Page 172 of Naughty Nelle

“It’s time for your morning meditation,” says Fairweather.

Meditation?Now, what poison are they springing on me?

Elzmerelda tells me that meditation teaches us to stay focused on the present while turbulent thoughts and emotions swirl through our heads. “Getting in touch with your inner spirituality is another part of the healing process.”

Inner spirituality?What the hell is she talking about? It gets worse. She rambles on, spewing more mumbo jumbo like “life affirmation,” “self-realization,” and “emotional awareness.”

“It’s a stupid waste of time!” snorts Sasperilla.

Reluctantly, the skinny bitch sits down on the grass with her sister, the fatty, and the catatonic troll in a cross-legged pose. Fanta leads them in some ridiculous “hang-out-in-the-light” incantation. I refuse to join in.

Flossie takes me aside. “Don’t worry, dear. Grass stains don’t hurt so please find a place with the others.” She gently takes me by the hand and then shoves me to the ground. The nerve of her! I’m going to file a complaint for excessive force. Fairy brutality! When they find out I’m a queen, they’ll shut this place down. And I’ll be free to go!

Right now, I have no choice but to chant along while Flossie keeps her stink eye on me. She’ll probably batter me with her wand if I don’t cooperate. And break my nose and knock out my teeth! I’ll never ever be Fairest of All again! Talking about turbulent thoughts! Chanting isn’t going to help me.

“Close your eyes and repeat after me,” says Fanta. Waving her wand, she chants:

“I am here to be helped.

To share. To be one with me.

On whatever level, I can find myself

To become the me I need to be.”

I have no idea what these words mean. But when I say them, a peacefulness saturates my body and mind. I’m no longer on this planet. I’m in a higher place. A place where everything is possible. Even going back to my castle and forgiving my mirror.

“Isn’t Fanta amazing?” singsongs Elzmerelda when our meditation ends. “She and her sisters were once able to put an entire kingdom to sleep.”

I hate to admit it, but I’ve never felt so good. I feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe, this place is some kind of spa after all. Okay, it’s a little run down and caters to a bunch of crazies, but nonetheless, it’s got spa potential.

Fairweather waddles up to me. She hands me a map showing the layout of the castle and grounds. “My dear, it’s time for you to meet your personal therapist.”

A therapist?Faraway is a real spa! At last, I’m getting a massage. A facial and quick body wrap can’t be far behind. In no time, they’ll let me out of this joint. Renewed! Refreshed! Revitalized! Ready to reclaim my place as Fairest of All.

Following the directions of the map, I find myself humping the never-ending spiral staircase of a towering turret. With every step, I get more and more winded. The massage room is located at the very top. What a stupid place to put it! Then again, maybe they deliberately want you to feel wasted to appreciate your massage. That’s if you make it. I may not.

At last, I reach my destination. Breathing heavily, I stagger into a small circular room. It’s sparsely decorated with only a simple round wall clock and a single piece of furniture—a burgundy velvet chaise lounge. Although worn and faded, the chaise looks comfortable and inviting. This must be where I lie down and get my massage. Wasting no time, I sink into it. I’m so ready to surrender my body.

Just as I relax, a tiny winged creature zips in like a streak of lightning, drenching me in a shower of sparkling dust. I cough. What the—

“Hello, Jane. I’m Shrinkerbell, but you can all me Shrink. I’ll be your personal therapist here at Faraway.”

What kind of massage therapist is this? She’s the size of a sparrow, with hands no bigger than a bird’s claws, and thick round spectacles that make her look bug-eyed. Buzzing around the room, she’s as calming as a mosquito.

“So that you know, Tinkerbell is my fraternal twin. She got the looks; I got the brains.” She runs one of her tiny hands through a messy pouf of blond hair. “Who do you think came up with the Peter Pan complex? Me, that’s who! It kills me that my in-your-face sister always gets the credit.”

Why is she telling me all this stuff? She’s taking precious time away from my massage. I’m going to demand an extra fifteen minutes if she doesn’t get going.

She swoops down from the ceiling. “Sorry for getting carried away with my issues. We’re here to talk about yours. First, do you have any questions?”

“Yes. Can you go deep?” I read in one of those beauty magazines that a deep tissue massage can magically restore your beauty.

“Yes, I like to go as deep as possible with all my clients. My goal is to find the underlying causes of their problems.”

Great, because I feel like crap. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of coffee, the climb, or mirror withdrawal. I still have a pounding headache, and my body is aching all over. Plus, that damn dust is stinging my eyes.

“Just one other little question. Can I borrow a mirror before we begin?” Someone around this joint has got to have one.

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