Once upon a time, I lost my first tooth climbing concrete stairs. A slip of the foot caused my head to bounce against the step, dislodging the small tooth from my gums with a swift strike. I was young though, only six with scabbed knees and bright eyes. Once I swept myself up from the staircase and tasted pennies against my tongue, I wailed. I flailed and whined as my eggshell dress was stained with chalk and crimson. My mother scooped me up, scuffed mary-janes and all, and soaked my face with salted water. She tried to scrub the stains out of the cotton and frill, yet it only faded to copper. As I was tucked into chill sheets that night, I was told a fairy would tip-toe into my room and leave a dollar underneath my pillow in exchange for my ivory tooth. So I closed my eyes briskly and waited.

In the morning, it struck me slowly that underneath the pillow lay a crisp bill. Still, my jaw tingles from the staircase stunt from the day before. Mama then taught me to tell when my teeth were ready to be taken from my mouth and tucked safely underneath my downy pillow. She also taught me how to clean stains from my white garments. Every night I’d drift off to sleep under warm quilts and dream of tiny, glittery fingerprints on dollar bills. 

Yet in hindsight, I was a melodramatic little girl with hollow holes in her gums, and now I was banned from the color white except at my grandmother's house. Often, on Sunday mornings, she’d dress me in a pearly dress and tie my strawberry-blonde hair with a tight bow to match, and send me to Sunday school. The church and I both donned a milky shade; We’d push past freshly pressed suits and lacey Sunday hats to reach the children’s room. Everyone in the little church was too busy giggling and playing hand games with each other to talk to me. Yet, with my shining, gap-filled teeth, everyone skittered to my side and asked me what happened with wide eyes. My face would flush and I’d proudly announce my harrowing story of a concrete giant and the red river that flowed from my mouth. 

Past that point, I’d inspect my teeth individually in the mirror before bed. I wiggled every incisor and molar to feel for the loosening roots. I’d lose a tooth a week through a short couple of months, replacing my bright smile with empty gaps. Some were lost from sneaking my hand into my mouth to tug and yank at the tooth, others from biting carrots with straight-faced intensity. I’d regularly skip to the nurse’s office with a tooth in hand, my mouth soon to be rinsed with salt water and pressed with gauze pads. While knocking on the door to the homeroom, I’d have a zip-lock bag in hand and a cheesecloth smile. The curious eyes would pull my smile wider, receiving the reaction I’ve worked relentlessly forever since my first tumble. 

My mom noticed how quickly her dollar bills were disappearing, and investigated the mystery. My first-grade cunning proved faulty, and she promptly decoded my plan. A lecture on the importance of caring for my teeth and not asking for attention through plucking them out. Even after that, sienna stains freckled my white shirts from time to time, gradually losing the rest of my baby teeth. Once upon a time, I learned that empty gums weren’t the way to grab attention.