On the ride before my appointment, with my face leaning against the passenger window, my mother told me, "Carmella, everyone gets braces eventually. You will be just as beautiful as you are now, and just think about when you have a beautiful white smile."
I ran my tongue over my teeth, tracing the grooves and dents. I had two "snaggle" teeth that protruded out like a vampire's fangs, and my front teeth looked like two hands shaking, considering one front tooth overlapped the other. My brother told me once that it looked like someone fucked my mouth up with a hammer. I could admit to myself that, yes, my smile could make a British man grimace, but no amount of crooked teeth could prepare me for braces.
The day before, the last day of having the teeth God intended, I went to Chukie-cheese with my friends. The afternoon was spent squeezing through play tubes that were designed for 5 year olds, eating shitty pizza, and posing in the photo booth over and over again.
My friends kept refilling the token slot to try another contorted face, but I kept handing over my tokens to preserve the last moments of my smile. Each time the countdown started I would smile as prettily as I could, trying to consciously hold my face in equal proportions. After the photo was taken, chukie-cheese would appear on the screen before us with a paintbrush. As he waved his furry arm across the screen, our photo would gradually appear. The photo was done in an illustration finish, which blurred out all the details--moles, pimples, stray hairs, and even crooked teeth.
When the photo printed, my friends would grab for it and shriek in laughter over their bulging eyes, double chins, and waggling tongues. Eventually I would take the photograph and stare at my image. My smile was straight and flawless for the first time. I looked like a pretty teenager, instead of the awkward-looking 13 year old I was. I slipped the photo into my pocket. It was like a blurry snap shot of me in a prettier future.
On the drive to the orthodontics office, with my cheek against the passengers window, I thought about that photo. One day I will smile again, I thought, One day I will feel pretty. I know this sounds melodramatic, but even years later, I can distinctly remember the feeling that my life was over.
I sat in the waiting room, lazily flipping through a Seventeen magazine, listening for my name to be called.
"Carmella Mingo?" said an overweight lady in scrubs. I got up and followed her down the hallway.
"This must be a big day for you," the lady said, in a southern-bell accent, "you must be excited about getting braces!"
I looked at her with a perplexed expression, and said nothing.
"It's not going to be that bad, honey!" She tossed her hand, as if getting braces was a trivial phase of life.
I laid down in the dentist chair.
"I will be right back hun, with Dr. Miller," said the lady, as she walked out with a clipboard.
An hour later they returned to me dozing off in the dentist chair.
"Hello," Dr. Miller glanced at the computer screen for my name, "...Carmella Mingo. How are you?"
"um, fine," I muttered.
"Good, good, that's good to hear," said Dr. Miller distractedly, as he glanced through my records. He turned towards the southern lady and said a few things in orthodontic jargon. Then he wheeled towards me with his swivel chair, and the lady situated herself against me so my face was mashed against her soft breasts.
"Now Carmella, I want you to open wide and tilt your mouth back." With a flashlight he prodded around my mouth.
This is it. This is it, I thought. The only view I had was the lady's cleavage and the underside of her double chin. I could also see up Dr. Miller's long nostrils, which were quite sterile looking.
I laid there helplessly as he requested for tools, drilled into my mouth, and made offhand comments about my teeth.
At one point, when he was fastening braces onto my back molar, the drill caught my gum line and I squeezed the hand-rest in pain.
"Does that hurt?"
I nodded my head, and made a strange gurgle sound from the back of my throat.
"I'm sorry dear," he said, and continued drilling. The tear that slid down my cheek went unnoticed.
A few minutes later, Dr. Miller, with his eyes still concentrated on my mouth, said, "So guess what I had for breakfast this morning?"
I raised my eyebrows in confusion.
"I don't know! Tell me!" said the lady in her chipper southern voice.
"I had--can you hand me another wire? thanks dear--I had a chicken biscuit, but with jelly on it."
"Oh, that's odd," the lady gave a laugh, and leaned slightly forward. Her breasts consumed my cheek, and my eyesight was overtaken by the flowery print of her scrubs. "I mean, I've had chicken biscuits before, but never with jelly on it."
"Oh you've got to try it, it's actually quite good." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance across her chest.
"There are so many things I've got to try. You know, so much to experience." She gave a soft laugh.
He looked up from my mouth, and said with a suggestive smile, "Yeah, I will have to get you one of those biscuits."
If one of them bothered to glance into my eyes they would've seen a look that translated to What the fuck? Are you serious? Flirting about chicken biscuits, while you shackle me to years of ugliness!?
Eventually he leaned back, and gave my mouth a final look.
"It looks like we are finished! Yep, they look good." He pulled the latex gloves off his hands, tossed them in the trashcan, and left the room.
Slowly I closed my mouth. I felt like a chimp with protruding overbite. I ran my tongue over my teeth. The feeling was horrid. My smooth, yet flawed teeth, were now jagged and metallic. It reminded me of the unpleasant sensation when you slide off the concrete ledge of a pool, your wet skin meeting the friction of the rough surface.
The lady shuffled around the office, cleaning tools and setting up for the next patient.
"It's all finished hun, so I can take you back to the lobby now."
I followed her down the hallway. Before we reached the lobby there was a large mirror with sinks underneath, for people to brush their teeth before appointments. I paused, and turned towards the mirrors. With my mouth closed, I still looked like myself--long dark hair, pale face, large green eyes, small nose, and full lips. The words I'm still pretty, I'm still pretty thundered through my head as I slowly stretched my face into a smile. It took only a few seconds for me to start crying. I couldn't tear my eyes from the mirror. I was transfixed by my new, ugly portrait. Now the words thundering through my head were I'm ugly, I'm ugly. And as I stared longer, the uglier I became. My eyes were red and filled with tears, my skin was blotchy, and I had this frozen smile.
"What's wrong?" I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder.
I turned to her. "I'm ugly," I said, "I am so ugly." I fell into her arms and started crying harder.
My mom ran her hands through my hair, and said, "No you aren't, no you aren't."
I heard someone say, "Come here, honey."
I let go of my mother, and before I could orient myself, my face was mashed into the lady's breasts.
"Now baby doll, don't you worry. You are getting pretty, straight smile. Don't you want that?"
I stood there awkwardly wondering when she would let me go.
For the next two years, I never smiled in a photograph. For the next two years, I never flirted with a boy. For the next two years, I lost the confidence it would take years to regain.
I might sound melodramatic or vain, but when I wrote the words 'I'm ugly' I couldn't help crying. I think every woman has a tenderness for the self-consciousness they felt when they were a developing girl. The tenderness resurfaces whenever I feel rejected or vulnerable. Sometimes when I talk to guys, I find myself trying not to smile. Sometimes when I smile before a camera I feel so exposed. Sometimes I still blame things on the words 'I'm ugly.'
But that blurred Chuckie-Cheese photograph is now a reality. I do have a nice smile, and last night a guy friend of mine told me that I looked the prettiest he ever saw me.
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