Dad always told me if I didn’t behave – “clean up my act” were his exact words, actually – that I would end up in a place like this. Meaning, reform school. Meaning, I’d get pummelled by some kid whose crimes far exceeded my rap sheet of sassing back and chronic failure to clean my room. Meaning, I would regret how good I once had it at home.
Until recently, I had managed to avoid such a fate.
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