Alyson

You have the wrong person is what I think, sitting across from Dr. B, D.D.S., in his office. On his desk is a set of fake teeth trying to smile behind two metal bars, one on each row. He insists on looking at me at all times, even when I am looking away so that neither he nor my mom can see the water fertilize my eyes green.

Today, I found out via text that I “need” braces, and that I also had to make a decision about whether to have them now, since I am, like, 50 years old in braces years. At first I didn’t sweat it: They couldn’t make me do anything. But now it would appear that hosting several rude teeth aliens is in my best interest.

As the doctor opens another tab on his computer to show me Facebook pics of his son—who, as it turns out, is one of the most popular senior boys in school—I tumble into new ways to upset myself. Like I didn’t have enough body burdens (see: every diary of mine, ever), thinking about boys just takes the cake. If I had problems with them as a bracesless person, how would I ever, say, fetch a prom date with my mouth irregularities?

When Dr. B stepped outside and my mom skillfully added lipstick shopping to the deal, I agreed, but not without tears. If there was one thing that I didn’t think I’d ever have to worry about, it would be this. And especially NOW, when all of my friends are just attaining tooth liberty.

Two days later and I got the suckers. My mom, of course, thinks I look cute, however she would most likely find the braced little devil-girl from Finding Nemo cute, too.

Would it be a day with my friends if there weren’t any Stacy-from-Zoey 101 references regarding my “free gift with purchase” lisp? I cover my mouth with my hand every time I laugh. The most common response I get is sympathy, which is a relief, considering I have already thought most of the mean things anyone could say.

Why do I care? In the theme of all things pre-pubescent and nostalgic (i.e. BRACES), I totally felt like Hannah slash Miley in that early episode of Hannah Montana where Lily gets a pimple and Miley tells her to calm herself, and then Miley is in an ad where she has a pimple added to her face and suddenly CANNOT DO LIFE any longer. I can tell myself I don’t care about popular opinion, or what boys like, but I do. I do I do I do. I guess I always knew, in the depths of this soul, that I did. It only took these wires locking me down to childhood for two more years to accept it. Cheers to the full teenage experience. ♦