Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

significantly at Xoe Chloe—“dislike them. And then they’ll vote for the winner. But Dexter has the right to discount an audience winner at the last moment. The final decision is his. He’s the star maker. Thus, he’s the star.”
    “Thus. You learn that in Latin class forty years ago, lady? So. Dexter has audience veto power. I wonder what an enterprising girl has to do to get ole Dexter’s vote. Sleep with him?”
    “No!” Aghast. “You’re almost all minors. That’s unthinkable. Such a thing would never happen.”
    “Happens all the time in the halls of junior and senior high schools. Read the paper.”
    Beth frowned sternly. “Not here. We have cameras all over the place. Any hanky-panky would be recorded.”
    “All the better to titillate the viewers, eh? Then you must have our bathroom action on tape. Whoever wrote the hate note would have been sneaky, and pretty good at it But no one could write in the dark, especially with something as thick and quick to run out as nail polish. It took a whole bottle, which means it took some time.”
    “We aren’t allowed to record in the bathrooms, young lady.”
    “What about alerting the police?”
    “Oh, I don’t think we need to involve them in these malicious little pranks.”
    “Do you mean that ‘these malicious little pranks’ are part of the show script?”
    “We are unscripted!” Indignantly said.
    “No. No, you’re not. Somebody’s pretty good at writing in a lot of ‘unauthorized’ scenes. If you figure out how my roomie and I are going to get a decent night’s sleep after this, send us a memo. Just don’t leave it unsigned on our pillowcases. We need our beauty rest, you know.”



Midnight Assignation

    It was during the Night of the Living Lipstick (okay, it was nail polish but that does not sound as good) that I decided I must take what they call “a proactive role” in the proceedings.
    I, of course, had remained cleverly concealed, listening in with my awesome radial antennae (i.e., pointed little ears) when my Miss Temple and little Miss Mariah discussed the defacement of their bathroom mirror.
    Now, I am not much for mirrors, though I long ago figured out that the suave gentleman in black I glimpsed in them was merely my own self. Many of my kind are convinced they are viewing twin littermates. These benighted sorts are not candidates for more sophisticated roles in human society, such as shamus.
    As an ace gumshoe, I immediately decided I needed more inside operatives and must call on the Ashleigh girls.
    I did say “girls,” did I not? I have already discovered that they are well acquainted with mirrors but are among the deluded type who mistake their own image for a rival (although a bewitchingly attractive rival) for their mistress’s affections. It is bad enough that there are the two of them. Luckily, both are inverse images of each other, so they will never mistake a sister for a twin. If that makes any sense.
    I paw their bedroom door, shivs politely retracted. That subtle sound, rather like a steel brush hissing across a snare drum skin, instantly perks up the ears of my kind. It has the advantage of sounding like some leaf blowing along a sidewalk, a phenomenon universally ignored by Homo sapiens.
    And speaking of Homo sapiens, surely Miss Savannah Ashleigh must be the sappiest around.
    So, in a moment, a curled soot foot is pushed under the door frame and then come tempting little jiggles of the door, abetted by my leaping to apply my weight near the doorknob until the catch springs... and out through a narrow opening push the pretty-in-pink noses of the Persian sisters.
    When I compliment them on their pink proboscises, they feign ignorance of the word “proboscis” and state that the breed standard for their kind’s noses is the color rose.
    So a rose nose is a rose nose is a rose nose, but plain old pink in my book.
    Once in the hall and over our terminology debates, I explain that what I need is not noses, of whatever shade you want to call them, but eyes and ears.
    “Quite right, Louie,” Yvette says with a shaded silver brush along my side. “Noses are a canine sense: loud, snuffly, and vulgar. We can see and hear without being seen and heard, in perfect silence.”
    “I agree,” say I, “especially about the perfect part.”
    Behind us, Solange makes discreet retching noises. It may be the common malady of a hair ball, or it may be an editorial comment.
    I know better than to be caught