"Go home! Stevie's asleep!" I screamed at Pat, the neighbor boy approaching our back yard. Then I saw his cupped hands and I flipped right side-up in the old oak tree.
"What 'cha got?" I asked.
"Teeth," he answered.
"Can I see?" I asked as I grasped for the teeth. Well, of course, the brat threw his hands behind his back and hid them from sight. Then he said, "Wanna' see?"
"Yeah," I answered and he held them out for me.
Those were the most perfect false teeth I could ever imagine. They were perfectly mouth-shaped with light pink gums and pearly white teeth.
"Wanna' trade? I asked excitedly.
"What 'cha got?" Pat asked.
"Got a knife," I blurted as I fumbled in my pocket and quickly pulled out my daddy's pen knife. Then I held it out to Pat.
"Okay," Pat said as he snatched for the knife and handed me the false teeth. Then he turned around and darted through a path in the hedge toward his house.
I stood there looking at those false teeth. My mind was racing. "Do I or don't I?" I thought. "Yes, I do!"
I ran straight to the house and up the stairs to the hall bathroom. I tiptoed past Sherry's room and quickly locked the bathroom door, all the while clutching the set of false teeth as if my life depended on it.
Knowing nothing about false teeth, I slipped them over my bottom teeth. Bah! They didn't fit. Then I slipped them over my top teeth. A little loose, but workable. I turned around with my back to the mirror; and just for one more peek, I twirled to face the mirror.
The teeth protruded out of my mouth; and as I looked at their strange appearance, I took on an equally strange personality.
"And how are you today, Miss Wigglesmith?" I asked of the image in the mirror.
"Ahhh, so fine, so fine," my reflection answered. "I will be having tea this afternoon," Miss Wigglesmith said. "And I'm inviting you."
About that time I heard footsteps in the hall, so I yanked the teeth out of my mouth, stuffed them in my pocket, and turned to face my mother, hands outstretched.
"Do you have something that doesn't belong to you?" my mother asked.
"Who, me?" I answered sheepishly, my hands stuffed in my pockets.
"Yes, you," Mother replied. It seems Pat's dad was napping and his false teeth are missing. Pat's mother called and told me Pat traded you the false teeth for a knife." And with that, she held out her hand demandingly.
"And, by the way, we'll talk about the knife later."
"THAT'S NOT FAIR!" I screamed. "PAT'S AN INDIAN GIVER! ONCE YOU GIVE SOMETHING, IT'S YOURS! HE CAN'T DO THAT! I HATE THAT SNOTTY LITTLE BRAT!"
My mother only turned and walked away with the false teeth in her hands; and I refused to speak to Pat the rest of the week . . .that is until the next time he had something to trade.
Comments