Awwe don't want to think about the end of this my guess is her girlfriend will get braces or cassey will be in braces forever

OMG

Casey treatment is so impressive!!!!

Great story! I can't wait to read more!

Thanks for posting this for us to read and enjoy!

Chapter 9

I'm struggling here. None of the numbers on my lock make any sense, they don't even look like letters or numbers. I try to tug against the lock while simultaneously attempting to keep my textbook and folders from slipping out between my upper arm and the left side of my chest. I can feel other students staring at me. I tug at the locker harder to get what I need and get away before they get closer. The locker's door won't budge, I'm fixing to be late to Miss Richardson's 5th hour and I still need the bathroom! I can hear them start giggling and pointing at my braces. They're acting like I asked for this. I didn't ask for this!.. But I still need to have them... I keep twisting the dial on the lock, I can't even remember the combination, but it's no use. The shapes on the lock keep changing to other nonsense shapes. I tug frantically. I still need to make it to the bathroom and not be late. I feel like I'm going to cry. Violet shoves past two of them and pulls me by the hand, telling me I can use her textbook. We start towards 5th hour hand in hand, but I still need the bathroom. Violet's talking about going by the store later and picking up nail polish to try. I try to tell her I still need the bathroom, but I can't get a word in. Am I going to go on myself in 5th hour?! I like this skirt! I don't wanna pull my hand away from hers though! What if she thinks I'm being rude? I don't know what to do. My mouth really hurts, like really bad, but I can't reach my hand up to my mouth to touch it. I can't move either of my hands.




The soft blue glow from Dr. Richardson's far window is enough for me to open my eyes. I hate having dreams like those. It's been years since I graduated. I instinctively wiggle against the Velcro straps. The pressure in my mouth woke me up. I try to look around, but my head is still held down, mouth still held open by the face restraint. I can hear a soft humming from the kitchen. Awake enough to see, the mirror left above me refreshes just what an orthodontic mess I am in my mind. But, I don't hate the look.

After a few tired moans, Dr. Richardson glides past the doorway with a plate of sandwiches in hand and sees my eyes open. She unstraps me from the restraints and places a blanket from a nearby wooden chest over my shoulders and offers for me to have a seat in one of the chairs to talk about how the treatment has been going. She asks me about my house, how my job has been going, how I've handled the major transition and all that's come with it. I take the time to apply a drop of my favorite blueberry hand lotion, taking a deep breath with my hands around my face. Through lisps, I answer her honestly. The diapers are a lot, though I'm glad I was wearing one in the coffee shop. The way I see it, it's probably better to have them and not need them than to need them and not have them. I'm not psyched about having to wear them, but I am grateful that she's providing them for me since I have to wear them. As far as the headgear goes, I never had braces before this. I knew classmates that had regular brackets and not much else, so the appliances she's locked into my mouth were a whole new kind of experience. I mention the pressure in my mouth, and she tells me it's to be expected since she's installed appliances that will be moving my teeth. Somehow the knowledge that I'm supposed to be feeling some discomfort makes it easier to ignore. We talk a little more about my plans for spending my time on the island, and I tell her about the empty plant pots along my fence, and how I want to get a TV to hook up my game console and DVD player to. She encourages this, saying that making plans and following through on them with material results is a great way to build trust with yourself, making it easier to rely on yourself mentally as time goes on. I guess I'll have to start actually planting things.

At the conclusion of our chat, she lets me know that as my teeth start to move, occasionally some appliances or mechanisms may come undone, such as scopes hooked up to springs or a wire beginning to poke my cheeks. She says her door's always open if I ever need an adjustment or want to talk.

As the weeks go by, I try to make more plans to hang out with Violet. She shows me more of the town's peculiar traits, and we make plans to see some of the other towns on the Island. That afternoon, I finally started planting seeds into the litany of empty pots strewn about my yard, filling them with bags of soil also gifted from Mr. Agust. He also recommended a nice climbing plant that would flower to plant around the metal archway. Thanks to the island's notorious climate, just as Mr. Agust's flowers did, the numerous seeds quickly sprout and flourish into all manner of greenery.

The morning after I noticed the sprouts beginning to get big enough to form buds, I dawn a fashionable pair of sturdy overalls and decide it a good time to rearrange the large pile of flat stones that the grass had begun to overtake. I lugged them around the yard, arranging them to form little walls to hold the pots of all different sizes. While I don't know anything about gardening, Mr. Agust knows everything regarding the subject, so the particular seeds he'd instructed me to leave in the shade go under the back patio's awning, while the ones he claimed would require "full sun" adorn the tops of the flat stones creating a lovely scene across the yard. Admittedly, the sight of my sorry self locked into braces, headgear, and form fitting overalls lugging around large flat stones had to look a little funny.

A few days pass, and many of the flowers start to bloom. A closer look at them reveals a magical visible texture, the petals appear to shine with dew in the sun, like a fine glitter. Various shapes of coral petals add a whole new dimension of beauty to appreciate, and I can't help but feel a little proud. By now the climbing plant has nicely overtaken the metal archway leading to the front door, but it's yet to bloom. I'm curious how it's going to look.

That weekend, I invite Violet over to celebrate my finally being able to purchase a TV. She brings over braces-friendly snacks and, to my surprise, a small box of nail polish. We sit up through the night talking, trying various weird snacks she picked up from the imports section of the town's market, and painting our nails. She offers to paint a design of her choice onto my toenails, and I oblige her. As I try to sort through the TV's collection of movies to watch, Violet coats my doubloons in the cutest soft baby blue, letting that dry before taking a small brush with a silver color to paint tiny orthodontic brackets onto each nail atop the blue before painting an archwire across them. The sight causes me to actually laugh. It's a full laugh, with snorts, and sucking back saliva that no doubt flashes the orthodontic mess being referenced, by now even more so with my teeth jutting out even farther than before with the springs, but I don't care. It feels good to laugh with Violet.

We decide on an older 1980's romance film with swords. I turn off all the lights in the house, gather the egregious number of blankets shipped from back home, and we both curl up together on my couch to watch the movie, talking and eating weird foreign food the whole time. Wrapped up in multiple blankets, our toenails each out to dry, and shoulder to shoulder, the movie plays and we just talk. Our faces are illuminated by the dancing lights of the TV screen. As the night draws on, I start to get tired. Violet pulls my head to her shoulder to rest on. Her sweater smells warm and sweet. Though it's dark and chilly outside, I can spot outside the window to the front, the climbing plant encroaching the metal archway has bloomed, a number of orange trumpet like blossoms lay still in the moonlight. I softly nuzzle against Violet's shoulder, and I feel her hand curl around mine beneath the blankets. My heavy eyes start to drift closed.

I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping.

I agree I hope there is another chapter to come  soon. I know writing can be difficult but I and a lot of others really enjoy this story

Back again, it's

Chapter 10

That beautiful soft blue morning light pours through the large windows overlooking the front yard into the living room, waking me. As the vague shapes begin to merge into the chairs and tables around the couch, I try to reach with my hand to shift my glasses, still on my face when I fell asleep, but I'm not able to. Noticing the gentle rise and fall of my head, I come to find I'd begun clinging to Violet in my sleep, staying on the couch wrapped in blankets through the night. The muted TV still displays the main menu for the movie, the selection hovering above "bonus features". Somehow, laying face-first against Violet's chest while wearing 3 facebows locked into my mouth wasn't the uncomfortable endeavor you might expect. As the slow rise and fall of her chest continues to carry me with her breathing, I think she must still be sleeping. Both of my arms are wrapped around her sides, pinned to the couch, under her back, while her right arm lays across my back, with her left draped over the back of my head over the straps of my headgear, facing away from the back of the couch. Her sweater still smells warm and sweet, but now with more, "her". As I attempt to shift my face to better see outside the window to the right of the TV, I realize the sweater she's held my face against appears to be soaked with a large puddle of drool from my open mouth overnight. Mortified, I strain to try and keep still to not wake her up. Growing nervous, I can feel more drool attempting to slink out from my bottom lip. I'm forced to audibly suck back the drool. This wakes Violet, who perks her head up to grin at me with tired eyes, her hair doing little to hide her adorable ears, the right one red from laying against the far side of the couch. As I try to lift my head, I find the sharp compliance trays and hooks of my braces have been snagged into the cable pattern of her sweater through the night, the very section embarrassingly coated with my drool.

After a second, Violet is awake enough to see my sorry state. Her eyebrows scrunch in an upward bunch, and she begins to giggle as her other ear quickly matches the red of the first. As she continues to chortle, her stomach begins to bounce my head, and I'm still trying not to pull the threads of her sweater my brackets are latched to and trying to suck back any more drool from coming out. This cascades into snorts as I hover helpless to untangle myself. At least she's enjoying this.

Finally, she begins to cradle my face and attempts to pick the threads from the hooks of my brackets with her hands. Her hands are slow and gentle, if a bit clumsy since she doesn't seem to be fully awake. I can feel my drool getting onto her fingers as she continues.

"Shhorry..."

"I-it's okay!" she snorts

She frees me from my tangled drool coated predicament and shifts to let my arms out from under her as we each groggily rise from the couch to start the day. After washing up and changing out of her sweater, she collects her things and readies to head back home, but not before she practically lifts me off the floor with a hug. I get worried that she might feel the diaper press against her, but I try not to squirm, doing my best to return the affection. She feels so warm, even without the sweater. After she leaves, I start to collect the neatly folded food wrappers from the pile made during last night's movie. Still groggy from the morning's ordeals, I'm all the more bothered that I don't have to take the time to visit the bathroom first thing in the morning anymore. While it's nice to not be awoken by that discomfort, it's still something to get used to.




On my way back from Mr. Agust's with today's shipments, the town's docks seem busier than usual. Among the regular shipping vessels, a group of nicer boats begin to anchor with a small crowd of older residents waiting expectantly. I'm only there long enough to drop my delivery with the foreman, but as I mount the bike to start my way home, I spot an older man in a gray suit with not a hair on his head being eagerly greeted by the humble crowd as he sets foot on the docks.

Once home I decide to finally hook up the old cubic game console sent over from home and boot up the aged classic. The familiar music has me nostalgic, so I shuffle to the kitchen to look for something to prep from the fridge. Taking stock of the aged slow cooker on the bottom shelf of a lower cabinet, I decide to start a pot of chili that'll make good leftovers for the next few days. Having dawned a pastel pink cooking apron over my preferred short overalls, squatting down to lift the heavy cookware, that all too familiar sensation between the legs serves as the constant reminder I should be all too used to at this point. Thinking it over, I feel used to the braces, the glasses, even the headgear. They're a part of me, and there's nothing I can do about that. The diapers though, I'm still trying to come to terms with. Maybe it just takes longer. As I fiddle with the slow cooker's settings, admiring the dark green turtle silhouette design along the bottom, I try to imagine how Dr. Richardson's other patients have coped with their treatments. Are theirs as severe as mine? Did similar circumstances bring them to her practice?

I briefly return to the living room to turn the volume of the TV up, allowing the game's title screen music to play loud enough to hear in the kitchen. I begin prepping some chopped beef and cooking powder to place in the cooker, measuring out spices and chopping the bell peppers in large enough chucks to soak up the juices as the chili cooks. Before long, I find myself sliding across the tile floor in my socks in time with the music. Soon enough, I'm dancing. I can't remember the last time I just danced alone with myself.

With a few bottles of beer poured in to cook down, I close and seal the slow cooker to begin what will fill the house with a wonderful smell in a matter of a few hours. Thinking I'll let the slow cooker continue for at least a full day, I fetch the blanket Violet slept on, grab a large plushie from the bedroom and huddle up onto the couch to finally play the game I had so much fun with as a kid. I spend time watching the game's television set, cycling through the game's shopping channel for decorations for the character's bedroom, occasionally bringing the blanket up to my face to smell.

After a while, as the wonderful smell of chili begins to waft from the kitchen, I reach a stopping point, saving my progress before stopping the game. I decide to fully wrap myself in the blanket and lay onto my couch for an afternoon nap, just because I can.



My phone rings from the coffee table rousing me from the decidedly brief nap. It's Violet. She lets me know to be careful coming up to the flower shop tomorrow, since there're a number of cars taking that road for a man to visit her dad.


In the morning I decide to attack a bowl of the chili, even though it could cook for a little longer. The chunks of beef aren't quite falling apart yet, but it's certainly worth the preparation. I find myself excited to have more later in the day. Dressed in a yellow blouse and some bubble shorts, as I bike out of my neck of the road and reach the rest of the neighborhood, I realize the town has a lot more foot traffic than usual. Even on the back roads I take to avoid the stares at my aggressive orthodontics, many regular residents are out and about placing colorful decorations and preparing for something.

Upon reaching the flower fields surrounding the shop, I spot stark tire tracks that've left deep grooves in the decidedly thin road leading to the shop. At least they missed the flowers.

Once to the shop, I spot the vehicles are the seldom used rentals offered around the corner from the town council building. From outside, I can hear the voices of Mr. Agust and another man.

Mr. Agust: "It's been nice seeing you again, but-"

"Your father-in-law-"

Mr. Agust: "Left it to Marigold, who left it to me. Regardless of what you claim his wishes should've been, the legal authority remains with me. You will not circumvent my ownership. Stop trying."

"I can see I've agitated you."

Mr. Agust: "How perceptive! I'm sure you can also see it's time you leave. If you wish to actually stick around and participate in the cultures of what you claim to be your "true home", then feel free. It should do wonders for the coveted image you've made a dog's breakfast of maintaining."

The other man sighs.
"Forthright as always. I appreciate your opinions."

The front door opens as the man from the docks steps out, stunned when he sees me, clearly taken aback from the sight of my braces. He attempts to compose himself.

"You must be the new delivery girl, yes? I've heard your store is doing very well since you've started! Katy, was it?"

"Cashhey..."

Mr. Agust steps out from behind the door.
"Goodbye, Claudius!"

He sighs, looks to the drivers of both cars, and begins to enter the passenger's seat of the second vehicle.
"I should hope to see you both in town! This year's election should prove quite the event. Til then!"

Both cars begin to slowly back out of the path towards the main road, further deepening the tire tracks created during their arrival.

Violet pokes her head from behind the front door. I gather she'd listened through the thin walls, same as myself.

Mr. Agust looks to the both of us, biting his lip, and speaks up.
"Pay him no mind, my dears. He is a passing inconvenience."

He turns to me.
"Miss Casey, it would be a great privilege to Violet and myself if you'd join us on a trip into town this morning. You'd be observing a very important political tradition unique to this island. Would you be so kind?"

Violet smiles from the doorway.

My hand fiddles with the side of my shorts.
"I-sh-shurre..."

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! <3

Chapter 11

Mr. Agust briskly carries himself around the left side of the store's front, soon returning to the rattled groan of a small, red repairman's truck. He slowly pulls out from a small shed behind the store, narrowly navigating a gap between a small makeshift fence of thin metal polls and the store's left side outer wall. He pulls up and invites us to enter the vehicle. Violet insists I ride in the single passenger's seat, while she sits in the truck bed, because she's much too tall to ride within the truck comfortably. As I squeeze into the charmingly small cabin, my knees pressed against the glovebox, I'm distracted from the lack of a seatbelt by Violet carefully hoisting my bike before skillfully climbing into the truck's bed herself, her checkered brown dress doing nothing to hold her back, sliding open a small window facing into the vehicle's cabin so that she's able to talk with myself and her dad during the trip. After confirming we're seated comfortably, Mr. Agust begins to pull out of the fields, having a much easier time navigating the thin road with such a small vehicle.

Since I've only ever ridden my bike along the thin backroads to reach the store, the main road is a welcome sight as the charmingly aged truck tugs along to the steady beat of the bumpy road. No wonder Mr. Agust was worried about his flowers getting jostled. The wind pouring in through both windows, exiting through the small sliding one Violet had opened creates a steady stream of salty air that catches my braided hair threaded through the straps of my headgear, flinging them playfully. The dust covered interior of the truck tells me that it's been at least a few months since Mr. Agust has driven it, but his driving seems to be as sharp as ever for someone who rarely navigates the roads. Very quickly, the edges of the town come into view. To the far left, I can even make out some of the familiar trees that mask my house from street view. The novel perspective is a real treat.

Pulling into town, Mr. Agust slows to a crawl as we prowl for a convenient place to park. As we reach an ideal spot relatively close to an aged brick wall near a familiar bike rack, the truck shutters to a stop as the ignition is switched off. Mr. Agust presses his door with his left knee to swing it open, slightly shifts to his right before using the momentum to jump from the truck, briskly stepping to the truck bed to help Violet down. As her bright sneakers hit the pavement, she stretches her arms to the sky and kicks her feet around. I Follow suit and exit the vehicle, stunned to see a number of colorful pennants and posters showing what appear to be political campaign posters for, a tortoise?

Mr. Agust carefully studies the multitude of advertisements strewn about before directing that we should head closer to the town's epicenter. As we start our walk towards a town square I'd only witnessed when I first arrived on the island, Mr. Agust explains the current situation to me.

"Miss Casey, how familiar are you with our Island's political history?"

"Not mutshh."

"Well, don't fret. It's not common knowledge to visitors. Every few years, when a vacancy in office comes along, an election is held. Residents are elected to a council, and this council presides over legislation presented to the governing entity to select the proper course of action. The particular vacancy this time around, is that left by our late Hernesto."

"The tortithhe?"

"Yes, the tortoise. I'll admit, I was a bit skeptical when he first took office. The election seemed to be an uncharacteristic landslide victory, not a common occurrence. In the short time we knew him, our quaint community prospered. It was a tragic shock when he left. Thankfully, it was painless, but these past few months the council has been in a split attempting to find a replacement. This time around, things are a bit more hectic. Two viable candidates have divided the town, and caretakers for them have yet to be chosen."

"Caretakerthh?"

Violet perks up.
"They're chosen at festivals like this one. They serve as ambassadors for the candidates and accompany them to all the events leading up to the election."

Mr. Agust clears his throat as he ushers us along towards the sounds of a crowd.
"It's more of a performative role than anything, kept alive mainly for sake of tradition, respect for the town's history. The same could likely be said for the nature of the candi-"

Violet cuts him off
"Papa..."

"I apologize. I shouldn't speak of that too loudly. You know my stance. While I respect the Island's history and the richness of its cultural flavor, most anyone with the sense to pay attention knows it's the elected council that are responsible for drafting the bills presented to whatever matter of animal takes that office. Oh dear..."

As we reach the town's epicenter past the right side of the familiar blue bakery, a boisterous crowd passionately navigate about hastily erected kiosks displaying election posters for two tortoises, named Javier and Igualez. A number of posters indicate they're both African spurred tortoises, both hatched by the same elderly woman who cared for Hernesto. Rumor has it they could be his sons. Older residents passionately discuss the potential scandal atop soap boxes with raised fists. University students attending schools on the other side of the island eagerly discuss the implications of a tied election, should the popularity of the candidates not be tipped once the caretakers are nominated.

Mr. Agust intently follows the flow of the debates, his arms crossed above his rounded front. He subtly bites his lip as discussions continue to grow heated. A small group of the students are proposing a third candidate be introduced, a young Indian elephant named Sanrio. Small pamphlets are passed about that show a charmingly low-quality picture of a small elephant with a loosely wrapped proportional pink necktie.

These people are insane.


The crowd is reined in by a loud bell rung by an older gentleman. Atop a raised floor across from the fountain, a short woman in suit takes the stage with a microphone and informs the crowd that caretakers for the chosen candidates will now be nominated. Groups of older residents deliberate amongst themselves, and soon, two of them take the stage from either side, one of them, the man I know to be the bike shop owner, the other, Claudius from the flower shop. Scattered cheers swim through the crowd. They were chosen to cast their nominations for caretakers. Mr. Agust sharply exhales from his nose as he spots Claudius on stage, continuing to bite his lip. Violet starts to look tense. I smell, plot progression?

The bike shop owner is handed the microphone, and declares his nomination for Igualez's caretaker, a student from the Island's university, an Esther Anderson. She meekly takes the stage to enthusiastic applause.

The microphone is then handed to Claudius. He pauses, facing the crowd, looking towards Mr. Agust. He raises the index finger of his right hand, arching it downwards towards the crowd. Mr. Agust's deep green eyes grow wide with a quiet rage. Claudius smirks.

"For Javier, I nominate Miss Casey Marsh."




What?

Um… a tortoise as a political leader? Great story, though.

There are a couple of places that have done that. The real work is done by the people behind the scene anyways.