Today I woke up at 9:21 A.M. and I have had braces for almost seven years now On Thursday they put spacers back in my front teeth because my lateral incisor is the only crook keeping the metal in my mouth. I have been to prom three times The first was alright The second was the worst I’m not allowed to comment on specifics of the third but I had the most fun I made my own outfit with a custom dyed and painted tie For breakfast the morning after I ate onion rings because I’m free if I don’t think about it and my gums cried from the crunch
When I dig through the directions on the oral anesthetic they don’t mention braces as a source of pain There’s just ulcers and cankers in a Sans serif font below blue medical label jargon I have to search up what is a canker. I don’t mind The Internet is free. So am I if I don’t think about it. I took Creative Writing instead of Beginning Journalism but I know I still have to make sure I report the truth I never touched InDesign until Creative Writing and learned what a Serif is
Maybe that’s why I was Graphic Editor instead of Copy or Page because I already lied I don’t know what time I really woke up I reported lies but I did no harm so am I a journalist or not? I know whoever wrote the label on the anesthetic sure isn’t because four times a day maximum dosage isn’t long enough to undo the harm of these rubber bands crashing in between my teeth
If that’s doing harm then I am probably not a journalist because when the spacers come out
Spacers can come out by the way They’re tiny ordinary rubber bands orthodontists stick between your close-knit teeth When they come out because I watched how my ortho does it I take two long strings of floss through the hole and stretch out the bands to squeeze them back in. I don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt My gums scream too loud that I am not upholding journalistic principles
Who can blame me? I’m free if I think about it I don’t know what they don’t tell me I only know where I put myself In dirty Converse In the front by the window In the back with a dented tuba If I don’t know what they don’t tell me and I’m not eligible to write I don’t need to hitch my breath and think about it just like how fan blades seem to sit still when they move fast enough
But lying here, back failing to fit over my straight dusty floorboards, I’m pretty sure the fan is actually moving, although there’s no way I could count its rotations. I tried once only for my eyes to cross into each other and give me a hearty headache. I don’t want to risk my eye nerves tearing apart, so I don’t try again. My eyes pinch themselves shut now. Somehow, the fan blades still spin in inverted colors behind my eyelids as if they’d crept through at the last minute to make sure I never forgot what they looked like.
You’re really insecure, I want to tell them. I’d never forget you just like that.
What about when you do? they ask, still spinning.
Well, I won’t. You know I’m not that kind of person.
How are we supposed to know what you don’t tell us?
“That’s a good question,” I reply. “But I can’t tell you everything all the time. Sometimes you just have to figure it out yourself.”
How do you figure it out? How do you be?
I open my eyes. They’re already locked onto the fan. Spinning slow when I tilt to the left, fast on the right, completely still with my eyes closed. But closing my eyes makes my teeth hurt. And I can’t read the music on my stand even if I can feel each key below my fingers Or the searing comments from a peer-reviewed essay Or the Flaming Hot versus the normal baked Cheetos Or hot glow from a lightbulb hiding in the center of the fan that I forgot to turn off. You could fall on my face if you wanted to. You’re free if you don’t think about it. Even if no one ever taught us how to fall.
“Can’t tell you. Just don’t think about it.”
