She whirled. Dexter Manship himself had been eyeing her unawares. A shoulder-hoisted camera was eavesdropping and recording over his shoulder. The man holding the camera was half-hidden behind the mask of his equipment. Temple guessed they’d all come to take this constant surveillance so much for granted, they’d soon hardly notice it.
“You’ve got quite a creative look, in your own trashy way, but it’ll all have to go, from the tattoos on out. We want little American beauties here, not five-dollar hookers.”
“You let me in.”
“For a bit of amusement and contrast to the real contenders. This is reality TV, sweets. Freaks sell.”
“You’re living proof of that. Maybe I’ll surprise you and get the votes of the real judges.”
He laughed, turning to play directly to the camera. “Guttersnipe but cheeky. It takes all kinds in America. Or, rather, America takes in all kinds.” He turned to pinch Temple’s overheating cheek before ambling off.
Temple turned to the camera herself. “Somebody should tattoo the words ‘male chauvinist pig’ on his condescending hide.”
Barely had the cameraman cruised away in Manship’s wake than a voice near her said, “Tut, tut, tut.”
Beth was hovering nearby, oddly nervous. “You don’t want to take on Dexter Manship, my dear. He can be vicious.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, well. His reputation. He’s not afraid to say the most outrageous things in front of, and about, everybody. I’d stay away from him, if I were you.”
“He can’t seem to stay away from me.”
“That’s another warning sign, isn’t it? Perhaps if you dressed less provocatively?”
“Tell it to Britney Spears. If you can get past her bodyguards.”
“We’re looking for a more wholesome female role model.”
Temple eyed the room. Every candidate was dressed to kill. Even nervous thirteen-year-olds like Mariah wore clothes designed to show off, if not outright incite. It must drive their parents bananas.
The word “bananas” brought her gaze back to Crawford, surrounded by his gaggle of naive young things who’d heard the word “media” and rushed like lemmings to any sleazeball therewith associated.
It was really hard to be a sedate thirty pretending to be today’s exhibitionist nineteen. Temple had the same mixed feelings toward the Teen Queen contest as she did toward strippers.
These young women and girls were desperately upwardly mobile. The tangible rewards they fought for were superficial, and in her heart of hearts she felt they were selling themselves short.
“Don’t be glum, dear.” Beth squeezed Temple’s upper left arm, motorcycle tattoo, ladder of little chains on herknit top, and all. “I know your edge is just an act. You’ll learn here that you can be yourself and still succeed.”
Not really, Temple thought. The only way I can succeed here is to not be myself and keep Mariah safe.
Only what was she saving Mariah from? A lurking killer, or the corruption of becoming a Material Girl?
Chapter 19
Chicklets
“Wow. You look cool-io. No wonder you didn’t buy a thing at the mall without metal on it.”
Mariah stood in the middle of the room they shared, staring at Temple. Admiringly. Especially at the skimpy hot-pink stretch top with the short silver chains that were all that held the slit sleeves together.
Temple caught Mariah in a quick embrace, even though the thirteen-year-old was already taller than her five-feet-nothing and probably hated to be hugged.
“Careful,” she whispered in Mariah’s ear. “I bet we’re all on Candid Camera here 24/7. Supposedly we don’t know each other.”
Temple drew back. “You’re a pretty cool chick yourself, kid. I was thinkin’ I’d draw Suzy Square for a roomie. You look like a with-it kitten.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a lot to work on.”
“Like what?”
“Like my weight.” Mariah opened her pink glossy folder. “Look at this slop they have me eating.”
“It’s called vegetables and fruit.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Gad!” Temple mimicked a heart attack and fell back on the huge king-size-plus bed they’d share. “Heaven forbid! I’m just trying to help Bugs Bunny sell his line of veggie delights.”
Mariah giggled and sat on her side of the bed, a full body-length away. “You look like you’ve been living on radishes.”
“Yeah, I got a great metabolism but no boobs. You, kiddo, could have a J-Lo figure if you don’t let adolescence pack on the pounds.”
“Really?”
“Really. That’s why the diet and exercise program for you. What you do now sets your babe appeal-o-meter for life. Capische? Suffer now or pay later.”
“You’re not entirely flat.”
“Thanks,” Temple whispered to Mariah, “but I’m implementing things for my role as the Bad Girl candidate.”
“No, really.” Mariah, a quick study, whispered back. “You look cool. What’s with the wig, though?”
“I know some of the folks around here, and don’t want to be recognized. ‘Cuz they know me too.”
“Oooh, too bad. I keep forgetting you’re here to finger a bad person.”
“Thanks for the compliment, kid.” Temple lifted her voice to a normal tone. Time to play to the concealed mikes.
“I like to go by ‘Mari.”
“Why, girl?! You’ve got a great name. Look at Mariah Carey. She’s cool.”
“And she’s just changed her name to ‘Mimi.’ My mother liked that name, but even Mariah Carey thought it was lame.”
“Listen, if I knew why my mother named me what she did, I’d have a Ph.D. in parental psychology.”
“So you hate Xoe?”
“No, it gets attention and distracts them from who I might really be. Oops.” Whispering again. “Neglected Basic Step One in Spy-Girl 101.”
Temple then proceeded to check the large room and adjoining bathroom for all the usual suspect places for hidden cameras and bugs. Mariah watched with round eyes, then joined in the hunt.
“What a posh joint,” Temple exclaimed for the unseen recording devices. “Wonder why the dude who built this place went bankrupt? It’s on sale for four-point-six million. I bet somebody will pounce on this white elephant once it’s become famous on national TV.”
“Like us?” Mariah asked.
“Well, I hope somebody doesn’t pounce on us … unless we want him to. How about that win-a-date thing? You like the boy band guy, Zach French?”
Mariah shrugged. “He’s okay. For a kid. I like the guy your age group gets, Aiden Rourke, way better. He’s such a stud.”
“Now, how do you know that? He could be a dud. You young chicks always go for the older guy. It’s a stage.”
“The whole world is a stage,” Mariah retorted, spreading her arms and shamelessly playing to the presumed cameras.
Temple wished she had spotted something but maybe it was too early. Or maybe there was some law against secretly filming underage kids like Mariah. There oughta be.
Though the place seemed clean, so far, Temple advised her roomie via whisper that they’d better discuss “real stuff” only in the bathroom from now on.
“Gotcha, girlfriend.” Mariah high-fived her. “You really like my name?”
“I love it. Your mom, who’s way off base on s0000 much, was dead-on about that one.”
“She is kinda square.”
“Not square, hon. Wrapped tight. Probably because she worries so much about you, which mothers do. I had one of those myself once. Still do.”
“What would she say about your being here?”
“She wouldn’t say a thing, Mariah, because she’d be passed out cold in a faint on the entry hall floor.”
Mariah giggled again. “You are so funny. This is gonna be a riot.”
Temple devoutly hoped not.
That night they found that the Pink Fairy had visited their closets. Each had a pink Teen Queen sleep T-shirt and terrycloth robe and matching jogging suit and workout wear, all with their names embroidered in silver on the shoulder.