A tooth left overnight in a glass of Coca-Cola will dissolve. Gone. Ruined by sugar and acid. “So that’s why.”
“But I drank two at Calvin’s house.”
“Once in a while is okay, but we’re not going to make it a habit.”
“Please? Pleasepleaseplease—”
“No. You had one.”
“But—”
“I think you’d look pretty silly without teeth, don’t you?”
The Tooth Fairy.
The Easter Bunny.
I set up a video camera one year. Point the tripod at the tree and make sure I am the last to leave and the first to enter. Mom and Dad help.
We watch the tape together after the candlelight service, wrapping paper strewn between us like blast debris. Fast-forwarding, fast-forwarding, and then an arm—“Slow it down! Dad, you’re missing it!”—the arm like a frantic windshield wiper—“Dad!” “Got it.”—Ho! Ho! Ho! and the arm waves normal and the camera shakes a little and it’s done.
“What? But— Go back.” “Please?” “Can you please go back?”