The Masked Singer

[Chapter Seventeen]

Chapter Seventeen 

I continue to pout, and flutter my eyelashes. I know this won't work, but I hang my hopes high, and try it anyways. What have I got to lose?

"Can you please tell me now?" I ask.

"No." He shrugs his shoulder.

Unfortunately, being horrible, mean, evil, and cruel runs in the family.

A few minutes pass, and I turn back and smile.

"Now?" I smile.

Dad takes a deep breath, smiles, then shakes his head. "Still no."

"How about in five minutes?"

"There's a fair chance I'll still say no," he replies.

"There's nothing fair in that," I grumble. "Are you just saying no?"

Dad cracks a smirk, shrugs his shoulders, and just smiles.

I don't know what's more annoying. The fact that he won't tell me who the guest artist is, or that he looks so smug saying no. I doubt he's going to crack under pressure. He's paid well enough not to do that.

"How about now?" I moan.

"Are you going to keep it up for the whole ride?" You're only hurting yourself," he says.

"Eh." I shrug my shoulders. "I think you just like saying no." I smile. 

"No." He slowly shakes his head.

"Do you love Mum?" I chuckle, knowing he can't get out of saying no to this. 

"Look, we're here," Dad comments.

Instead of asking another question, I focus on exiting the car. Before I can leave, a cold hand yanks me back. 

"Wasn't the car ride punishment enough?" I groan, flopping my head back.  

"Yes, but I think you might need this." He hands me a small black case. Opening it up, I grab out my silver mask. I doubt anyone is going to take me seriously if I'm prancing around as Riley Brenton instead of her.

"Thank you," I reply.

When I'm wearing this mask just by myself, I feel evil. It's as if I'm getting ready to pounce, like a robber and a bank. I'm glad that Lucy didn't suggest I wear Hannah's hocky mask.

As I walk towards the large glass building, everything starts to fall into perspective. It's like a warped dream. I can't believe I'm about to record my own album, and for millions of people to listen it.

I'm a professional musician, well, close to it.

Those pesky butterflies flutter into my stomach as my hands shake. I try clutching onto the fabric of my outfit, but the sweaty building up in my palms continue. As I walk inside, I feel like I want to run home and hide under my blanket. But at the same time, I want to be that pop star going to sophisticated parties, and being the talk of the city.

However, I know I've been thrown into the deep end without a life raft to help me float.

Dad and I step inside the elevator. He places his arm on my shoulder, and slightly squeezes the back of my neck. It's slightly comforting, but it's all me. I need to want to be confident, I need to show everyone I've got myself pieced together.

"You will be great," he says. "I believe in you."

"Thank you Dad." I smile up at him.

For the ride up in the elevator, I chant in my mind; I can do this, I'm confident, charming, and sophisticated.