Orthodontics in the Zombie Apocalypse

Prologue

I swear, if there isn't something to look forward to by the end of this appointment, I'm going to bite someone...hard enough for the poky metal cemented to my teeth to draw blood. I have been sitting in this tan pleather chair with a bright light facing my mouth for the past half hour, and half the time the technician was just talking to her coworkers and waiting for the actual orthodontist, Dr. Jeunger, to come over and check her work.

I've had it up to my metal-clad teeth with these people!

"Anything fun going on at school?" Pam, the technician, asks whilst adjusting wires in my mouth.

My perfectly-plucked, black eyebrows raise. And I wait.

I'm not exactly what one would consider "rude" by default. On the contrary, I say "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me" and "sorry" whenever the phrases are appropriate. I definitely don't make a habit of ignoring questions directed at me. There's just the little problem of deciding between answering the question, which would probably make me choke on my own saliva and bite down on her meaty fingers, or staying silent and seeming ridiculously rude, at least until she realizes I can't answer without consequence.

"Oh!" she exclaims after mindlessly waiting for an answer that was fully dependent on her actions to come. "I guess you would have an easier time answering if there weren't fingers in your mouth." From here, she releases an obnoxiously loud, high-pitched giggle that is bound to rupture someone's eardrum or at least cause a scene. Which it did. Pam takes no notice of this, however, and continues the horrendous laughing of her's until I finally reply.

This task would also be much easier without two long lacing wires protruding straight out from my teeth. Ah, but there is only so much to ask for when answering a question. "Not much. The football team is getting ready for the big game next Friday, and we on Student Council are figuring out what the theme should be."

Her hands find their way back into my mouth, forcing my tongue way back towards my throat. "What's your vote on the theme?"

I can't help a sigh. Some people need to get with the program.

My mouth is suddenly free again.

"'Pajama Panda-Warriors'," I reply, taking advantage of the incidental moment.

"What school do you go to, again?"

"Palmbreeze High. Home of the Panda-Warriors," I say with as little enthusiasm as physically possible.

"Oh right!" And her hands are shoved right back to their place by my teeth. "I guess I should remember that. You don't have the most traditional mascot around."

"Uh-huh," I agree without moving anything aside from my vocal cords, the sound muffled by her latex-gloved fingers.

Dr. Jeunger finally makes an appearance, trapping my hair between the chair back and his knee in a very uncomfortable spurt of pain that I can't do anything about. "How's it going, Piper?"

I shrug as best as I can in a horizontal position, while also trying to maneuver my head up the seat a bit to give my hair some slack.

He lathers on a decent bout of hand sanitizer and proceeds to pull the non-powdered latex gloves over his hands. With fingers barely resting against my teeth, he does an extremely short examination of my mouth, obscuring my vision with the image of his bifocal-bearing face. He's not bad-looking, for a man obviously in his fifties, but there are better things in the world to have my vision succumbed to. "And close." I obediently clamp my jaw shut. "Open." Again, I obey.

Dr. Jeunger turns to Pam and relays a bunch of technical orthodontic terms that I have a vague understanding of from my years coming here. He turns back to me and, in normal-people terms, says, "We're going to switch out that arch wire with a finishing wire, which will give your teeth enough space to settle into their permanent positions. And next time you come back, we'll finally take those braces off."

I can't help but do a little dance in the seat.

Hallelujah! Zip-a-Dee Doo-Dah! Yay! Woo-hoo!

The remaining portion of the appointment contains quite a bit of squirming on my part—I'm too excited to sit still.

"See you in eight weeks," Pam says in goodbye once she finishes charting my progress.

I am free to schedule my next appointment and leave, and I dance all the way to my car.

Yes, my car. I am seventeen and still in braces. So you can see why I'm a bit eager to finally be rid of them.

+++

A/N
So, what did you think? I promise, there is more humor yet to come. I just thought I would ease you into it before ripping the rug out from under your feet, simultaneously knocking your socks off. (:

*This story is written for my sister, because she thought the idea was amusing and decided I would be able to write it. Here ya go, sis!*