Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

Mariah’s blackberry-dark eyes and even some surfacing cheekbones, thanks to a diet of beans and veggies.
    “You look very cool,” Temple told her.
    Then she was yanked away into the adjoining library, which was filled with racks of clothing.
    Kit Carlson came rushing to greet her, looking relieved. “I’ve saved some outfits for you.”
    “You shouldn’t have,” Temple began. But when she glimpsed the goulash of lime green ostrich feathers, sixties Op Art prints, and leopard skin draping Kit’s arm, Temple knew Xoe Chloe had found her fashion muse.
    Kit leaned close to whisper, “I wasn’t wardrobe mistress for my high school production of Hair for nothing.”
    While Temple tried on various combinations of hip-huggers and chunky jewelry that would have made rock-star chicks look as staid as Laura Bush, Kit brought her up to date on the mood inside the Teen Queen Castle.
    “The police are on us all like a cheap suit—that Detective Alch is sure kind of Columbo-cute—and the camera crew is eating it up. Our show has morphed into a combo of Cops and Survivor.
    “Everyone said you were a murderer when the police took you away, so the producers have been madly assembling clips of every inch of footage on you for a special Xoe Chloe memorial montage. You are a star, kiddo! Clay Aiken has nothing on you.
    “The Clairol horde were thrilled at your exit and are so terminally pissed at your triumphal return that I notice they’re shedding brittle hairs like a miffed alpaca. Negative emotions are so bad for one’s looks.
    “Mariah is feeling supergirly about her transformation but she missed showing off for you, Big Sis.
    “Savannah Ashleigh’s glowery bodyguard, that Heath-cliffy Rafi-guy, has been patrolling the halls and snooping around like a cop on the beat, way beyond his blonde bimbo duties.
    “So has that black alley cat mascot that showed up. He looks a lot like your Louie, but surely he’s safe at home and I suppose all black cats look alike. Does that old gigolo have a harem, or what? There are these white and yellow Persians with him.”
    Temple finally got a word in edgewise. “That is indeed Louie. He’s doing some investigative legwork for me. And we say ‘silver’ and ‘golden’ in the Persian game.”
    “Well, la-di-dah. The fluffy black one must be an ‘ebony,’ then.”
    “She’s not a Persian, just a long-haired American domestic. They call her Louise now, but I don’t think she’s Louie’s girlfriend; she’s way too independent.”
    “Well, call me a short-haired American domestic. Does madame find favor with her wardrobe selections?”
    “They rock, Kit! And so do you. Thanks a gadzillion!”
    “Only if I make it on The Apprentice with Donald ‘Mr. Comb-over’ Trump next. With my luck, I’d have ended up on The Benefactor with that cheapo Mark Cuban sports nut.”
    “May the Force be with you.” They slapped palms, then Temple gathered up her garish armful and fled.
    Mariah ambushed her again in the hall. “I need you to check out my performance outfit.”
    “In the bathroom, no doubt.”
    “Where else?”
    They returned to the room, and Temple found she’d been oddly homesick for it.
    Steam heat was less welcome. Bleached blonde hair had a tendency to frizz, but Ken Adair had handed her an arsenal of moisturizers, softeners, and conditioners for its upkeep. Being a blonde was hard work, but Xoe Chloe remade (and still reasonably disguised) was worth it.
    Mariah sat Temple down on the closed bathroom throne (Temple thought of Elvis’s last hour) and grabbed her hands. “I was so worried.”
    “About me?” Foolish Temple. Teens were teens.
    “No, about me! What do you think? Do I look hot? Will my mom kill me? Does this new haircut make my face look even more fat? What about these loser clothes they picked for me? What about my talent song? Is ‘Defying Gravity’ too obscure, too dweeby? Whaddayah think? Whaddayah think?”
    “Chill, Baby-O. Xoe Chloe is on your case. Wicked is the hottest musical on Broadway, and ‘Defying Gravity’ is the current overcoming-teenage-angst anthem. Every girl feels like a misunderstood witch at your age. Plus the song’s a showstopper for a darker voice, which you have in spades! As the song says, until you try, you’ll never know. We’ll run the wardrobe and the routine and we’ll both come out smelling like, oh... Rose’s green apple juice in a killer martini.”
    “Yeah. That’s cool. Apple green. I saw