Teeth Read Free Page A

die with cuts full of salt water.
    “This brie is phenomenal,” my dad says.
    Ms. Delaney slices neatly through her fish. “Linda Curlin, who lives down on the north tip? She makes it from Sam’s milk, but of course it isn’t available every week.” She keeps chattering about the amazing apples she got from the marketplace last week, but while she makes small talk her eyes jitterbug from her plate and my parents back to her daughter, like she thinks any minute Diana will get up and run out the door.
    Diana chews each bite of food a zillion times before she swallows. Her teeth are straight and perfect. Each sip she takes from her water glass seems to take a lifetime. I don’t know how she does it. I want to shake her, or throw something at the wall. I at least get to go home to a house that isn’t made of right angles and wade through my brother’s toys. She stays here.
    I want to take her by the wrist and pull her outside.
    The conversation stays appropriately dull until Dylan faints, likely just from boredom, but my parents make a big deal out of scooping him up and making him drink water until he feels better. At home we’re so used to Dylan fainting that we barely blink. Half the time he does it for attention. He’s a clever little bastard. It doesn’t usually work at home, but here at least it’s something to talk about besides what fruit was good at the marketplace this week, so yeah, it looks like we’re letting him get away with it.
    Mom fusses over him for a minute, and Ms. Delaney murmurs “Poor thing” and “I hope he’s all right.” Diana looks kind of fascinated. Ms. Delaney is averting her eyes the way people think they’re supposed to, like Dylan has an extra head and it’s rude to stare, when, come on, he’s five years old, he wants you to look at him. And Diana does, smiling at him like he’s a little kid.
    Dylan starts whining and reaching his hands out to me, so Mom drops him into my lap. I feed him fish off my plate and he keeps the fingers of my other hand trapped in his fist. It means only one of us can eat, but I’m not a big fan of the fish, to be honest. I’ve only had it a few times. It’s expensive, and we need to save ours for Dyl. But the bit I ate tonight should beat off that cold I’ve been brewing, so there’s that. I stuff all I can into the kid on my lap.
    “Has the fish been helping him?” Ms. Delaney asks. She’s still not looking at him. Diana nudges the salt and peppershakers toward Dylan. I start to motion that he’s fine, and then he grabs the shakers off the table and starts marching them like they’re soldiers. Diana smiles.
    Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are citing all the improvements in Dylan that they’ve only whispered to each other, like they’re afraid getting too excited will scare it all away. (Dyl and I keep track of them and high-five and say everything out loud, thanks.) “His color’s better,” Mom says. “He doesn’t get blue nearly as often as he used to, and chest percussion doesn’t take as long. And we’ve even gotten a few words out of him. We’ve always had the hardest time getting him to talk, but now he’s getting brave enough to use some of his air for that.”
    The Delaneys look at Dylan like they’re expecting him to suddenly explode into the Gettysburg Address. Yeah, he isn’t a trained monkey, and he just fainted . Give him a break.
    He reaches for another bite of my fish, oblivious, and his back pushes against my chest as he breathes. He’s not a great listener for a five-year-old, and we blame it on the breathing, but really I think he just acts like a bitch sometimes because he knows he can get away with anything. He flashes me that fucking smile of his. This kid can knock you dead.
    He hands me the pepper shaker, and I play with him. He keeps knocking his shaker against mine like he’s trying to beat it up, so I let mine fall over. He laughs, then coughs a little, and Dad glances over at me.
    I apologize to Dylan,