-shaped pool. Won't that be inspiring? Follow me.”

Silver was both preening and frowning. "Didn't Jayne Mansfield have a heart-shaped pool? She was the best blonde bimbo since Marilyn."

“
She had a heart," Temple said, "but not a head.”

Only ex-newsies would remember the car accident that
had decapitated the actress in nineteen-something an
cient. The newspapers and TV stations always like to re
call the date of anything grisly once a decade or so and
call it an anniversary mention. That was one reason Temple had left the news biz for the PR biz. Grisly did not go over big in PR. Except, somehow, it seemed, on accounts she handled. . . .

The crew of identically clad contestants, joined by the Little Sisters from the breakfast room, marched behind Brandy out to the welcome sunlight of the house's expansive grounds.

What a sight to behold.

Twenty-eight hot pink yoga mats surrounded the heart-shaped swimming pool, its gunite walls painted pink for the occasion.

The only thing that marred the pink perfection of the
scene was the whipped cream letters lying like fluffy
clouds across every mat, spelling out . . .