Cat in a hot pink Pursuit

rhinestone crown you can get at a dozen outlets in Vegas. So what?”
    “And a car!”
    “And a car. A really sexy Dodge Neon, sure. Don’t you have three years to go before you could drive it anyway? That’s forever in Teen Time.”
    ‘Two and a half years. Then I get a learner’s permit.” Mariah’s dark glance slid toward Temple. “You’re one to sniff at a car. I’ve seen that red Miata you drive. You got yours. And you can diss boy band guys. I hear you have a real Bad Boy on the string.”
    “Really? Exactly how did you hear that?”
    “It’s a small house. I can’t help overhearing things. I heard my mom and her friend Matt talking about him once. Max.” Mariah slid her another glance. “He sounds cool.”
    And lately Max was being way too cool, Temple thought. “Your mom’s mistaken about Max.”
    “She’s not usually wrong about her job.”
    “She’s wrong this time. Max is not a criminal. He’s just a magician. Sometimes they act similar.”
    “All I know is my mom doesn’t much think about men but he’s sure got her paddle holster in a snarl.”
    “So. You see a lot of Matt at your place?”
    “Some.” Mariah picked at a fleck of nail polish on her thumb cuticle. “He’s a little old to be in a boy band but he sure is cute. My mom says I can ask him to my father-daughter dance at school. The other girls would be so fried!”
    This bit of news offered Temple two opportunities for choking on her next words: surprise that Matt was becoming a domestic fixture at Casa Carmen Molina, or horror that poor Mariah didn’t know that the man actually entitled to escort her to the father-daughter dance was right here at the Teen Queen Castle right now, doing surveillance.
    “Are you falling asleep yet?” Mariah asked.
    Not after this discussion. No way. “No. But we do need to get some rest. Why don’t you try to sleep and I’ll watch? Then we can switch.”
    “By then it’ll be morning,” she said.
    “Yeah. That’s okay. Dark circles around my eyes just save me applying my Smudge Pot kohl eyeliner in the morning. Nothing like lost sleep and hollow eyes to make a modern girl look hip and interesting.”
    “Add enforced starvation.” Mariah tilted her head to listen to her tummy growl.
    “Now you got the program!”
    Kids were amazing. Mariah was off to sleep sitting up before Temple could count to thirteen.
    That left Temple on guard duty, and therefore free to brood.
    Matt was taking Mariah to the school father-daughter dance? Max was a topic of Molina household discussion, and not in flattering terms?
    Temple was feeling decidedly like the odd woman out with everyone she knew. Xoe Chloe, the rebellious loner, began to seem less like a role and more like a dose of reality.
    Temple sighed deeply, wondering what was going on in her life, and if she would be the last to know.
    Screeches two decibels lower than a klaxon in pitch and strength ripped down the hallway outside their bedroom door.
    Mariah awoke, as punchy as a toddler having a nightmare.
    Temple was on her feet. “Stay here! I mean it. Sit. Down. Freeze.”
    She sprinted out the door, paused to identify the direction of the god-awful noise, and raced left.
    Their room was near the end of the wing housing a third of the contestants, so she wasn’t surprised to hear vague buzzes and shuffles behind her.
    The guttural cries and high-pitched shrieks ahead never faded.
    Temple charged through the ajar door between her and the unceasing hullabaloo.
    Lights were glaring but everybody in the room was still blinking, so Temple had to assume the lights had just been turned on an instant before her arrival.
    She crossed the threshold and stopped, stupefied.
    It wasn’t what she saw. It was who.
    Savannah Ashleigh. White-faced, straw-haired, and shaking, wearing a filmy mauve peignoir set off the cover of a 1970s paperback Gothic romance, the kind with the big house with a light in the window behind the fleeing figure of a nightgown-clad woman.
    Rafi Nadir. Clad in durable black denim jeans and a heavy cotton turtleneck shirt alarmingly like a Kmart version of Max’s garment of choice. Puzzled, angry, and uneasy.
    Midnight Louie, his fur punked up into damp spikes and his tongue hanging sideways between his bared white fangs.
    Savannah’s purebred Persians, one silver, one gold, and both with their coats messed up as if by a whirlwind, still snarling and spitting, mostly to themselves.
    “What on earth happened here?”