Miss Tooth Fairy has gone too far. I should have known this frail relationship wouldn't last until the molar stage. Now she wants hush money!
"You don't want his heart broken, do you?" She flexes some brawn on my doorstep and thumps her fist into her other palm. "Fifty dollars a month in this bank account will fix everything."
She is Good Fairy gone Bad, embittered by an identity crisis only the mythical can suffer, being told she does not exist, being told she does exist, supplanted by greedy parents who insist on keeping teeth themselves, then being blamed when they get drunk and forget to drop the cash in the jar of water.
"'The tooth fairy must have forgot!'", she mimics me. "I heard that, you know. I'm over it. I'm sick of being nice and forgiving. Just hand over the cash, bitch."
She won't accept peanut butter sandwiches, Anzac biscuts or counselling. She wants money or she will tell all, even where the stash is.
This makes me especially nervous because my ownership of these glossy, bloodied little pearls is dubious at best. I have been hoarding them, hiding them, bringing them out in secret late at night, just to look at them. One day I would like to make a necklace from them.
When I plead poverty, she says, "Okay, well just hand over the teeth and we're square. I can make a few add on sales somewhere. Come on, you owe me."
"Look darling," she levels me with a jaded, flinty eye. "Heaps of folk just chuck them out. What's the problem?"
"You are the problem!" I say, getting rather pissed off now. "Just tell him then! Go on! Break his heart. Santa just dropped in a few days ago and laid the hard word on me. So we might as well get the whole lot done in one shitty week!"