Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

affections to you.”
    “No. Nothing to do with you, except you were here when that piece of slime snuck this last little token into the house.”
    “Mariah’s away, you said. How long ago could it have been left?”
    “Six hours, maybe? I checked her room for anything she might have needed at the... at the place where she’s staying. That little bomb wasn’t there then.”
    “Where was it?”
    “On her pillow.”
    “You’re right to be upset. Can’t you, of all people, arrange for surveillance?”
    She stopped to hug her elbows to her rangy frame. “No. No, I of all people can’t do that. Not openly. Not officially. This... stuff could be from her father.”



Monday Morning Coming Down

    Xoe, aka Temple, arrived at Hell House, aka the Teen Queen Castle, first.
    Cameras were rolling, and so was she.
    In fact, she wore Rollerblades. And skin-tight capris, a sweatband reading Go Gurrrrl, and a hot pink sports bra liberally assisted by various boob-building devices.
    Xoe! Zowie!
    The cameras followed her as she did a wheelie at the mansion’s front door.
    What an entrance. The doorway, not hers. Double doors, of course, of embossed copper with pewter hardware. The effect was more like the entrance to a bank vault than a residence.
    She noted the security camera leering down from above and blew a huge bubble of well-chewed pink bubble gum right at it before she entered. On Rollerbladed feet.
    Beth Marble, the show’s guardian angel, was waiting for her in the marble-tiled foyer.
    “No edged instruments allowed inside the house. That includes Rollerblades.”
    “That also include fingernails?” Temple fanned her impressive ten.
    “Fingernails are feminine. Allowed.”
    “That’s what you think.” Temple bent to detach the Rollerblades.
    “You’re an interesting case.”
    “I thought a case had an alcohol content.”
    “You’re not as tough as you act.”
    Duh!
    Temple sneered. Being a bad, ballsy little broad, as Rafi Nadir had named her once, not mentioning the bad, was fun.
    “Here, honey.” She handed over the heavy, bulky blade set. “Hang this on your hope chest.” She stared pointedly at the angel’s decidedly flat version of same. “You need one.”
    No hope there.
    “Listen, kiddo,” the woman said, dropping her voice into a soft, warning tone. “I came up with the Teen Queen concept. Consider me the show shrink. Part of your makeover involves an improvement in attitude. If you want to have a chance at the Teen Queen slot, you’ll use your time here, with me, to get that beehive-size chip off your shoulder.”
    “We gotta see each other?”
    “Every day for an hour. Be prepared to open up your baggage or drop to the bottom of the first wave of wannabes on Day Three.”
    Xoe made a face but kept further comment to herself. Beth thrust a shiny hot-pink folder toward her. “Here are the house rules and your daily schedule of selfimprovement appointments. Remember, we work on body, mind, heart, and soul, so be prepared to bare all four.”
    “You sure this is legal? A lot of these girls are underage.”
    Beth’s patient smile hinted at perennial martyrdom. “We’re well aware of that. We’re assigning rooms on a Big Sister/Little Sister basis, so roommates won’t be competing at the same level. The name of your Little Sister is in the folder.”
    “A mini-me! How hip. Who is the little devilette?”
    Temple let her long fingernails do the walking through the half-inch wad of loose papers inside the folder.
    Mariah Molina. Her roomie. The gods, or at least the Great Goddess Cop, had smiled on her so she could ride shotgun with poor little Mariah.
    Why any right-thinking kid would want to coop herself up in a phony media circus like this was beyond Temple, but then Temple was too far beyond the Teen Dream stage to remember.
    Beth Marble glanced around all sides of Temple and then nodded her satisfaction.
    “Glad you’re not dragging any more than your one bag and your bad attitude in here. The ‘Tween Queen branded sweat suits and other workout wear you’ll be using during your makeover are in your room, in the proper size. Your personal stylist will confer with your personal trainer on your new wardrobe, when it’s time for your ‘reinvention.’”
    “Meanwhile,” Temple observed, “it’s in the army now.”
    “That’s right.” Beth’s Stepford Wives smile never faltered. “You are a private and we are the commanders. We’re here to help you but only if