chest.
“And you are s o not welcome,” Morgan said as she motored to the book pile on the desk. “Look. We have hours of work ahead of us. Let’s get started.” She grabbed the top book and opened it on her lap.
“I am not doing homework, Morgan, so you can just forget it!”
“Hey, listen. I’m just trying to help. If you don’t do this, you’l lose privileges.”
“Privileges?” Skye whined as she sat up straight and tucked her knees to her chest. “What privileges?
Al I need is a straitjacket and my life wil be complete.”
“I’m tel ing you for your own good. You’ve only spent a few hours at Maranatha since Monday, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“Wel , the individual counseling and group therapy can be intense, to say the least. Rebel ing like that wil only earn you more time with the counselors.
Then there are your riding privileges here at Keystone Stables. Are you sure you want to give up Champ for a week at a time? I can tel you’re already hooked on him.”
“No way. Just because I don’t do this stupid homework?”
“Duh! Yes with a capital Y-E-S!”
Skye just sat there.
Morgan reached toward the desk, searching for something. “Your assignments should be here somewhere.Wait, here they are,” she said, pul ing folded papers out of a book. “Wel ?” Skye’s face shriveled like a dried-up prune.
Marana-tha? Big deal. I can take anything they dish out to me.But lose Champ?
“Okay,” she snarled. She shuffled to the edge of the bed, scaring the dogs out of her path. “If you’re dumb enough to waste your time in here, I’l do it. But don’t offer to do me any more favors. I made it on my own this long and I’l make it on my own again. Got it?”
“Man, you’ve got a lot to learn and not just in school,”Morgan snapped as she motored toward the bed.
chapter seven
S kye decided the awfulness of living with the Chambers paled in comparison to what she suffered at Maranatha Treatment Center. The place was beyond awful as far as she was concerned.
She had a long history of counseling with tons of psychologists who had tried to figure her out. But Maranatha was different. It was a Christian counseling center supported by local churches and run on a shoestring budget. Skye thought it was dork central, but on the very first day Skye discovered her manipulative strategies wouldn’t work there. The place crawled with weirdos like Eileen Chambers.
Mrs. Chambers took a reluctant Skye from room to room to meet the staff.
“Skye,” said Mrs. Chambers as they walked into the front office, “I’d like you to meet Fred Scott, our program director. The Marines weren’t tough enough for him, so he decided to tackle this job.” Mr. Scott pushed his dark muscular frame away from his desk, stood, ran one powerful hand over his crew cut, and reached the other one toward Skye.
“I’m glad to meet you,” he said. His brown eyes sparkled behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Skye stuck her dead-fish hand in his. “Yeah,” she said.
Mrs. Chambers pointed to an adjoining room with a desk and computer. “That’s Mrs. Klase, our secretary, and our van driver, Mr. Boyer.”
“Hel o, Skye!” Mrs. Klase yel ed as her stubby fingers pecked at a keyboard. Her stare never left the monitor.
“Howdy do,” Mr. Boyer said.
In the next office, Skye met an older counselor named Alan Ling, who was from some Asian country.
Then there were the ten to fifteen kids like her meandering down the hal way or gathering in a large open room. At last Skye had found kindred spirits.
Red, yel ow, black, and white slouch champions, experts at talking back, highbrow liars, druggies, tire slashers, and hooky players. She might have to suffer through group counseling, but at least she had company.
Every day after that Skye met with Mr. Scott and the group in a room large enough for a circle of metal chairs to hug the center and cafeteria tables to line the wal s. This was Interactive Instructional
“And you are s o not welcome,” Morgan said as she motored to the book pile on the desk. “Look. We have hours of work ahead of us. Let’s get started.” She grabbed the top book and opened it on her lap.
“I am not doing homework, Morgan, so you can just forget it!”
“Hey, listen. I’m just trying to help. If you don’t do this, you’l lose privileges.”
“Privileges?” Skye whined as she sat up straight and tucked her knees to her chest. “What privileges?
Al I need is a straitjacket and my life wil be complete.”
“I’m tel ing you for your own good. You’ve only spent a few hours at Maranatha since Monday, right?”
“Yes . . .”
“Wel , the individual counseling and group therapy can be intense, to say the least. Rebel ing like that wil only earn you more time with the counselors.
Then there are your riding privileges here at Keystone Stables. Are you sure you want to give up Champ for a week at a time? I can tel you’re already hooked on him.”
“No way. Just because I don’t do this stupid homework?”
“Duh! Yes with a capital Y-E-S!”
Skye just sat there.
Morgan reached toward the desk, searching for something. “Your assignments should be here somewhere.Wait, here they are,” she said, pul ing folded papers out of a book. “Wel ?” Skye’s face shriveled like a dried-up prune.
Marana-tha? Big deal. I can take anything they dish out to me.But lose Champ?
“Okay,” she snarled. She shuffled to the edge of the bed, scaring the dogs out of her path. “If you’re dumb enough to waste your time in here, I’l do it. But don’t offer to do me any more favors. I made it on my own this long and I’l make it on my own again. Got it?”
“Man, you’ve got a lot to learn and not just in school,”Morgan snapped as she motored toward the bed.
chapter seven
S kye decided the awfulness of living with the Chambers paled in comparison to what she suffered at Maranatha Treatment Center. The place was beyond awful as far as she was concerned.
She had a long history of counseling with tons of psychologists who had tried to figure her out. But Maranatha was different. It was a Christian counseling center supported by local churches and run on a shoestring budget. Skye thought it was dork central, but on the very first day Skye discovered her manipulative strategies wouldn’t work there. The place crawled with weirdos like Eileen Chambers.
Mrs. Chambers took a reluctant Skye from room to room to meet the staff.
“Skye,” said Mrs. Chambers as they walked into the front office, “I’d like you to meet Fred Scott, our program director. The Marines weren’t tough enough for him, so he decided to tackle this job.” Mr. Scott pushed his dark muscular frame away from his desk, stood, ran one powerful hand over his crew cut, and reached the other one toward Skye.
“I’m glad to meet you,” he said. His brown eyes sparkled behind thick-rimmed glasses.
Skye stuck her dead-fish hand in his. “Yeah,” she said.
Mrs. Chambers pointed to an adjoining room with a desk and computer. “That’s Mrs. Klase, our secretary, and our van driver, Mr. Boyer.”
“Hel o, Skye!” Mrs. Klase yel ed as her stubby fingers pecked at a keyboard. Her stare never left the monitor.
“Howdy do,” Mr. Boyer said.
In the next office, Skye met an older counselor named Alan Ling, who was from some Asian country.
Then there were the ten to fifteen kids like her meandering down the hal way or gathering in a large open room. At last Skye had found kindred spirits.
Red, yel ow, black, and white slouch champions, experts at talking back, highbrow liars, druggies, tire slashers, and hooky players. She might have to suffer through group counseling, but at least she had company.
Every day after that Skye met with Mr. Scott and the group in a room large enough for a circle of metal chairs to hug the center and cafeteria tables to line the wal s. This was Interactive Instructional
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