Page 167 of Naughty Nelle

3.   List some of the evil things you’ve done.

Not enough space to write answer.

4.   Have you ever had a best friend?

My magic mirror, but we’re not speaking.

5.   Have you ever been in love with someone?

Does “myself” count?

6.   I care about other people. TRUE OR FALSE?

Trick question! Not answering!

7.   What could improve your life?

A facial, massage, and definitely a new mirror.

8.   How do you feel about your mother?

NO ANSWER! It’s none of your damn business.

9.   What are you most afraid of?

Sunburn.

10.  On a scale of 1-10, with 1=My life is a horror story and 10=My life is a fairy tale, how would you rate your life?

10! I’m here, right?

Strange questions, but easy enough. Except for Question #8. Some things are personal. Very personal. Besides, what does my mother have to do with getting a facial or massage? She’s the last person I want to think about. Ever!

The fairy spa-mother snatches the application and reads it over. “Come with me for your first treatment.” She bounces into the air and then flies down the hall.

Yes! At last! She’s taking me for a facial. Anyone with two eyes can see I desperately need one. Following her, I wonder why I don’t see any princesses with blue facial masks and fluffy white robes. And how come there aren’t any mirrors on the walls?

Along the way, I pass a young woman, who’s so skinny it’s scary, mopping the floors. A good sign of a quality spa, I tell myself, having once read to beware of unsanitary conditions. She shoots me a smirk.

The loser’s just jealous. I almost feel sorry for her. I pick up my pace to catch up with the fairy spa-mother.

She finally touches down in front of a door at the end of the corridor. The words “Private Do Not Enter” are scrawled across it. A treatment room. I can’t wait to step inside.

To my surprise, the room is small and sparse. There’s a simple wooden chair, a small set of drawers, and a bucket of water. And it, too, is painted insipid yellow. Whoever did the interior decorating around this place should be fired.

The fairy spa-mother shoves me onto the chair and drapes a shabby yellow smock over my head.

“Hey, where’s my fluffy white robe?” I ask, shocked to be treated with such indignity. When I’m done with my facial, the first thing I’m going to do is complain and get her fired.

Two thumb-sized pixies, dressed in stretchy white uniforms, come buzzing into the room. One has green hair; the other purple. They circle my head in opposite directions.

“Say hello to the Hair Fairies.” The fairy spa-mother grins. “They’ll be taking over from here.” She flies out the door, slamming it behind her.

The two pixies immediately examine my hair, strand by strand.

“I haven’t had a good shampoo in ages,” I tell them as they run a spiky comb through my mane. Aah. It feels so good against my itchy scalp. At last, I’m beginning to feel like I’m at a spa.

Not for long. Without the courtesy of a warning, they dump the bucket of water over my head.

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