Page 168 of Naughty Nelle

Aagh! It’s ice cold. I jump up from the chair.

Snip. Snip.The sound comes at me faster. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.

What the hell?They’re chopping off my hair!

“I order you to stop!” I cry out, my voice more panic than power-driven.

The fairies accelerate their pace, each clutching the handle of a bone-shearing pair of scissors.

I swat at them frantically, but they’re too damn fast. Panic turns to dread. What if the maniacs butcher my face with the razor-sharp blades? I shield it with both hands.

“You have lice,” tisks the purple-haired fairy.

I scratch my head and gasp. “I want my hair back!”

“Don’t worry, it’ll grow back,” says her green-haired partner as another clump tumbles to the floor.

Grow back?It took me my entire life to grow my raven-black hair past my butt. That’s it. I’m going to snatch the scissors and clip their wings. Then stomp on them.

Too late. They fling the scissors across the room. I gaze down at a foot-high mountain of hair. My hair! Sick to my stomach, I run my fingers through what remains of it. All two inches.

“Give me a mirror!” I scream.

“There are no mirrors at Faraway,” says the green-haired fairy as she nosedives into the layers of hair and starts tossing them into the bucket.

No mirrors?She must be joking. No mirrors?? What kind of spa is this?

“You’re ready to meet Elzmerelda, your roommate,” says the other, scooping up more of my precious locks.

Roommate?Even in that disgusting dungeon, I had my own private room. Maybe it was just a stinky cell, but at least, it was all mine.

“You’re going to adore her,” she continues. “She’s one of our favorite inmates. She’s done so well here.”

“We always try to pair up a new patient with a recovering one,” the green-haired fairy adds. “We have found that a recovering addict can serve as an excellent role model for someone who has not yet set out on their road to renewal.”

Inmates? Patients? Addicts?I read in those beauty magazines—even in that brochure—that people at spas are called “guests.”

“What about my massage? My facial? My seaweed wrap? My aromatherapy bath?”

The two pixies stare at me as if they haven’t understood a word I’ve said.

My voice takes on desperation. “Or how about a swim in the mineral pool?” I read many spas have them. “I happen to be an excellent swimmer.”

The purple-haired pixie raises her brows as if I’m some kind of nutcase. “Honey, the only ‘pool’ we have here is a moat. And trust me, you don’t want to be swimming in that disease-infested swamp.”

“I demand to see a list of spa services,” I say in my most authoritative voice.

“This is not a spa,” say the pixies in unison.

Of course. I’ve been sent to the wrong place. It’s a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake!

“Faraway is a recovery center for people who are addicted to evil,” says the green-haired fairy in a matter-of-fact voice.

A recovery center for addicts?I should have known it sounded too good to be true. It was all a bunch of lies. A horrible bunch of lies! I should start a lawsuit! That’s what I should do!

Suddenly, it all sinks in. I’ve been tricked. Faraway isn’t a spa. It’s an insane asylum!

Sloshing through my pile of hair, I bolt to the door.

I jiggle the knob, but it’s jammed. I slam my body against the hard slab of wood, hoping I can ram it down. Not even a dent. My hip roars with pain.

“I order you to let me out of here!” I scream.

The duo fires me a look that says I am crazy.

Beads of sweat are erupting all over me. Nausea rises to my chest, and the room closes in on me. And then blackness.

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