Cat In A Topaz Tango

“You’re putting your own true love in the ‘senior’ category?” Molina asked acidly.

“Relatively speaking. Actually, there’s more rapport building among the adult contenders than the teens.”

“Adults know how to lose gracefully, or at least to pretend to,” Rafi put in.

Molina shot him a sharp look.

Temple shivered internally. Everything exchanged between these two had an unspoken double edge. Being with them was like acting as the net during a killer championship tennis match. Something had to give, eventually. Hopefully, it was not her, the separating agent.

Volleys of unspoken recriminations were bouncing over her head.

And yet she detected a certain heat.

It was hard to think of Molina having a sexy bone in her body, but the lieutenant’s iron professional control was probably a challenge to certain overly macho men.

Not Max. He was too smart to act macho. Rafi came by his Mideastern macho culturally and was trying to overcome it. Dirty Larry was another case entirely. She didn’t think she or Molina quite knew what he was about. Temple guessed that Molina unwittingly posed a challenge to these men that she really didn’t want or need.

Life was funny. People often attracted the people who were worst for them. She herself was a case study in attracting a daring lone ranger like Max and a supportive sweetie like Matt. If only she could compress them into one delicious totally perfect boyfriend.

Eek! Zoe Chloe Ozone stomped a black lace-up oxford worn over fishnet hose down hard on Temple’s ruminations. Was she even speculating that women didn’t really know what they wanted? Or needed? And men too?

Her head hurt, and her feet ached in sympathy with Sou-Sou’s. The girl was obnoxious, but young girls often got confused about which way to go, Wicked, as in the Broadway play, or nauseatingly “good.” Either extreme was an overdose.

Witch way would this crazy dance competition go now?

The Shoe Must Go On

Rehearsals for Monday night’s dance began at 8:00 A.M. the next morning.

Temple and Louie padded down the hall leading to the junior rehearsal rooms. The big black cat was terminally tired of the tote bag and had adopted dog behavior, heeling alongside Temple like a well-trained spaniel.

They had barely turned down the hall before they had to stop. People were crowding wall to wall, and a constant murmur of voices echoed off them.

“Excuse me,” Zoe Chloe said, trying to elbow her way forward. “I’m in the cast. I have to get through.”

People gave way, barely sparing her a glance, which was saying something. She wore a black derby hat, blue lipstick, an orange-striped leotard, hot pink tights, and chartreuse Minnie Mouse platform shoes.

The bulk of TV station cameras loomed over the crowd ahead.

By the time Zoe Chloe and Louie reached the door to the first rehearsal room, it was obvious a media feeding frenzy was underway.

“Oooh,” Zoe Chloe trilled. “Hellooo remote feed. Pardon me while I boogie my Cheshire cat and me into the dancing party. I’m the emcee-ess of this little super circus and I need to see my dear little emcee-ees.”

That got the lights and cameras turned her way.

Temple knew they expected the third of the usual trilogy—Action!—so she danced sideways through the small tunnel they made singing, “Cockles and mussels, alive-a-live-oh.”

Zoe Chloe inhabited Alice in Wonderland territory as Temple saw it, and the more nonsensical she could be, the better. American Idol proved eccentric sold.

Rafi’s hotel troops kept the room uninvaded and Hank Buck saw that they let her through with a recognizing grimace while Roy stood by shaking his head.

The major media reporters and videographers were already inside, clustered around Sou-Sou and her feet. They were bare and normal this morning, but her mother was busy describing them as swollen as if a thousand bees had been at them the previous evening.

A series of foot-soothing devices were lined up for the famous feet: bubbling footbaths, soaking salts, blowing air dryers, ice baths and steam aerators. Sou-Sou was poking her hot pink footsies in them, as instructed by various media folks, as though they were exotic shrimp in need of many exotic sauces.

A second wardrobe malfunction had become a major media opportunity.

“Glorious, isn’t it?” a deep voice thrummed at the exact level of her ear, which was about four inches higher than usual, thanks to the chartreuse platform shoes.

Zoe Chloe eyed Crawford Buchanan and his glistening gaze agog at the publicity.

“Gross,” she responded. “Like cannibalism on Survivor.”

“Exactly!” he crowed. “You can’t arrange another interesting mishap, can you? That’d really raise ratings.”

“Someone sabotaged her Mary Janes,” Zoe Chloe pointed out. “That is baaad behavior, even on a reality TV show.”

“Hey! No permanent damage, just maximum media. That is goood showbiz. You’re just jealous, ZC.”

“Like her!” a woman yelled.