What Came First Read Online Free PDF Page B

to cry. But then I remind myself that Dr. Sanchez never cries in the office. If he can suck it up, I can too. Of course, he never smiles either, but that’s understandable. He might want to call this place something other than Great Grins, though.
    I take a deep breath and get to work. When Pammy comes in and checks my hand, I say, “Let’s talk about it at lunch,” and pick up the phone.
    I’m not the only one having a cruddy day. The phone rings and rings all morning. Seems everyone has a dental emergency. Toothaches. Broken crowns. Exposed nerves.
    Tell me about it.
    Dr. Sanchez does two root canals and a filling. Melva and Pammy scrape plaque and polish molars. They’re both so friendly and chatty. They can’t help making small talk with the patients.
    “How’s your son, Mrs. Ghazarian?” Pammy says in the examining room closest to me. “He’s in, what, fifth grade now?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Still playing soccer?”
    “Aah-ih-all.”
    “He is?”
    “Uh-uh. Aah-ih-all.”
    “Baseball?”
    The mouth vacuum whirs for a while. Mrs. Ghazarian speaks. “Basketball.”
    “Oh. Right.”
    Pammy goes back to picking at Mrs. Ghazarian’s teeth. “Why did he quit soccer?”
    Since it’s nobody’s birthday and not the last Thursday of the month (also known as Pizza Day), Pammy, Melva, and I have lunch without Dr. Sanchez, who usually runs some errands and then eats a sandwich at his desk, which is covered with pictures of his kids and his dead wife. Since we’re paying for ourselves (and Pammy needs toilet paper), we eat at Target, where it doesn’t matter that we look dumpy in our scrubs. Well, Melva and I look dumpy, anyway. And according to more than one patient, we look like sisters. I don’t see it. Melva is Filipina. I’m half white, half Mexican. But we both have curly black hair and plenty of curves, so I guess that’s kind of sister-ish. Red-haired Pammy is superskinny. No boobs. No butt. Her scrubs are so short that her white gym socks show above her pink Crocs.
    “You want to talk about it?” Pammy asks me.
    “Of course she wants to talk about it,” Melva says. “Right?”
    “I dunno.” I take the bun and a couple of iceberg lettuce leaves off my grilled chicken sandwich, rip open a package of mayonnaise, pile on the fat.
    “You should talk about it,” Pammy says. She wears a simple gold band on her left hand.
    I put the lettuce and bun back on the sandwich.
    “There’s not much to tell. Eric said he loves me.” (Had he said that? I couldn’t remember, but he must have.) “And he doesn’t want to break up. But he doesn’t want children. So I guess—that’s it.” My voice cracks. I put down the sandwich. I can’t eat.
    “Oh, for God’s sake,” Melva says. “That’s what all guys say. They’re all about freedom and getting drunk with the boys and shit. But then the minute they become dads, it’s like, ohmigod, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
    She pauses for a moment. “I never told you guys this before, but me and Brent got married because I was pregnant.”
    She’s already told us this, like, three times before, but Pammy and I look all shocked because that’s the reaction Melva wants. Last time we just nodded and she was all, “You act like it’s no big deal!”
    “That must have been really hard for you, Mel,” Pammy says.
    I squeeze her hand.
    “It was hard,” Melva says. “But look at me and Brent now! Having our third kid.” She pats her tummy. “And we have a house and everything.”
    Pammy puts down her plastic soup spoon and leans toward me. “What if you had, you know. An accident.” Pammy has been married for over twenty years to a high school science teacher named Dave, but they don’t have any kids.
    “I can’t do that. It’s not honest.” It’s not like I’ve never considered “forgetting” to take my birth control pills. But it would be asking for trouble. And it would be wrong.
    “Screw honesty,” Melva says,