Little Miss Babysitter

-- 32 --

"I feel like an idiot."

Rosie grinned like a beaming sunflower, her hands attempting to cool her flustered cheeks. "You look sexy!"

I faked a gasp. "Language, Mrs. Rider!"

"Oh, stop it you." She swatted my elbow, and I jumped out of her grasp with a snicker. Only then did I take a quick glance in the mirror to come crumpling to my knees again.

"Oh, honey. No, no. None of that. Up you go." Rosie shook her head, her eyes full of disappointment, as she hauled me to my feet and brushed the hairsprayed ends of my hair from my face. "I know this will work! Believe in me! It's a win-win situation, as well. Do I have to go over it again?"

I felt my lip quiver, and I forced myself to sit on the thoughts that so desperately craved to voice themselves. I knew that if I spoke at this specific moment, my voice would come out weak and parched, as if I hadn't had a drink in a thousand years.

She took that as a yes, as she cleared her throat and explained, "It's simple, really. You've wanted to be a singer for god knows how long, and with my status and credibility, we are going to be able to make the number one selling album of all-time! I know, I may be over-exaggerating a little, but at least you'll get up there somewhere. Nate will have to hear it at some point! And then, he'll come running home with his tail between his legs, and I'll be able to stake that bastard Martin through the heart and be done with this whole ordeal."

I swallowed my spit and felt cramped in the rather spacious room. Her eyes had taken on a vicious, somewhat bloodthirsty quality, and I felt myself taking cautious steps backwards until I hit a table that had a tower of Gatorade creeping up to the ceiling. The top most one wobbled back and forth before settling.

Rosie blinked a full set of mascara coated lashes and checked her watch. "You have 8 minutes and 41 seconds until you have to be out there and ready to roll. Better finish your makeup! Chop-chop!"

And with that, she left. She just left, without telling me what to expect or what not to say, what not to do, etc....

The fact of the matter is that I was going to make a music video for a song we'd spent all night writing, and it was 'apparently' going to top the charts.

Yeah.

When pigs fly.

Or the day when I look on top of the refrigerator and there's a box of cereal that isn't empty.

I halted my thoughts before they could become too perverse, and shakily sat in front of the illuminated mirror at the head of the room.

I don't want to bring myself down by explaining what I saw when I looked in the reflective-futuristic-device-machine, but I will tell you this: whatever was in that mirror was most certainly not human.

Her hair was pinned back in a complexity of twined braids, sprayed to perfection and gleaming glory. Her eyes, the previous dull amber, popped like a firecracker with the amount of glitter and shine that adorned her upper lids. It almost hurt to look at them, and I found myself wincing.

I did notice the crafty job of an artist that tried to conceal the gaping 2" scar by my hairline, thanks to a certain car accident. There was a firm indent that almost looked like a channel for water to flow through. Flecks of skin colored makeup were nestled firmly within my pores, and I bit back the urge to retch up everything from yesterday's pasta and baked potatoes.

Her lips were purple. And not because she was cold, but a deep rouge grape. Eggplant would be the best way to describe it.

"You're disgusting." I narrowed my electrifying eyes at the girl, my rage making my shoulders quiver. I wanted to punch and kick and see the twinkling glass of the mirror rain down and onto the floor. I had no idea where these violent thoughts were coming from! But I knew that I needed to exert myself in some way before I-