Saturday, 9:39 P.M.
In breaking news situations, a responsible journalist gathers as many facts as possible to avoid jumping to conclusions and subsequently freaking out. Those of us in the business call it gathering the five W’s: Who, What, Where, When, and Why.
Allow me.
Who: Me.
What: A warm white light pouring over me. Head throbbing. Mom, murmuring my name from far away.
Where: Last time I checked, a busted warehouse.
When: Sometime after Molly’s lame-turned-amazing birthday party.
Why: Isn’t it obvious? A warm white light? I’M. DEAD.
“Kacey. Kacey.” Now it was a man’s voice, deep and gravelly. My eyelids fluttered open and I stared directly into the light.
“God?” I whispered.
Only it came out sounding more like this: Mraaaaaw? Because there was something thick and dry and fluffy stuffed in my cheeks, which were numb. And my jaw was throbbing more painfully than the time I did sixty-five minutes of live coverage on last semester’s Lunch Lady Mutiny.
I tried to lift my hand to massage my jaw, but it was as heavy as lead.
“Kacey.” A hand pressed down on my shoulder, and I squirmed beneath it, jerking away from the light. It wasn’t my time! I hadn’t gotten to do all the things I wanted to do before I graduated from middle school. Like revolutionize broadcast television! Off-stage smooch Quinn Wilder! Finish the entire Big Daddy cupcake at Sugar Daddy to get my name on the chalkboard over the register!
“Here she is.” Mom’s warm breath tickled my ear, and the white light dimmed. Then I felt the heavy plastic frames settling onto the bridge of my nose. I tried to scream, but nothing came out.
“Welcome back, kiddo.” A dark shadow leaned between me and the light, and tiny gold fireworks exploded in front of my pupils as my eyes adjusted. The sharp, skinny red and white stripes came into focus first. Then came the navy cursive embroidery that read MARVIN HAUSSMAN, D.D.S.
Not God. Just my too-nerdy-to-live dentist, who said things like “kiddo” (and once, “okie dokie, artichokie,” which should be grounds for a malpractice suit).
“What’s going on?” I murmured groggily, which sounded more like Mraaaaaaw mraaaaaw mraw mraw?
Luckily Mom read my mind. “You fell at Molly’s party,” she said gently, her fingertips grazing my throbbing cheek. It reminded me of when I was a little kid, and home sick from school. “Looks like you chipped a molar. Dr. Haussman was nice enough to meet us at his office to take a look.”
“My pleasure, Sterling.” Dr. Haussman slid on his wire-rimmed glasses and leaned over the exam chair. “All righty, little lady, let’s get those cotton balls out of your mouth. Then we can talk about our options.” As Marvin Haussman, D.D.S., leaned over and pulled out the cotton balls, his silk sleeve grazed my cheek. This must have triggered some sort of PTSD flashback, because suddenly, the entire night came screaming back at warp speed, with sound and everything. And I saw the Sunday morning headline in cold, hard black and white: WORLD’S YOUNGEST BLIND JOURNALIST TRIPS OVER SHAGGY-HAIRED HOTTIE DURING STEAMY PRE-KISS DANCE-OFF; HELD HOSTAGE BY DORKY DENTIST IN SILK JAMMIES.
I screamed and bolted upright, slamming my head into the overhead exam light.
“Kacey!” Mom gasped. “Careful!”
“Owwwwwwwwwww!” I bellowed, collapsing back into the chair. But the pain in my head and mouth was nothing compared to the pain of knowing that Quinn Wilder had seen the fall. Was he having second thoughts about me? About us?
“Easy, kiddo.” Dr. Haussman’s potbelly shook when he chuckled.
Oh, is this funny to you? I wanted to scream. Is my public humiliation amusing?
“Now let’s get you upright so we can chat.” The exam chair hummed beneath me.
I raked my hands through my hair. How could he be so calm at a time like this? He had no idea what it felt like for a public figure to hit rock bottom.
“Believe it or not, it’s a good thing you fell when you did.” Dr. Haussman cleared his throat. The middle button on his pajama top shimmied dangerously, threatening to free itself from the buttonhole. “Forced me to take a look at your wisdom teeth, which are coming in very tight. They’re altering the alignment of your entire mouth.”
The exam light was starting to make me sweat. “Is there a point to this?”
“Kacey, let Dr. Haussman finish.” The sympathetic cushion to Mom’s voice was starting to deflate.
“The point is that you’re going to need orthodontic work to address these concerns, or I’m afraid you’ll see a fairly severe maxillary prognathism in the next few years.”
“Translation?” I jerked my head toward Mom. I hated it when adults used big words. It was like when some people were just trying to help certain geometry teachers by politely mentioning that short-sleeved shirts with dancing patriotic teddy bears on them should be reserved for pediatric nurses and insane cat ladies. And then certain geometry teachers sent a note home threatening disciplinary remediation. Which was PSAT for detention.
Mom pressed her lips together like she was blotting her lipstick. “You need braces, or you’ll end up with an overbite,” she said gently, interlacing her fingers with mine and squeezing.
My entire body went tingly, then completely numb, as if Dr. Haussman had just injected me with a giant shot of Novocain.
“Due to the placement of your wisdom teeth, Invisalign isn’t an option,” Dr. Haussman said from somewhere far away. “You’ll need braces, plus a night retainer and headgear.”
Dazed, I stared at the reflection of the bug-eyed tortoiseshell frames in Mom’s eyes. They invaded my face. That girl wasn’t me. Her cheeks were puffy, her eyes glazed over. Her hair was matted to her head. She was… ugly. I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.
“Mom,” I managed, squeezing her hand. “No. Please.” She had to understand. If I ever showed up at school looking like this, everyone would abandon me. Just like Dad abandoned her. Us.
“I’m sorry, Kacey. This is just something we’re going to have to do.”
“But… I can’t.” Hot anger churned in my gut. Stop him, Mom. Please.
“Kacey,” Mom said gently. “It’s just braces, sweetheart.”
But I knew she was lying. It was never just braces. First you got braces. Then you lost your television show because the camera guy was blinded by your braces, which was an occupational hazard. Then Quinn Wilder decided not to like you anymore, because who wanted to stage-kiss a girl with metal welded to her teeth? Then the rest of the school decided not to like you, because Quinn Wilder’s hair tosses were very persuasive. Fast-forward a few years, and you were reading the lotto numbers on basic cable somewhere in one of the Dakotas because no one else would even look at you, let alone hire you as a journalist.
Clearly, Dr. Haussman didn’t understand this unavoidable chain of events, either. Or else he wouldn’t have snapped on his little paper mask and said the two most torturous words in the English language:
“Open wide.”