Dimples

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. Personally, what I would like to divulge in is my recent visit to the Orthodontist’s office in which my top braces were removed and my life was changed forevermore. My name is Elijah Goodman and this is the story that coincidentally began with last month’s issue of Cat Fancy.



The synthesizer music that the ortho assistants seem to love so much drifts over the waiting room where I sit, my foot bopping up and down. The smell of teeth glue and latex gloves and new industrial-grade carpet soaks into the shirt I’ve been wearing for the past 4 days.

My mom decided it was high time for me to face the washing machine and do my own laundry. Needless to say, I won’t be wearing clean clothes for a long time. It isn’t like I’m helpless, I’m just lazy and hygiene isn’t exactly placed high on my list of priorities. And besides, mom’s a compulsive cleaner and she won’t be able to help herself from doing my laundry once again. That perfectionist side of her will not tolerate any sort of body odor from any man, woman, or child in her house. She’d probably disown me if I decided deodorant was against my new belief system, or at the very least she’d give herself a nose bleed.

I smirk and turn the page of the magazine I’m not actually reading. It’s just something to do, turn the page every few seconds. Wait for my name so I may be lured in to the white pleather recliner chairs. My top braces come off today. I’m pretty jonsed. Half way to being a stud. Oh yeah.

The door to the chairs of torture and colored rubber bands opens and an elderly lady pokes her head out. “Elijah?”

“Yup.” I toss the magazine onto the closest table and heave myself out of the chair.

Ready or not, here I come.



I come out about half an hour later paranoid that I have blue glue all over my tongue and with newly slimy pearly whites. I wipe the leftover spit around my mouth and glance at the school-style clock on the wall. Mom won’t be here for another ten minutes.

I sigh and drop down into an open chair, grabbing the nearest magazine and flipping it open. After paging through it for a while and not seeing a word, I look around the room. There’s a woman with her two pre-teen girls slapping the crap out of each other, a grandfatherly looking man waiting patiently while leaning on his cane, a father and his son staring blankly at the walls. Exciting bunch.

Then I look to my right and I see the giant face of a cat. A huge fuzzy face with a squished in nose.

I flinch away from the cover of Cat Fancy and then peer over the magazine to see the reader. A girl's staring intently at the pages and she doesn’t appear to be paying attention to anything else that’s going on. However, being a dude led by my tiny, trusty steed, I feel the need to spew out words of charm to allure this fine specimen. This all has something to do with ‘the urge to procreate’ when one happens upon a worthy female. Ridiculous, but impossible to resist. “Cat Fancy?” Smooth. Great job, Mr. Charmer. This is why you’ve had every girl in the school, you sex god, you.

The girl’s eyes slide from the magazine over to my face. She briefly looks in my eyes and then at my magazine. “Cosmogirl?” She turns back to Cat Fancy.

My eyes drop and it appears as though I’m looking at a tampon ad.

Yep. Sex god. Turnin’ on the charm.

“Um…” I clear my throat and fumble the magazine onto the table. “Yeah. Y’know, just thought I’d check it out… For my… Sister.”

“Your sister, huh?” She says, still engrossed in her kitty cats.

I clear my throat again, attempting to make it deeper. “Yeah.”

She licks her thumb and turns a page with it. “I’m inclined to think you don’t have a sister.”

Gack.

“...You think I would lie to you?”

“Why, yes. Yes I do. Normal boys don’t chat up girls when they’re looking at tampon ads for their sisters. Normal boys don’t look at tampon ads, period.”

“Well, I’m not normal.”

She turns her face to me and I swallow the lump in my throat as she runs her eyes through my guts. “Uh huh.” She’s back to the cats.

“…My name’s Elijah by the way,” I proffer.

“Mm,” she responds and says nothing more.

…

Everything’s quiet now so I awkwardly pick up a Times magazine and wish she would talk to me.

…Wait.

No. You don’t need her to talk to you. She’s hooked. She’ll ask for your phone number any second now.

…

Any second now…

I slap Times back down on the side table.

The door opens. “Luisa?”

The girl looks up and nods. Then she sets her magazine down on the table and walks to the door. My eyes follow her there. “-Wait—What’s your name?”

Really, kid? REALLY?

She turns around and raises her eyebrows. “Luisa.” And she disappears through the door.
…

I groan and throw my head over the back of the chair.

…

Smooth.

Real smooth.