lot?”
“Yeah.”
“I can tell. Have you been feeling stressed?” Concern showed on his face, though I couldn’t be sure if it was concern for me or for my teeth. Possibly both.
“I guess. My dad, you know. And moving back.”
“I’m so sorry about your dad, Arden. I would have gone to the service, but I didn’t know they were having it in Quincy. Everyone thought there would be something here in town.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It all happened pretty fast. I didn’t really have time to tell anyone.”
“My mom took flowers,” he said, “out to the cemetery. We were all thinking of you, worrying about you. Lauren tried to track you down. She wanted to call, but she couldn’t find a current phone number.”
Lauren. I hadn’t spoken to her in so long.
“Thank you,” I said, “for the flowers, and everything. I’m all right, though, really. Just a lot going on.” I was still reclined in the chair, and it was a bit uncomfortable talking to him this way, like I was on a therapist’s couch.
“Well, you might want to think about getting a mouth guard to wear at night, at least until your stress levels ease up. You don’t need a crown, but I’ll have to grind down the sharp edge.” He pulled the instrument tray closer.
I tried to sit up. “How much will it cost?”
“Relax,” he said. “This one’s on me. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can pay.”
Ben smiled. “I know, but I won’t let you. I have a favor to ask, and this is my way of buttering you up.”
He leaned in, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t been in such close proximity to a man since Dr. Endicott. I instinctively pressed my arm against my ribs, the scars from my accident hidden like squirmy things on the underside of a log. I tried to keep my eyes closed while Ben worked, though it was hard not to stare at him, to compare this version of him to the one in my memory. It was similar, in a way, to viewing age-progressed images of the twins—the disconcerting sense that I was looking at a stranger who bore a slight resemblance to someone I’d loved. Ben’s hair was cut short, no longer sticking up every which way, and his face had lost its boyish softness. Dark stubble covered the acne scars along his jawline, and I remembered how badly he had wanted to grow a mustache the summer after sixth grade. We had ridden our bikes to the public pool almost every day that summer, and on the way home we would sometimes stop at an abandoned house at the edge of the woods, though I knew Grammy watched the clock and worried the entire time I was gone.
“I wish I could shave,” Ben had said one afternoon. We had spread our beach towels out on the sloping back porch of the house. If we lay down flat on our stomachs, we couldn’t see above the weeds.
“Why?” I asked. “It looks painful.” The one time I had watched my father shave, he’d nicked himself, the razor dragging a swath of blood down his neck.
“We’re gonna be in junior high. All the other guys are already shaving.”
“No, they’re not,” I said. “If they say they are, they’re probably lying.”
I was already resigned to the fact that I was a late bloomer. My body refused to exhibit any of the signs of womanhood I’d been promised in the health class film that the girls had watched while the boys were sent outside to play baseball. Some of the girls in my class had been wearing training bras since fourth grade, and many had graduated to real ones. That spring, I had fretted over the hard knots of tissue that had developed beneath the skin of my flat chest. Convinced that cancerous tumors were growing inside me, I had reluctantly confided in my mother. She had rolled over to grab a bottle of muscle relaxants from her nightstand, irritated that I’d woken her. It was four in the afternoon.
It’s not cancer,
she’d snorted, tapping a pill into her palm.
Don’t they teach you this stuff at school?
“Yeah.”
“I can tell. Have you been feeling stressed?” Concern showed on his face, though I couldn’t be sure if it was concern for me or for my teeth. Possibly both.
“I guess. My dad, you know. And moving back.”
“I’m so sorry about your dad, Arden. I would have gone to the service, but I didn’t know they were having it in Quincy. Everyone thought there would be something here in town.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It all happened pretty fast. I didn’t really have time to tell anyone.”
“My mom took flowers,” he said, “out to the cemetery. We were all thinking of you, worrying about you. Lauren tried to track you down. She wanted to call, but she couldn’t find a current phone number.”
Lauren. I hadn’t spoken to her in so long.
“Thank you,” I said, “for the flowers, and everything. I’m all right, though, really. Just a lot going on.” I was still reclined in the chair, and it was a bit uncomfortable talking to him this way, like I was on a therapist’s couch.
“Well, you might want to think about getting a mouth guard to wear at night, at least until your stress levels ease up. You don’t need a crown, but I’ll have to grind down the sharp edge.” He pulled the instrument tray closer.
I tried to sit up. “How much will it cost?”
“Relax,” he said. “This one’s on me. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “I can pay.”
Ben smiled. “I know, but I won’t let you. I have a favor to ask, and this is my way of buttering you up.”
He leaned in, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t been in such close proximity to a man since Dr. Endicott. I instinctively pressed my arm against my ribs, the scars from my accident hidden like squirmy things on the underside of a log. I tried to keep my eyes closed while Ben worked, though it was hard not to stare at him, to compare this version of him to the one in my memory. It was similar, in a way, to viewing age-progressed images of the twins—the disconcerting sense that I was looking at a stranger who bore a slight resemblance to someone I’d loved. Ben’s hair was cut short, no longer sticking up every which way, and his face had lost its boyish softness. Dark stubble covered the acne scars along his jawline, and I remembered how badly he had wanted to grow a mustache the summer after sixth grade. We had ridden our bikes to the public pool almost every day that summer, and on the way home we would sometimes stop at an abandoned house at the edge of the woods, though I knew Grammy watched the clock and worried the entire time I was gone.
“I wish I could shave,” Ben had said one afternoon. We had spread our beach towels out on the sloping back porch of the house. If we lay down flat on our stomachs, we couldn’t see above the weeds.
“Why?” I asked. “It looks painful.” The one time I had watched my father shave, he’d nicked himself, the razor dragging a swath of blood down his neck.
“We’re gonna be in junior high. All the other guys are already shaving.”
“No, they’re not,” I said. “If they say they are, they’re probably lying.”
I was already resigned to the fact that I was a late bloomer. My body refused to exhibit any of the signs of womanhood I’d been promised in the health class film that the girls had watched while the boys were sent outside to play baseball. Some of the girls in my class had been wearing training bras since fourth grade, and many had graduated to real ones. That spring, I had fretted over the hard knots of tissue that had developed beneath the skin of my flat chest. Convinced that cancerous tumors were growing inside me, I had reluctantly confided in my mother. She had rolled over to grab a bottle of muscle relaxants from her nightstand, irritated that I’d woken her. It was four in the afternoon.
It’s not cancer,
she’d snorted, tapping a pill into her palm.
Don’t they teach you this stuff at school?
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