Special Therapy for a Spoiled Brat
“Good morning, Sandra,” Dr. Homes says, walking into my room. I can lock it, but all the high-level staff here have keys and enter and exit as they please, to make sure we’re not doing drugs or something. It’s creepy. My parents sent me here after I dropped out of college and got pulled over for drunk driving. Luckily, my dad, the mayor, is a huge supporter of the police force and the cop delivered me back home. However, my parents gave me an ultimatum- stay at the House of Restoration until they felt I was rehabilitated, and return to school in the spring, or I’d be cut off. Not kicked out or anything, I just wouldn’t have my car or spending money, which would suck.
The House is okay, most of the girls here are honestly kind of bitchy, super new-money types that think Michael Kors is high-fashion. But the rooms are large and private, the sheets don’t scratch my skin, and there is a gym, a few pools and tennis courts. They don’t force us on a crazy schedule, we just have to keep a daily journal to share in group therapy and exercise for at least four hours a week. We’re not supposed to have phones but of course I snuck mine in. Overall, it’s like a vacation. Except for time with Dr. Homes.