Temple wasn’t sure if this was an all-girl version of The People’s Court or an NFL draft. In addition, Hollywood’s most hailed hair and makeup artists, personal trainers and wardrobe consultants would oversee their transformation into fully gorgeous, empowered young women.
There was Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, and Kathy Farrell, the mousy makeup specialist in army green knit stirrup pants and a shapeless nightshirt top. Avis Campion, the physical trainer was an awesomely buff black woman with the take-no-prisoners air of a drill sergeant. Marjory Klein, the dietitian, was the oldest advisor, a spare, unadorned woman in her fifties dressed in the cheerful animal-figured loose pants and top favored by nurses nowadays.
And, finally, Beth Marble announced, the winner, besides snaring a small role on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Las Vegas—Temple figured it would be a closeup as a corpse—would also win a date with one of two male singing heartthrobs: Aiden Rourke of Day-Glo for the sixteen-to nineteen-year-old Teen Queen winner, and Zach French of Boys Ahoy for the thirteen-to fifteenyear-old ‘Tween Queen winner.
Thirteen unlucky girls in both categories would go away losers, Temple thought, but no one mentioned that except to say that every girl would leave with a brand-new self. The assumption being that any old self was pretty expendable. And that even a brand-new self wasn’t enough sometimes.
Temple tapped her foot with impatience, one glitzy little mule sliding off her toe.
Instantly, she sensed a camera zooming in on the gesture. Sure enough, one of the camera crew had his lens pointed at her foot.
Good grief! Talk about being under a microscope. Two weeks of this would drive everyone batty.
Not that they didn’t have a running start at it.
As Beth Marble, the cooing cheerleader, formally introduced the coaching judges, Temple eyed Mariah, who was searching the fourteen over-fifteens for Temple. Temple was cheered considerably that Mariah was completely confused for now. Once everyone stood up, though, Temple would be the only over-fifteen whose stature belonged in the under-sixteen group.
Beth introduced herself as a pop psychologist and self-help author who had designed the program. Aunt Kit Carlson was introduced by her pen name, Sulah Savage, as a writer of “chick lit fantasy.” Huh? Temple had thought the genre was historical romance. Spin was everywhere.
Ken Adair, the Hair Guy, was a hip metrosexual who probably had done Matt’s quick highlighting job a couple weeks ago when Matt had impersonated a dead man for a few very weird hours. Dexter Manship was introduced last, a lanky, outspoken, and egocentric Aussie in a tartan vest who glowered at the assembled girls as if he were thinking of beheading them.
“This won’t be a cakewalk, ladies,” he warned. “This is not some girly pajama party where you play with makeup. This is a makeover! We’re going to tear you down and build you up right. You don’t sweat, you don’t starve, you don’t bare your pathetic little souls, you don’t fight hard to leave all the other girls in the dust, and you’ll be a bigger failure than you were before. Two weeks, ladies, to become kick-ass winners. Or nothing.”
A pained look crossed Beth’s determinedly pleasant features. Watching people humiliated on national TV had become a countrywide diversion lately. Beth must know that the shows needed brutal drill-sergeant types like Manship. Simon Cowell had proved that on American Idol. Brits appeared to do scathing better than Americans. Witness Ann Robinson’s schoolmarmish dominatrix and her terse tagline, “You are the weakest link. G’bye.”
That was the unsaid mantra for every reality TV show.
Temple eyed the under-fifteens huddled in an excited, scared girly mess on their side of the massive room. Mama Molina worried about some nutcase killing their bodies. But what about the process scarring their minds? Did the parents who signed the fistful of papers realize what a risk they were taking with their kids’ self-esteem?
On the other hand, the girls who’d volunteered for this all overflowed with oodles of that bounce-back crazy-kid optimism Temple remembered from her own youth. She smiled, recalling her secret application to San Diego’s Old Globe Shakespearian theater right out of high school. She’d gotten a very nice letter—encouraging her to apply again when older—that she still had. And now look at her, starring as Xoe Chloe on TV! From Shakespeare to reality TV. Her mother, if she knew about it, would have had a cat fit either way, then or now.
Beth had taken over the wireless microphone. “You’ll find your program kits on the library table against the wall, alphabetically by name. Your roommate’s name is also affixed, so you can meet and go to your rooms to get a great night’s sleep for the program launch tomorrow. Remember, young women, you are likely to be caught on camera at any time, so be on your best behavior at all times. We have our own public relations representative. Crawford, will you step up to the mike?”
Temple found her fingernails driving into her palms as a small dapper man with delusions of hipsterdom headed toward the mike.
Like many radio personalities, he’d cultivated a deep, mellow voice that was reassuring only if you liked buying swampland in Florida. He wore a lime green jogging suit and resembled a rather unripe banana. His graying hair was slicked back and dyed black for the visual media, with a fringe of curls at the nape of his neck, rather like an unwanted “ring around the collar” in laundry detergent ads.
“Thank you, Beth Marble. Now, girls, if you have any questions be sure to ask me. My name is Crawford Buchanan of KREP-AM, and I’ve logged a lot of live time on mike and many on-camera miles. I can advise you on how to look and sound good, even though I’m not an official coach. So come to me any time.”
Temple shuddered at the very idea and was distressed to see many earnestly naive faces watching him with gullible intensity.
While she was seething about the stupidity of letting Awful Crawford loose in a harem of impressionable young girls, the introduction ended and would-be ‘Tween and Teen Queens proceeded to mingle.
Temple shook her head to see Dexter Manship and Crawford Buchanan immediately surrounded by eager questioners.
“Cool tattoo,” a voice said softly in her ear. “I bet they’ll make you cover it with makeup.”
She turned to the svelte and sensuously packaged champagne blonde behind her, who was ogling the drawn-on image of a motorcycle on Temple’s left bicep—had that been a chore!—and spoke her doom again.
“Bad Girl isn’t gonna make it in this crowd.”
“Maybe I don’t wanna make it.”
“That’s a new one. Anyway, name’s Blondina.”
Temple nearly swallowed her bubble gum. Since the wad was as large as a ping-pong ball, that would have been a life-threatening event. Was there any way out of here but blonde?
“Xoe,” Temple said. “With an X.”
“As in X-rated? All right! See you around. And watch your backside. Everyone else will be.”
Actually, that was Temple’s fervent hope. Her selection of provocative piercings and drawn-on tattoos was aimed at distracting people from her face and false hair. Not to mention her lying green eyes.
She didn’t want there to be any chance that Xoe Chloe Ozone would be a finalist, much less a serious contender. This was not a Survivor-style kick-you-off show. Everyone stayed until the bitter end when the final talent show and announcement of the winners took place. If she was written off as a sure loser early, she’d be free to observe and protect.
Temple toddled to the built-in bar, which was stocked with nonalcoholic mixed beverages bearing cute names.
She ordered a My Tai Chi—green tea and lime juice—and turned to study the room.
“Pity.” The voice behind Temple set her spine on edge.