I peeled open my eyes because something, the approximate point and squish of a finger, pushed itself past my lip. It wiggled around the inside of my mouth and prodded at my loose-enough-to-wiggle incisor, the one I jarred while playing hockey the other day.

A midwinter breeze fluttered through the open window, rustling the curtains which were backlit by the streetlamp just outside my house.

A pallid shadow loomed over me.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but I managed to keep the tempo at a thundering roar in my ears.

The thought to bite down flitted through my mind. My teeth locked onto the finger-shaped object like it was celery.

Screeching like a seagull, the white-haired woman with a granny-bod, the one who’d hunched over my bed like a particularly saggy vulture, yanked her finger and my tooth free of my jaw’s clench. I sat up in bed, flicking on the bedside lamp to get a good look at the ghostly intruder. As tangy blood filled my mouth, I squinted at the wrinkly wraith of a woman, who sported a tight white bun, like a heavily powdered jelly doughnut strapped to the top of her head. She waved her hand about, then tenderly touched the wounded appendage with her other hand, muttering things like, “Brats these days,” and, “She bit me,” and, “Ungrateful, little mongrel.”

“I’m a mongrel?! I’m not the one sticking my finger in someone’s mouth.” Blood dribbled out of my mouth, so I snapped it shut as I rummaged for a tissue.

“You wouldn’t bite your dentist, would you?” the woman demanded.

“You’re not a dentist—” I said around the tissue I’d shoved in my mouth.

A frosty sparkle shimmered over her shoulders as two ephemeral wings appeared on her back. Fairy wings. Like the ones Tinkerbell has in literally every Peter Pan movie. And, like a bad joke, she put something small and red and white in the light-blue fanny pack strapped to her waist.

“Hey! Is that my tooth?” I dropped the bloody tissue on the floor as I launched myself at her. She was stealing my tooth. As I went flying, so did my teddy bear. And so did the tooth fairy, right out the window.

My hands flailed for something to grab. They latched onto the lady’s ankle, between her blue jeans and white sneakers. Like my poor, previously-mentioned tooth was yanked out of my mouth, I was yanked out of my room through the window.

Perhaps you are wondering if the tooth fairy flies all the way to her domain, or maybe has some form of alternate transportation pulled by otherworldly creatures, like a knockoff of Santa Claus and his flying reindeer. Perhaps you are wondering where the tooth fairy’s domain is, or if she even has a domain. Like, what if she just eats the teeth, like it’s her entire diet or something.

I’m sorry to say, the only thing I can say is that she doesn’t eat the teeth. The reason being: I don’t remember anything between soaring through my window and waking up in the alley.

I blinked up at the starless sky, miffed that every joint in my young body hurt, before sitting up. I glared at the woman who’d dropped me on the concrete.

“I want my tooth back,” I half moaned and half growled. She scowled, crossing her arms as she rhythmically tapped one shoe on the ground.

“You’re lucky I only sprained my wing,” she complained, “or I’d have to go to your parents and demand compensation for a wing their twelve-year-old daughter broke.”

“I’m thirteen!” I huffed, standing and brushing stray gravel from my hair and pajamas. I didn’t quite come up to the tooth fairy’s chin. “How is it my fault, when the tooth granny was stealing teeth from my face? And what do you mean, ‘demand compensation’?” She’d said it like she was a geriatric Karen calling about the mesothelioma TV commercial.

“Granny?” she hissed. “I am the tooth fairy, insolent infant. I was testing the readiness of the loose tooth.”

Something round and hairy growled and grumbled as it approached from the depths of the alley.

The tooth fairy didn’t so much as twitch. “Your parents have a contract with me. I get any teeth their child loses before the age of eighteen in exchange for payment.”

A bear shuffled towards us. A big bear as black as the aforementioned starless sky.

“I used to pay in quarters, but because of inflation over the years,” she continued, “I’ve had to raise my rate of exchange to a dollar.”

My eyes grew as round as the headlights on a VW Beetle. I backed slowly away, putting my fists up, as though throwing a punch would stop a hungry bear from mauling me. The tooth fairy unzipped her fanny pack, reaching in for a palmful of teeth. “Honestly,” she muttered. “Didn’t your parents teach you uneducated urchin anything?”

Then she held the teeth out to the bear, which it promptly ate. It crunched, munched, and swallowed the teeth. If you’ve never heard a bear eating a handful of teeth, count your blessings. It’s like a bunch of gumballs clattering around the inside of a blender.

Then the bear turned from black to as white and glowy as the moon, like someone had flipped a switch. The tooth fairy patted the bear’s head.

I told you, she doesn’t eat the teeth.

“You have a bear and you feed it teeth?” I shrieked. “You fed it my tooth!”

“Not so loud,” she shushed. “I don’t need a widespread panic about a bear in the middle of the city, thank you very much.” She scratched behind the bear’s ear, and the bear huffed a massive sigh. “I admit, I am getting a little desperate. Bander has a large appetite, and not as many parents are willing to form a contract with me these days.”

“Bander?”

“The bear. His name is Bandersnatch.”

“Oh.” I lowered my fists. “Wait. The Bandersnatch? The Bandersnatch is a bear?”

“Lewis Carroll and I had a similar incident when he was seven. You don’t need to sound so surprised.”

“…Can I pet him?”

The tooth fairy waved me closer. “Come stand by me. You can pet behind his ears.”

I slid my fingers into the white fur behind the bear’s ears. “He smells like peppermint.”

“What did you expect the Bandersnatch to smell like?”

“Like a bear.”

“Have you smelled a bear before? No? Then how would you know if bears smell like peppermint or not?”

The Bandersnatch leaned into my hand as I scratched behind his ear. When I let my hand drop back to my side, he looked at me and stars sparkled in his eyes. A smile tickled my cheeks.

“Alright, kid, you can head on home now. I’ve got teeth to search for. Shoo.” The tooth fairy began walking down the alley and the bear followed her.

“You said not as many parents will sign a contract with you. That means you don’t have as many kids you can get teeth from, right? Is that why you were, um, checking to see if my tooth was ready to fall out?”

The tooth fairy stopped and glanced at me with her nose pointed up. She sniffed, then nodded.

A smile with a little hole in it spread like melted butter across my face. “I can get you more teeth. I have hockey practice tomorrow.”

R. J. Catlin

R.J. Catlin is a twentysomething homeschool graduate from the shores of West Michigan. She recently moved to Appalachian Ohio where she is growing her writing craft and her editing skills. When she’s not writing, R.J. enjoys going on adventures with her friends, quoting movies, and reading books. Find her at RJCatlin.com!