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

what.
    Temple, ex-TV newswoman . . . ex-community theater thespian . . . former repertory theater PR woman . . . decided to regard this debacle as an opportunity to stretch her dramatic muscles, i.e., her I.Q. Insincerity Quotient.
    “Zoo-ee," Savannah Ashleigh was reading from her cheat sheet with her usual skill at the cold read, rhyming Zoh-ee with gooey.
    “ Zoh-ee," Aunt Kit corrected. Smartly.
    “ A zoo, all right," the Simon clone bellowed loud enough to reach the back of the line. His diction was Aussie, not British, but just as scalding as Simon's. "Child. Give those capris back to the zebras, there's a good sheila. 'Twould be a mercy."
    “Mercy," Elvis repeated, frowning down at his sheet. He probably needed reading glasses. (The real Elvis would be—my gosh!—seventyish by now.) Maybe this guy's vision would lose focus going from the sheet to her.
    “So why are you here, my dear?" a woman with a wireless mike popped out of nowhere to ask. She was almost as astounding as Xoe Chloe. A woman past early middle age was a rarity on TV and this one was fighting age all the way: phony black-dyed hair, all Shirley Temple ringlets where Temple's was all long, razor-cut bob. Her papery complexion emphasized baby bright blue eyes and an attitude of relentless good cheer.
    Temple shrugged. It directed attention to her shoulder with the temporary tattoo: a tail-lashing crocodile.
    “If you don't know, lady, I don't know. Somebody said I should. I'm blowing this gig. It's been unreal."
    “Now wait a minute." Savannah was squinting at Tem- ple, sans the glasses she obviously needed. "You look—" Temple cringed, expecting the dreaded word, "familiar." The Ann Landers with the mike seized her arm. "This girl is not all brash insouciance. She's got goose bumps." So would anyone with those vanilla-ice-painted talons running crosswise on her forearm!
    “You can see she's trying to make a statement," Savannah said. "Girls these days think they have to be so hard. You can be a lady and succeed."
    “ Why?" Temple answered. "You obviously didn't.”
    “What d-d-do you mean?" Savannah was stuttering. "Succeed or be a lady?"
    “Both. I'm outa here. I got a grunge band to run.”
    “Really?" Elvis had finally exchanged his shades for a pair of half-glasses to read her entry blank. He regardedher over their rainbow titanium rims. "I think you're all bluster and sass, young lady. I think you're a fake.”
    Coming from him . . . now Temple was considering stuttering.
    “But a sublime fake, mate," the Australian Simon was saying. "This girl has cheek. Love that bicep croc. And the underlying sentiment: 'Green Machine.—
    “You would," Aunt Kit noted. "You're nearly breaking your neck to see what those hip-huggers are embracing from behind.”
    Temple , recognizing her advantage, shook her Cher locks and her booty at one and the same time. "Dream on, old dude.”
    At that moment, the middle-aged angel with the mike—she really did remind Temple of the good witch Glinda from The Wizard of Oz movie, all that chirpy up beat optimism—thrust herself into Temple's field of vision. Cameras were rolling from the sidelines.
    “I'm Beth Marble, creator of this show. And I sense, dear girl, that despite your bold front, you're really desperate to make the cast. Isn't that true?”
    Temple eyed the Simon-clone. "I think he's the one into bold fronts." Then she stared into the emcee's impos sibly sincere eyes, heard that impossibly syrupy voice, and managed to nod, gruffly. If one can nod gruffly, Xoe Chloe was the girl for the job.
    The four judges' vastly incompatible heads were nodding together as annotated pages passed back and forth.
    Scratch "annotated." Not a Xoe Chloe word. How about . . . pages scribbled with cool graffiti.
    “Do you do anything entertaining?" Elvis looked up over his granny rims to ask.
    “The lambada," she said, "while clipping my toenails.”
    “ At least she confesses to clipping them," Savannah ven- tured.