Chapter 3: Rising Action
I look at the silver table laden with menacing instruments, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Despite the sleek design of the modern waiting room and the upbeat instrumentals playing overhead, this dental clinic can't escape its unnerving reputation. I hear a soft click behind me as Dr. Jameson enters the room with a friendly smile—and a set of metal muzzles, more commonly known as braces in hand.
I shiver involuntarily at their sight, running my hands over my long dark hair.
"You know I'm not a fan of these things," I remind him for what feels like the hundredth time.
"I understand, Olivia, but you need them." Dr. Jameson moves closer, brushing his short black hair away from his sharp features. His voice maintains its usual calm and professional edge, but I can swear he seems almost sympathetic.
"I already have a perfect smile," I argue quietly, slightly pouting – a move that usually gets me my way. But not this time.
The skilled orthodontist has his mind made up. Gathering his tools, he gently places his hands on my face. I force myself not to pull away, averting my gaze from the tray of metal and wires, making it hard to breathe, let alone think. The feeling of cold metal against my skin only added to my rising anxiety.
"Open wide, Olivia," Dr. Jameson requests, donning a pair of dark-framed glasses. I reluctantly obey, secretly hoping he changes his mind.
"Great.
Now just bite down on this for me," Dr. Jameson murmurs while positioning an uncomfortable plastic mold in my mouth. After a moment, he asks me to relax my jaw, and I exhale with relief. "Perfect!" he exclaims, before applying the metal brackets on each tooth. With each click, I feel a sense of frustration growing in my chest. Why do I have to wear these? I silently wonder.
My teeth feel confined, with the brackets on each tooth already having been applied. I can hardly respond, even if I had something to say. Dr. Jameson connects the metal wires through the brackets. I feel like the wires are intruding in my personal space, a constant reminder that I don't have control over my life or my mouth anymore.
"You really need to open your mouth wider, Olivia," Dr. Jameson says, straining to attach the wires.
I manage to comply, noticing his brow furrowing from the effort.
The sound of more clicking and wire tightening echoes the incessant thoughts in my head: a mix of irritation and anxiety. The appliance, known as a Herbst appliance, anchors to the upper and lower braces and, by pushing forward on my lower jawbone, guides my teeth into a more compatible position. Dr. Jameson adds power chains to my upper teeth, completing the process for them. The elastics crisscrossing my upper and lower sets are introduced last, with an extra tug that only further confirms the permanence of my new accessories.
I try in vain to suppress a scowl. "Alright, Olivia,'' Dr. Jameson announces with a hint of finality, seemingly ignoring my growing dissatisfaction, "$1,500 is a substantial investment. Let's protect that, shall we?"
The word 'investment' invokes frustration that rivals my own distaste for the orthodontic apparatus now cemented within my mouth. I silently ruminate on the irony of it all – as if donning this unsightly contraption somehow enhances my sex appeal.