“Sure you can get a prize,” says the hygienist. “You know, even high schoolers like temporary tattoos and stuff.”
I climb out of the dentist chair and put my hand in the prize bucket. I pull out a bath toy duck.
My mouth feels sore, but my teeth feel smooth when I rub my tongue against them.
As she walks me to the waiting room, I tell her something I know, “Did you know that some day we will grow new teeth instead of having them drilled when they get cavities?”
“Really?” she says, disinterested.
“What would you do for a job then if you don’t have to drill people’s mouths?”
She looks at me for a moment, then says, “See you in six months,” and opens the door to the waiting area.
I sit down, and my mom goes to the counter to schedule my next appointment. August seems so far away.
I check out my prize. The duck’s beak is more red than orange, and her eyes have a scratch on the left side.
When I get her home, I fill the tub for a bath. The duck won’t stand up straight when I drop her in. She floats on her side, no matter how many times I set her upright in the water.
I hold her under the surface for a while, and when I let her go, she pops up.
Maybe when it warms up we can take my duck to the creek and drop her from the bridge. She won’t get stuck in an eddy or tangled in the beaver dam. She will travel on and on, and I will run alongside the water.
Sometimes in the parking lot at the grocery store, I see people keep ducks on the dashboard of their jeep. My duck is plain, but the ducks I see are decorated with Hawaiian leis or wear army jackets and dog tags.
My three year old brother walks into my room, picks up the duck from my bedside table and puts it in his mouth. “No, no, no, that’s my duck,” I say kindly.
“Oh, just let him have it,” my mom calls from the other room.
I look at the kid with my prize in his mouth.
My duck
Not his
I grab the duck out of his sticky hand, running to the bathroom and slamming the door, locking myself inside. I pass the duck under the water, rinsing the drool off her beak.
Kids shouldn’t chew on stuff like this, I think. They’ll get microplastics in their mouth.
I hear him crying in the other room. He wants my duck. My mom turns the TV on for him. I can hear the Mickey Mouse theme song start up. I hate this song, I think.
“Mickey sucks,” I say out loud.
I immediately wish I hadn’t.
Shana Naugle is an adjunct professor and a mother living in the Midwest.