Flash-back to when I was seven:
I was trying to answer test question number thirteen: Who was the second President of the United States of America? I couldn’t remember who the second President of the United States of America was, so I chewed on the end of my pencil because sometimes that helped. And it did. I went to write down John Adams and there was my tooth stuck in the eraser.
The kids around me screamed because some blood gushed out and landed on my test paper in perfectly round splatters. Mrs. Johnson marched over to see what all the fuss was about.
“Mr. Peters,” she barked. “What did you do?”
“I lost my first tooth!” I waved the tooth pencil over my head like a trophy.
She got me a wad of tissues, which I chomped down on to stop the bleeding. She did not give me a new test paper. I guess teachers don't let a little blood slow them down.
Jimmy told me I had to tell my dad because, apparently, there is some mysterious protocol you must follow in order for your tooth to morph into cold, hard cash. He also told me he got five dollars for his first tooth. Charles said he got twenty, but he also said he had a llama in his basement.
“Dad! I lost a tooth!” I said when I got home from school.
“Let me see, Son.”
I showed him my tooth pencil.
“Yep, that’s a tooth alright.”
Apparently, I didn’t follow proper protocol because the next morning the only thing under my pillow was the tooth pencil.
“The Tooth Fairy didn't come last night,” I said to my dad at breakfast.
“The Tooth Fairy?” He choked on his coffee and some dribbled down his chin. “You better, um, check again.”
I stood up.
“After breakfast!” He mumbled something under his breath as he stumbled out of the kitchen.
Sure enough, when I checked again, there was a quarter under my pillow. One, lone, dull quarter.
Flash-forward to now:
I’m eleven and just lost my last baby tooth. Am I excited? Let’s just say, the Tooth Fairy has left me a grand total of ninety-five cents in exchange for nineteen teeth. Which comes out to a whopping five cents per tooth.
“Lost my last baby tooth,” I tell my dad.
“You still had a baby tooth?” he says.
I put the molar under my pillow because I guess hope never dies. It has a silver filling in it because after I kept getting stiffed by the Tooth Fairy, I quit flossing in protest, which didn’t get me anything except a silver filling in my molar.
The next morning, I look under my pillow and lo and behold . . . nothing.
“Gotta run,” says my dad as he barrels out the door.
I grumble as I eat breakfast. I grumble as I brush my teeth. I grumble when I go to my room and grab my backpack. I grumble when I look under my pillow one last time because, apparently, I like to torture myself, and lo and behold . . .
A hundred dollar bill!
And a note:
Sorry I was derelict in my duty all these years. Hope you can forgive me. Sincerely, The Tooth Fairy.
On a side note, apparently the Tooth Fairy writes just like my dad . . .