Free Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit by Carole Nelson Douglas Page A

cherry-colored zits, almost beauty marks, not the occasional pale pink spot staking a pallid postdated claim on the shoulder blade of thirty years' duration.
    Well, she had the right shoes. A girl could do anything with the right shoes: go to the ball, leave Oz, shave a decade or so off her age. Temple stared at her Heavy Metal Hot Pink Funk–painted toenails in their red rhinestone slides. Excellent color clash. The toe rings added a nice trashy touch. Her feet alone demanded a serious redo.
    Then there was the black, straight-haired Cher wig from the singer's Cleopatra period. Las Vegas had wig shops galore filled with celebrity dos. Even Temple was amazed by how totally a redhead with short curly hair could vanish behind glossy dark eyebrow-length bangs and shoulder blade–brushing strands of thick black. A Maybelline black eyebrow pencil covered the last of Temple's natural coloring. Any freckles disappeared under pale foundation and dead-white face powder accou- tered with assorted magnetic studs and rings at eyebrow, nose, and lip, adding a modern touch to the Queen of the Nile. And she hadn't forgotten the belly button ring, clip-on. She was a fraud from sole to poll.
    Except for her long painted fingernails, each one a color of the rainbow. They were real under that lacquer.
    When she'd given her remade self a once-over in the bedroom mirror, for a surreal moment she was struck by the fact that she almost resembled the black-haired, rice-powdered persona of the evil she-magician, Shangri-La, who had kidnapped Temple and Midnight Louie months before. Now Shangri-La was missing in action and Temple was, ta-dah, suddenly a black-haired teen bad girl. Think the twisted slayer Faith on Buffy, the Vampire Slayer.
    But that was then, and this was now. Temple shuffled forward in the line. Her feet were killing her. Normally wimpy little inch-and-a-half heels wouldn't bother her. But she was used to flying around, on the job. Standing, shuffling, on these aggregate-stone mall floors. Killer!
    She clutched the sheet she'd filled out in tilted block letters with the i's carefully topped by circles as fat as a cartoon dialogue balloon. Favorite hunk. Favorite punk band. Favorite junk food. Favorite class to skip. Favorite cosmetic. Favorite fast food.
    She peered around the snaking line of bare shoulders and barely covered rears. Oh, at last! She glimpsed a long table at which people actually sat. They must be the interviewers, the American Idol–style judges who would say yea or neigh.
    Nay! This was not a horse race. This was an empowering opportunity for today's savvy young women. Was she quoting the TV show propaganda, or what?
    Stand. Shuffle. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Stand.
    Behind her, someone snapped her gum. A nauseous odor of banana-strawberry almost put Temple down forthe count. A woman of thirty ought never have to smell that again!
    Suddenly . . . open air ahead of her. A table clothed in linen to the floor. Four adult humans sitting behind it. All looking at her.
    Four maybe-human adults . . .
    Because one of them was (gasp!) Savannah Ashleigh, fading film starlet and an acquaintance.
    Another was (gasp!) a very ripe Elvis impersonator, big and bellied, complete with tinted aviator sunglasses, long, dark caterpillar-fuzzy sideburns, neck scarf, glitzy white jumpsuit and more knuckle-buster diamond rings than Liberace. Well, she supposed Elvis had been an expert on teenage girls, including his almost-child bride, Priscilla.
    Another was (double gasp)—once you're thinking in terms of cartoon bubbles you're lost—her very own maternal aunt, Kit Carlson, aka the romance novelist Sulah Savage!!! What was she doing here, all the way from New York City ?
    And the last (thank whatever gods may be!) was a Strange Man who looked like Simon Cruel, i.e., Cowell, on American Idol.
    Two of the four judges knew TempleBarr, for better or worse. Was this going to be a cakewalk or a shambles or what?
    More like, or