Free Cat in a hot pink Pursuit by Carole Nelson Douglas Page B

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 for the 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 Temple Barr, for better or worse. Was this going to be a cakewalk or a shambles or what?
    More like, or what.
    Temple, ex-TV newswoman... ex-community theater frespian... former repertory theater PR woman... decided to regard this debacle as an opportunity to stretch ^er 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 Temple, 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