Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

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 soooo 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’mAshlee.”
    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.