Page 176 of Naughty Nelle

Maybe, they call it group therapy because we give each other massages? Fat chance.

“We have to call that little guy ‘What’s-His-Name’ until he can remember his real name,” says Elzmerelda. “Dr. Grimm says that’ll be his first step toward recovery.”

“Puh-lease!” Sasperilla rolls her eyes. “He’s a vertically challenged moron. I can’t believe I have to associate with people like him.”

Personally, I can’t believe I have to associate with any of these freaks. I don’t need a magic mirror to tell me where I stand among this sorry bunch of losers.

“So, why are you here, Miss Needs-to-Know-Everybody’s-Business?” asks Sasperilla.

“I thought I was here for a makeover.” There’s no way I’m sharing my life with these nut-jobs.

“You are here for a makeover. Only not the kind you were expecting,” says Winifred.

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me, you’ll see.”

Group is held in a small room on the main floor of the castle. Yet more of that dismal minimalist look—there are just six wooden chairs arranged in a circle. We each take a seat, leaving one for Dr. Grimm.

The chair is hard as nails. It’s digging into my back, not to mention killing my butt. Comfort is clearly not a priority around this sham-of-a-spa.

“Stop staring at me, you mindless midget,” snaps Sasperilla at What’s-His-Name.

“He’s not staring at you,” comes her sister to his defense. “He’s staring at Jane.”

She’s right, and I wish he’d stop it already.

Sasperilla crinkles her nose. “Why don’t you wear your spectacles? Mother paid a fortune for them. Or is it that you’re afraid they’ll make you uglier than you already are?”

Elzmerelda shrivels. “Sassy, please don’t tell her I lost them.”

Sasperilla shoots her sister a smirk but wipes it off her face when a tall, stringy man slumps into the room. He takes the vacant seat next to her. This must be Dr. Grimm.

“Good afternoon, group,” he says solemnly.

Grimm looks like his name. Gloomy and depressing. Dressed in a droopy black waistcoat, he seriously should be leading a funeral procession, not a group therapy session. His beaky nose and straggly gray hair don’t help nor does his unkempt beard—easily a nest for one of those rude birds. And Sasperilla’s right again. His ears are big. At least five inches long.

“I’d like everyone to say hello to Jane,” he says. “Our new group member.”

Sasperilla feigns a yawn. “We’ve already met the bitch.”

“Sasperilla,” says Grimm sternly, “you know we don’t use that kind of language in group. Please apologize to Jane.”

“Sooory.” She twists one of her long corkscrew curls around a bony finger, clearly not.

“So, Jane, is there something you’d like to share with us today?” asks Grimm.

“Yes, my back is killing me.”

Stroking his beard, Grimm gazes at me with bewilderment.

Sasperilla snorts with laughter. “He meant about your life.”

Is she kidding? There’s nothing I want to share with her or any of these psychos.

Grimm leans forward. “Jane, there has to be at least one thing you’d like to share.”

Fine. “I’m a Queen.” The way they treat me around this place they must have no clue.

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