The girl from fourth period shows me her molar. Jagged, cracked, abscess yellow as flax. I have an identical one, Upper 14, left quadrant. We use hand mirrors to compare them: their color and breakage, the way they jut into our sinuses, leaving us sleepless.

 

After careful evaluation she stretches her jaw wide, grasps the tooth securely with thumb and forefinger, and pulls. And pulls. And pulls until the gum bed relinquishes its captive, until her breath nestles hot in the hollow. She does not make a sound. 

 

Lunch is over. She sets the tooth on the desk as she leaves and it rolls, dots a bloody ellipse on the mock-wood surface. I drop it into my pocket, hear it clink against the jawline I am building, unwilling.

 

My husband wants me to see a specialist. He says I grind my teeth at night.