words of wisdom.

Now that I've had my wisdom teeth permanently ripped out of my face, I think I can post this short story I wrote in their honor when they were still in place and screwing up my alignment.

The Luckiest Girl in the World

"Open wide," he says. He isn't my dentist, though, he's my boyfriend, Andy, and he wants to see my misshapen molar. We're trying to show it to his friend Alex, who doesn't believe that a tooth could resemble a fossil (Andy's opinion) or a kernel of popcorn upside-down (my opinion). Either way, it's not human-looking, and Alex fake-retches in acknowledgement of this fact when I pull my lip back far enough.

The tooth nudged its way through my gum a few months ago, making my front teeth shift over one another in a way that reminds me of seventh-grade science class. I picture the illustrations in my old textbook of tectonic plates overlapping underwater. It's funny to me that my wisdom tooth has helped me recall one of the only things I ever learned about geology. I like to make terrible jokes about the tooth living up to its name, as in, maybe the next one that comes in will give me a crash course in algebra! My left front tooth is at a 45 degree angle to my right one, I could say.

An angry, low thunderclap startles me, and I pull my hand away from my face and gasp almost loudly enough to drown it out. The two sounds together are an improvised harmony of fear. Their edges, like my teeth, lie over one another. "You're so dramatic," Andy says, but he knows I can't help it so he pulls me close. "I'll toughen you up one day." "I am tough." He laughs.

We're skimming along the curbside, trying to beat the storm on our way to Evan's house. All our friends are there. When I'm walking somewhere, I'm usually just waiting to arrive, impatiently working my short legs too hard and being told to fucking slow down, already. Tonight, though, the ominous smell of a cool summer night before a rainfall guides me like God's firm hand on my back. Each step has become deliberate and sacred in the clean, dark breeze. Andy is the one pulling me forward by the hand, which has maybe never happened before.

I mention to the guys that it's my favorite scent, this rain-anticipation smell. "Mine is tomatoes," Alex tells us. "You know what, though? I hate eating them; I think they're disgusting." "Really? Mine is gasoline, and I love the way it tastes," counters Andy. "I could drink it all day." He wraps his two arms around one of my skinnier ones. It's useless to try and hug something too small, no matter how precious it is, like one of those little brown birds that are everywhere, or a mouse, or my arm. But he does it anyway.

We're nearing Evan's house now. Alex and Andy start divining who's inside by the cars that stud the street. "Lauren's here, that's her Jerry Garcia bumper sticker." "There's Ryan's Corolla." Cars are always indistinguishable from one another to me, especially in the dark, so I don't play along. Instead, I wrap myself in the privilege of inhaling the night's invisible calm. In a minute, I'll be holding a beer, shifting it from hand to hand as I hug my friends hello and am introduced to others that I don't know yet. Right now, though, I am filling myself with the twilight air. A drop of water hits my cheek, this little false tear to usher in the storm. Andy wipes it off and tries to shield me from the rain by holding his arm out straight over my head, as if it could protect me.