Chapter Eighteen
“Hi there. What are you supposed to be?” says the leftmost judge haughtily. “A goth or a geisha?”
I nearly choke on my tongue.
It’s bad enough I’m freaking out as is. Now this guy wants to add extra stress with his stupid commentary?
Sucking in a breath, I remind myself that he must be the obligatory rude “Simon Cowell” type, and it’s just show business.
It’s not that he doesn’t like me, specifically.
“I’m supernatural,” I say, my voice a little shaky. “I understand how difficult that is to believe, which is why I’m going to demonstrate the things I can do.”
He—a grown man—rolls his eyes at me, and murmurs, “That patter needs work.”
Deciding that my best bet is to ignore him as if he were a regular heckler, I say, “To start, I will demo my ability to predict the fu
