April

Fuck my life!

Excuse my French. I'm not usually this crass so late in the afternoon. Especially after having my daily dose of caffeine (times two). It's just that... I'm in a bit of a pickle today. Or dare I say I'm in a war zone? Fighting for survival and hanging onto dear life? Because that's exactly how it feels.

Sitting in an uncomfortably high chair, across from a not-so-very smiley dentist, I'm in the middle of a working interview for a highly competitive job with mouthwatering benefits and a decent paycheck. By decent, I mean cha-ching!

So, it's only natural that I'm a bit grouchy. There's so much at stake. I need this job like I need air... maybe even more.

I'm tired of making less than minimum wage, and I'm even more tired of my bank account glaring at me every time it gets declined. I swear if bank accounts could speak, mine would cuss me out and call me a broke bitch in ten different languages. Which I understand has merit to it—I am a broke bitch indeed—but boy, does being called out on it suck.

I'm shamelessly buried nose deep inside a patient's mouth, bending over backward (or forward in my case) to showcase my proficient saliva suctioning skills, and prove that I am the dental assistant this office needs regardless of my experience—or lack thereof. And so far, I'm killing it.

"Open wide," I say with a soft, low voice I don't recognize as mine and smile behind my face shield as I tuck the saliva ejector into the patient, Mr. Morris' cheek. He shoots me a grateful look and obliges. The doctor hums approvingly, and I do my mental victory cha-cha dance.

It's looking good for me.

I don't kiss ass. At least, not since I learned the hard way that my worth isn't determined by how people view me. But today, my confidence is wavering because I am the least experienced of the rest of the applicants, and if it's not clear by now, I desperately—desperately—need this job.

Anxiety builds up in my body and a wave of nausea passes through my gut, making the muscles in my belly squirm. I really need to get this job. I don't think I have it in me to work as a server anymore. Not even for one more day. And even if I did, I can't go back to Joe's and beg for my job back. Not after the scene I made yesterday. It's too embarrassing. Even for me.

I had walked out of Joe's Diner after I received my official dental assisting certificate in the mail yesterday. Walked out is putting it lightly. I all but stomped out huffing and puffing, leaving the diner short-staffed after throwing a towel on my manager's face and announcing loudly and—dramatically—that I quit. (Not my finest hour, but I'd do it again. I've had it up to here with them.)

A wet cough reaches my ears and snaps me out of my train of thought. My eyes are watchful, searching for what I might've missed while I was daydreaming—or rather, nightmare-ing? They ping-pong between the radiograph pulled up on the computer, Mr. Morris who is laying awkwardly with a streak of saliva dripping down his chin, and the dentist who is looking at me with vertical lines etched between his brows.

Wait? Is he... frowning? He's frowning. Why is he frowning?

"Suction please," Dr. Hartman says. There's a tone to his voice—a tone that's much different from the little approving hums he'd been giving me—and he isn't looking at me anymore.

Why isn't he looking at me when he addresses me? Crap. Crap. Crap. I done messed up, didn't I?

I wipe the drool off of the patient's chin and readjust the saliva ejector, hoping to redeem myself and get back in his good grace. The muscles on my upper limbs sting, the tendons on my wrists ache, and beads of sweat decorate my shielded face as I shamelessly arm wrestle with Mr. Morris' tongue while trying to suction as much saliva as I can out of his wide mouth. (Which is a hassle, by the way.)

The room is awkward all of a sudden. The sound of the drill drilling, the slurp of the suction suctioning, and the banging of my heart against my sternum is the background noise to our threesome.

I clear my throat and say the first thing that comes to my mind—which is a bad idea off the bat because every normal thing that comes to my mind is always preceded by a dumb one. "It's so nice out today, isn't it?" I say and cringe.

Swallow your tongue, April. Jesus! The better half of my brain scolds me. Too late.

Crickets. No one replies. Of course, they don't reply because when in the world's history has December ever had a nice day?

Mr. Morris looks at me and looks at the window where a snow blizzard was unfolding. He is saying, "Child, are you in the same part of the world as we are right now?" silently yet very loudly.

The veins on Dr. Hartman's forehead are throbbing. He is probably angry at me. Rightfully so. He is doing a composite filling, which is so sensitive to moisture. My one job is to keep the patient's mouth super dry. Not only did I mess that up, but I was also blabbering nonsense. Now he is going to think I'm incompetent and not worthy enough to join his staff and get a glimpse of their yummy benefits. Ugh!

Dr. Hartman continues drilling, and I pay attention to what I'm doing this time. I suction, pass instruments, and keep my mouth closed.

I haven't been able to work in the field yet as I'm fresh out of school. And I only got certified by the Dental Assisting National Board just yesterday. But from the little experience I had gotten from doing my clinical externship while in school, I've concluded that the dental field is not for the weak—the weak-hearted and weak-bodied, that is.

As much as I look fine, sitting up straight and doing my job—imperfectly—from the outside, I'm dying and decomposing on the inside.

I'm throwing up in my mouth at the sight of the yellowish chunk of calculus floating on the growing pool of saliva Mr. Morris won't let me suction—not for the weak, I tell you—as my heart pumps double its rate awaiting the verdict of my employment: am I hired or not?

Judging by Dr. Hartman's newfound scowl, it's not looking so good for me.

Dr. Hartman keeps glowering at me because I keep interrupting his work by bumping my suction into his handpiece. Which is a big, flashing no-no. It's like breaking the number one rule in the dental assisting handbook. NEVER EVER BUMP YOUR SUCTION TIP INTO THE DOCTOR'S HANDPIECE.

But Mr. Morris' exploratory tongue is incessantly playing with the mouth mirror I'm using to retract his tongue, therefore, pushing me into the drill and making Dr. Hartman—whose Botox appointment is long overdue, by the way—frown even deeper.

It takes all my energy to shove back his tongue, gently, but the man is relentless. He pushes it out; I shove it back in, and it goes on and on and on. It feels like we're playing Whack-A-Mole: his tongue is the mole and my mouth mirror is the mallet, and boy, do I want to whack it into submission.

"Sir, you need to let me retract your tongue, okay? Otherwise, it's going to be caught in the drill and you're going to bleed out," I warn, my voice drilling through the silence.

My patience is wearing thin. The chance of me being hired? Even thinner.

Mr. Morris' eyes go wide as fear consumes his features. "What?" he tries to mutter through his open mouth. His hands go to the bib over his chest and he makes a weak attempt to get up. Drama queen.

"She's kidding," Dr. Frowns-a-lot says in between a nervous chuckle as he looks at me with reprimanding eyes and the patient with reassuring ones.

I raise one hand in mock surrender and shoot them a sheepish smile while I whisper, "kidding," under my breath.

Yeah, no. I'm so not getting this job.

My brain is working overtime trying to foresee what the dentist's next move would be so I can pass him an instrument before he asks for it and score a point—because I need a point—when a loud rumble sounds out, piercing the deafening silence in the room.

Dr. Hartman puts the drill away and pauses his inspection of Mr. Morris' mouth, turning his head to inspect me instead. Two sets of judgmental eyes are on me, and I shrink in my chair. Looking down at my belly, I scold it telepathically, but I know it's on me. I shouldn't have drunk that extra coffee on an empty stomach.

If disapproving had a face, it'd be Dr. Dennis Hartmann right now as he looks at me from head to toe, like I was a piece of trash ready to be discarded, and clears his throat.

I draw in a gulp of air and turn to my tray. Retrieving the articulating paper, I pass it to him before he asks me for it, hoping to stall whatever it is he's about to say. His eyes don't leave me when he takes it from my hand. A sense of foreboding runs through me, making me shiver.

Dr. Hartman finally takes his eyes off me and resumes his procedure. But as his hand is halfway into Mr. Morris' oral cavity, he pauses. His brows furrow, making his frown lines appear deeper, and he squints his eyes.

"Miss Larsson," he begins. I follow his eyes quickly and take a good look at what he's holding. It's not an articulating paper. Attached to the articulating paper holder is a regular paper.

I gave him a regular piece of paper—which is unhygienic and so freaking wrong on so freaking many levels. What the actual hell is wrong with me today?

Mr. Morris is looking up at us with his mouth open—bless him—confusion written all over his face.

Dr. Hartman slowly unclips the paper from the articulating paper holder and discards it. He then reaches over and grabs the actual articulating paper from my tray and clips it into the holder. 

I try to speak, to apologize, to redeem myself, anything, but my throat is arid—dry as a bone.

I lied on my resume: I don't work well under pressure. I break. And boy, did I snap.

"Thank you for your time. We'll reach out to you about the position, and Lisa, the front desk assistant, will talk to you about today's payment," Dr. Hartman finishes, military-style.

And just like that, I'm dismissed. 

Damn it. I really needed this job. I really needed a break. 

Another missed opportunity; another good thing I messed up. I deflate. It looks like I'll be camping out in front of Joe's Diner, begging for my old job back. Nothing good ever happens to me, anyway. Why did I even try? Who was I kidding? I will never be more than I am right now.

Poor, lonely, and unemployed.

Fuck my life indeed!

                                               ***

A/n- Hi friends! Long time no see. How have ya'll been?

Here's the long-awaited first chapter of Cuspid Cupid. I hope you like it. If you do, please vote, comment, and share it with your book besties. I appreciate you guys! Thank you!

Stay tuned for chapter two.