Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

to fifteen-year-old ‘Tween Queen winner.
    Thirteen unlucky girls in both categories would go away losers, Temple thought, but no one mentioned that except to say that every girl would leave with a brand-new self. The assumption being that any old self was pretty expendable. And that even a brand-new self wasn’t enough sometimes.
    Temple tapped her foot with impatience, one glitzy little mule sliding off her toe.
    Instantly, she sensed a camera zooming in on the gesture. Sure enough, one of the camera crew had his lens pointed at her foot.
    Good grief! Talk about being under a microscope. Two weeks of this would drive everyone batty.
    Not that they didn’t have a running start at it.
    As Beth Marble, the cooing cheerleader, formally introduced the coaching judges, Temple eyed Mariah, who was searching the fourteen over-fifteens for Temple. Temple was cheered considerably that Mariah was completely confused for now. Once everyone stood up, though, Temple would be the only over-fifteen whose stature belonged in the under-sixteen group.
    Beth introduced herself as a pop psychologist and self-help author who had designed the program. Aunt Kit Carlson was introduced by her pen name, Sulah Savage, as a writer of “chick lit fantasy.” Huh? Temple had thought the genre was historical romance. Spin was everywhere.
    Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, was a hip metrosexual who probably had done Matt’s quick highlighting job a couple weeks ago when Matt had impersonated a dead man for a few very weird hours. Dexter Manship was introduced last, a lanky, outspoken, and egocentric Aussie in a tartan vest who glowered at the assembled girls as if he were thinking of beheading them.
    “This won’t be a cakewalk, ladies,” he warned. “This is not some girly pajama party where you play with makeup. This is a makeover! We’re going to tear you down and build you up right. You don’t sweat, you don’t starve, you don’t bare your pathetic little souls, you don’t fight hard to leave all the other girls in the dust, and you’ll be a bigger failure than you were before. Two weeks, ladies, to become kick-ass winners. Or nothing.”
    A pained look crossed Beth’s determinedly pleasant features. Watching people humiliated on national TV had become a countrywide diversion lately. Beth must know that the shows needed brutal drill-sergeant types like Manship. Simon Cowell had proved that on American Idol. Brits appeared to do scathing better than Americans. Witness Ann Robinson’s schoolmarmish dominatrix and her terse tagline, “You are the weakest link. G’bye.”
    That was the unsaid mantra for every reality TV show.
    Temple eyed the under-fifteens huddled in an excited, scared girly mess on their side of the massive room. Mama Molina worried about some nutcase killing their bodies. But what about the process scarring their minds? Did the parents who signed the fistful of papers realize what a risk they were taking with their kids’ self-esteem?
    On the other hand, the girls who’d volunteered for this all overflowed with oodles of that bounce-back crazy-kid optimism Temple remembered from her own youth. She smiled, recalling her secret application to San Diego’s Old Globe Shakespearian theater right out of high school. She’d gotten a very nice letter—encouraging her to apply again when older—that she still had. And now look at her, starring as Xoe Chloe on TV! From Shakespeare to reality TV. Her mother, if she knew about it, would have had a cat fit either way, then or now.
    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