As I climb the three steps leading to the front door of Pediatric Dentistry, I press the button on my car’s key fob repeatedly. I don’t want to forget to lock it the first time that I was allowed to drive all the way here by myself. I pull my phone out of my back pocket to text my mom that I made it and then tuck it back in, preparing myself for the hour of small talk and having my gums prodded. I sigh and reach out to pull open the door. It flies open and smacks my shoulder. Hard. “Excuse you.” A middle aged man with deep lines in his forehead scowls at me as he pushes past, holding a crying girl who looks to be about five in his arms. I mumble an apology and step back. I turn away, massaging my shoulder as I wait for him to turn into the parking lot. I slowly open the door once again, wincing as my shoulder contracts as I pull the cold, metallic handle. The fish tank is why I never want to leave this dentistry. It takes up most of the wall next to the receptionist’s nook and it must have been the inspiration for Finding Nemo. It’s much cleaner than that one, though. I tear my eyes away from the rainbow of feathery fish and print my name on the sign-in sheet in front of the receptionist, whose long nails are clacking a response to a very important text on her cell phone. She snaps her gum and looks up at me through large false eyelashes. I avoid her gaze and take the seat closest to the fish tank, absentmindedly smoothing down my hair. I can feel her gaze resting on me as I scan the tank for my favorite dark blue angelfish. Suddenly self-conscious, I reach for the most tolerable magazine on the strangely low table in front of me - a tattered National Geographic with a cover full of polar bear cubs from the year I was born.“Lucy?” An unfamiliar voice calls my name and I stand up quickly, peering around for the voice as I drop the magazine onto my chair. A hygienist I’ve never seen before is flipping through a clipboard and grins at me. I make my way to her and we start walking back through the patient rooms.“I’m Kristen. I just started here. You’re the oldest patient I’ve seen so far!” Kristen babbles happily as we enter the fourth room in the hallway - the one with bright, minty walls and a ceiling hung with several black and white twirling mobiles that catch the sun. I run my tongue over my teeth, checking for stray bits of food. There’s nothing more embarrassing than having a hygienist or dentist comment on what you must have had for lunch. I give Kristen a close-lipped smile as I slide into the smooth chair, my head crinkling the paper covering the headrest. If there’s a louse from the previous patient, this paper is not exactly going to protect me. She snaps the green disposable bib around my neck, making me feel helpless while she fumbles with the clip. She washes her hands and I take the opportunity to inspect the tray of metal tools laying next to me. Every time I come here I plan to find out what each of these sharp, shiny tools is for, and then as soon as I leave I forget.Kristen gingerly sits on the rolling stool next to my left arm and I realize that she’s been talking this entire time. She tosses the paper towel that she’s using to dry her hands into the trash can next to the door, pulls on gloves and a mask, and turns towards me, her eyes crinkled downward into their natural state of smiling. I wonder if she practices smiling this widely into a mirror every night. “Okay, let’s see those teeth!” I stretch open my mouth into what I hope does not resemble Munch’s The Scream. Kristen prods at my gumline with a pointed tool, angling a small mirror against my top teeth to get a good look. I really don’t like the sound of the scrapes against my teeth so I focus in on what she’s saying. “... so we picked her up from the kennel but I don’t think she’s been the same since we went on that trip. But Bermuda was so pretty - I’d do it again!” She chuckles to herself. “Anyway, where do you want to go on vacation this summer?”I point at her fingers in my mouth and breathe a short laugh. I would have told her Barcelona if I could have spoken. I would have said that the artwork and patatas bravas and the Sagrada Familia are all I’ve been telling my parents about for the past two years, and they finally agreed to take me the summer before I leave for college. But I can’t speak.“I try to go on a few trips every summer because if I stay trapped at home then I just get sad thinking about my old camp. I went for twelve summers and then worked for three, but after college I had to stop. You have to go into the real world eventually, you know?” Kristen babbles on. “I think that’s why I wanted to be a hygienist. My favorite Twin Lakes counselor was a girl named Tammy, and she was in school for it.”My jaw drops a little bit. A little dribble of spit falls over my lower lip onto my bib. I pretend not to notice it. I went to Twin Lakes for three summers in a row. I still remember the firepit song and how we raced to make our beds fastest every morning, the winner getting to wear a huge plastic crown around the camp all day. Everyone was supposed to bow as they saw you approaching. Having that crown placed on my head the day before we went home has been seared into my brain - my face turned hot then to a frown then to a small smile, at first turning away when a boy counselor bowed deeply and by the end of the day bowing back at people, skipping around the grounds happily. That was the day I forgot to be embarrassed by the spotlight. I want to tell Kristen that we have this connection. I want to talk about the canoeing race and ask if we knew any of the same people and if she ever got to wear the crown. But her tools are still scratching at my molars. I don’t say anything.A minute later, she clinks the mirror and scraper back onto the metal tray and reaches for the spit-sucking device and the little brush for the fluoride treatment. My mouth is free for a moment - this is my chance to tell her. I wiggle my stiff jaw, run my tongue over my lips, moistening the cracked and dry spots that developed from keeping my mouth open for too long. I watch her change her gloves and pluck a generous piece of floss from the roll, then masterfully twist it around her fingers. She turns back towards me. I open my mouth. The moment is lost. She begins to gently thread the floss between my teeth, her mouth twisted to one side in concentration. The brief lull of conversation brings us both to our own thoughts. I make a mental note to smack myself later - why did I not speak up? I clench my eyes and curl my toes in their tightly laced Converse until they hurt from the pressure. I hold my toes like that for another few seconds before releasing. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. I open my eyes and search the room for something else to focus on. I begin to count the ceiling tiles starting with the browning, weak square in the corner. It’s clear that someone tried to cover the ugliness with a coat of paint, but the persistent damage is peeking out through it. To fix it, they will need to replace the entire block of spotted ceiling squares. Four, eight, twelve, sixteen. I continue to count the tiles, starting over with different multiples each time I finish. A vibration jolts me back to earth. I wiggle around so the phone isn’t pressing so deeply into the chair and the buzzing stops reverberating through my body into Kristen’s fingers. I’m immediately pulled into the swarm of thoughts that I’ve been suppressing in favor of observing the ceiling. The buzzing reminds me that I have to head to the restaurant in an hour. It’s Thursday, so none of my work friends will be there with me. Hopefully the dinner rush will be bigger tonight than last Thursday so I have an excuse to stay out of the kitchen. “Lucy? Which flavor?” My eyes snap open. “Flavor?” “This is your last fluoride treatment! We stop giving them to patients when they turn eighteen and I see that your birthday is in a couple of weeks, so any preference?” She seems a little too excited about my fluoride experience. “Regular mint should be fine,” I mumble. She begins scooping the paste onto her gloved finger and wipes a dollop onto the brush. I lean back and open my mouth again as she coats my teeth with the metallic paste. “You seem to be looking fine but I have to grab Dr. Callahan to give the official okay so you can head out. Any questions before I get him? Which color toothbrush do you want? Need me to check anything else out? Want a prize?” Kristen avoids my gaze as she gives a fake laugh. She reaches for the plastic container of trinkets for little kids and pulls off her mask a little too hard; it tugs on one ear and slaps against her cheek. I study her face. She is no longer smiling, and her appearance of friendly professionalism has disappeared. She just sits there, in another world. Something is wrong. She is not eager to get the dentist. I play along and continue the conversation. “Any color is fine. Do you think drugstore whitening strips work for my teeth?” I ask the most unobtrusive question I can think of. She breathes in deeply through her nose and exhales, plastering on a smile before turning to me and answering my question. She starts to explain the difference between assorted teeth whitening brands, but I am focused on her face instead of her words. The creased forehead, the scrunched brows, the pinched and solemn lips. She speaks slowly, letting each word take twice the time it typically would. I want to ask her more questions. I want her to stay in this room with me, protected by her proximity to a patient. I want to help her. Because I think I know what she’s hiding from.“Sorry, that turned into a bit of a rant about tooth whitening,” Kristen says, peeling off her purplish gloves with a snap.“But yes, the generic Walgreens brand is your best bet. You definitely don’t need it though! Your teeth are gorgeous.” The lid of the trashcan echoes a sharp shriek as it sucks them in. “I’ll tell the dentist you’re ready for him and then come back with your toothbrush.” She walks out. I lay my head against the headrest, aware of the unpleasant pressure of the base of my ponytail pushing deeply into my skull. Why didn’t I tell her about our shared memory? Why am I always afraid of making these connections? We clearly have a lot more in common than Twin Lakes. Dr. Callahan even looks a little bit like Chef Jeff. Last Thursday at the restaurant was the worst by far. I had been on hostess duty for the first hour or two, enjoying managing the lists and observing the hustle and bustle. I don’t even mind the lack of tips when I’m working the desk. The hostess never has to go into the kitchen. I was straightening the stack of loose menus after seating a loud group of middle aged women wearing bright orange bowling shirts when Jorgi, the assistant manager, pushed an apron into my hand and asked me to wait tables. I filled up three pages of my server pad with orders before I started getting curious looks from Jorgi. Picking up a couple of glasses from the bowling league’s table, I set my face and finally made myself push open the door to the kitchen. “Lucy! How are you?” Dr. Callahan, the dentist, strides in. I paste a smile onto my face and look into his strangely bright blue eyes. I cross my arms over my chest. “How’s the college search going?” “It’s good. I’m still trying to fit in a few more tours before I start applying.” I’ve learned that short generic sentences are the best approach to shutting down a conversation, fast. “I just can’t believe how hard they make this for all you kids today. When I was applying, we just had to write out an essay and mail it in! Open up.” He chuckles at his own memory and his cold, fat gloved fingers run over my gums. He angles the mirror, searches for cavities. Avoiding eye contact, I stare into the light fixture until my eyes begin to water and I press them closed once again. The kitchen doors swung open. I dropped the glasses into the bucket next to the sink full of dirty plates and knives. Chef Jeff was alone in his workstation, focused on artfully arranging little piles of chopped tomatoes on toasted bread for bruschetta, the garlic smell strong and pungent, as I clipped the orders onto the bar above the main chef’s table. He heard the snap and turned. “How’s it going, baby?” His greasy, low voice hung in the air. Nobody else heard him over the clatter.. “Fine.” “Fine? Give me a little more than that. Come over here, I gotta show you something.” He nodded toward the plate in front of him. I smoothed my apron down with my sweaty palms and slowly approached. When I reached an arm’s-length distance from him, Jeff grabbed my elbow and pulled me forward so my belly smashed the edge of the cold, metal table. His hand left my elbow and reached it towards... “Lucy! Open!” Dr. Callahan is glaring at me. Oops. I had bit down on his finger. I gingerly release my jaw and apologize. He raises his right eyebrow at me apprehensively and then moves the mirror toward the back of my mouth, continuing to examine my gums. I close my eyes again. I walked out of the kitchen twelve minutes later. I slowly placed the sickeningly huge plate of nachos on the bowlers’ table and then leaned on the hostess stand, staring at the floor. Jorgi looked up from the computer. “You okay? What’s going on with you today?” Jorgi is the most professional person I’ve ever met. I knew I could have told her what was going on. She would have immediately walked into the kitchen and told the head chef to ask him for his hat. He would have done so. I chewed on my lip. “Nothing. Just a little tired.” I dismissed her concern. And two days later it happened again. That marked the twenty-third time. Why didn’t I speak up? There was no hand in my mouth. Nothing was stopping me. Suddenly claustrophobic, I begin to cough. Dr. Callahan retracts his hands. “Okay, everything looks good here. Kristen, can you finish up?” He nods toward the door. Kristen appears. Dr. Callahan’s lips purse slightly and his eyes darken. She edges into the room, bumping into him as he is standing all too close to the door. His gaze drops from their eyeline for a moment. She turns red and quickens her pace, sitting down next to me on the rolling chair. A burst of hatred sparks up in my chest like the first kernel of popcorn exploding in the microwave - unexpected and exhilarating. I hate Jeff. I hate Dr. Callahan. But I’m not the only one. “How did it go? Will we be seeing you again soon?” Kristen begins loading up a small plastic bag with the usual goodies - a bright green toothbrush, a tiny roll of mint-flavored floss, a travel-sized toothpaste bottle, a mini red bouncy ball, and the brochure about oral hygiene that I’ve never had the pleasure of reading. She fumbles with the items for a moment before pausing and exhaling a long breath through her nose. She opens her eyes and stares ahead, her face absolutely expressionless. I want to grab hold of her slightly shaking hand. I want to give her a hug. I want to tell her that we are going through the same thing, and I want to make a pact that we will both speak up and make it stop. I look up at her and smile. My voice is low but strong. “I went to Twin Lakes, too.”