by Nan Claire Falkner
I was 11 years old, sitting in the dental office waiting for my last turn of torture. The clock shouted to me: “You’re next, you’re Next, YOU’RE NEXT!”
Dr. Nams had gone to school with my parents. She was an excellent dentist – with one exception: She didn’t use novocaine. White lightning, excruciating pain took over my body. Every tooth in my mouth had fillings. I had been at Dr. Nams’ office every Saturday for a year.
Before I left the office, she said “You get your braces next week!”
“Oh, three more years?” I whispered, tearing.
“We’ll see dear!”