Free Cat in a hot pink Pursuit by Carole Nelson Douglas

reflected the
    Oh, Mom, that’s perfect,” Mariah pleaded.
    Mariah wanted her to sparkle because then that meant she could too. Like mother, like daughter.
    Molina bought the dragonfly sandals, not sure whom they would remind her of more—Mariah the would-be Cinderella, or Temple Barr, the reluctant fairy godmother.

    Later, she and her daughter celebrated their first mutual girly occasion (for Molina, it was her very first girly occasion): they whisked out their purchases in the living room, while Caterina and Tabitha gamboled on fallen pieces of colorful tissue.
    “This is so cool, Mom. Thank you! I know I can win.”
    “It doesn’t matter if you win. It matters if you have fun, keep your head, and... stay safe.”
    “Temple is so cool.” Mariah, head bent, held up some ridiculous glitzy top to her underdeveloped breasts. “She hardly acts like an old person at all.”
    “I really hope so, honey.”
    Mariah looked up, catching her change in tone. “Because we three have a secret, and it’ll be up to you to help carry it off.”
    And then she told Mariah that Temple was working undercover to trap a potential perp, and Mariah would have to help her carry off the masquerade.
    Mariah the cop’s kid looked even more amazed and happy than Mariah the potential ‘Tween Queen.



Louie Goes Ape

    What has happened to my dear little roomie, Miss Temple?
    She was always a spirited, happy little human.
    She always got a kick out of life and having a humongous high-heel collection. She was perky but not sappy. Full of mischief but not slaphappy. Upbeat but not nauseating. Cute as a ladybug but not too girly to rock and roll.
    Now she has done a complete turnaround.
    I watch her upend about a zillion shopping bags on ‘he bed I have honored with my reclining presence.
    I am adrift in a blizzard of mall-style plastic... the Gap, Victoria’s Secret, The Icing, et cetera. She has been on a shopping spree wild enough to smother me had I not beaten off a rain of plastic bags with the Ginsu knife shivs so conveniently attached to my extremities.
    “Oh, sorry, Louie,” she remarks offhandedly, trying on a faux-leather bustier over her faux-front gel cups in the full-length mirror on the wall.
    I am used to seeing my Miss Temple in a state of undress, due to our intimate relationship in the bedroom, i.e., we share my king-size bed.
    I am not used to seeing assorted tattoos and rings on her upper arms, ankle, neck, and the... gasp, small of her back, which is pretty small, her being a Lilliputian human.
    When did she go berserk at a piercing parlor without consulting me, I would like to know! Obviously, I have been derelict in my duty of shepherding her through life as we know it in Las Vegas.
    When she pulls out the Cher wig and tugs it on over her own tortie-red curls, I know I have to take action.
    She turns from the mirror, looking like something from the back of a squad car on Cops, the first and most-forgotten reality TV show.
    I am aghast to see that her eyes are as vibrantly green as mine... then I realize that she has borrowed Mr. Max’s performing trick: green contact lenses for that mesmerizing gaze. Trouble is, it works on cats and magicians but I am not sure it works for my Miss Temple.
    “Well, Louie, do I look like a reconstruction project?”
    She looks like an escapee from the city pound, especially with that rhinestone dog collar around her neck.
    “Am I ready to take on the world of reality TV?”
    Hmmm, I already observed that she looked like an escapee from Cops.
    “Am I post-’Tween Queen in the making?”
    ‘Tween tweezings, I think to myself. Not to mention a ripe candidate for brain implants.
    “Do I look sweet, swingin’ nineteen going on Goth thirty?”
    Goth? As in I “goth” to get outa here?
    I take my own advice and retreat to the outer room but resolve to keep a very close eye on her from this moment on.



Good Golly, Miss Goth Girl

    The mall was mobbed with ‘tween girls from