Is There Anything In My Teeth?

I had braces when I was younger. Webbings of metal restricting my teeth and pulling them forward, sometimes pushing them back. The orthodontist’s name was Dr. T and his office was in the basement of his house--lined with cheap wood panels and filled with piles of old Reader’s Digests and Highlights. Every time I went to visit him, once a month or so, I’d get rubber-bands of different colors. Blue and white around Chanukah. Navy and gray when the Yankees were in the World Series. Purple to match the gown I was wearing to my cousin’s wedding. There was a song that played whenever I was waiting in the lobby. I can’t remember the name, but I believe it’s from Top Gun. It gave me the heebie-jeebies every single time it was on and I was convinced that I was allergic to it.
One of the secretaries in Dr. T’s office was a fifth grade English teacher at my school. When we had 4:15 appointments, she’d give us a ride in her leather seat Lexus to the orthodontist. (We as in me and my sister and whoever else had allowed their parents to convince them that braces was a good idea.) I hated how every time I opened my mouth to speak or eat, shiny rays of light emanated from my mouth and shimmered blindingly upon all who gave me attention. Because, of course, at that age I thought everyone was as conscious of me as I was of myself. I also hated the way I couldn’t eat without gathering into my braces bits and pieces of my meal to hold away until later in the day when I’d find myself hungry. As a matter of fact, I’m still traumatized that I carry food around with me between my teeth, so the next time I ask you if there’s food in my teeth, feel my pain and understand.