Her teeth are so perfect, they’re earmarked for ten-dollar bills. Brandi never goes hungry. She blows pink bubbles like birthday balloons while I shush the voice warning me not to steal her pearl-white canine and stash it in my empty lunchbox. When Brandi checks her backpack at recess, I slip her tooth against my gums and suck like it’s no big deal. Instead of dollar bills, I get detention.
When my incisor finally falls, the tooth fairy goes all-out for revenge. There’s no trail of glitter like Brandi said, just a Mini Tootsie Roll and a sellotaped nickel.
Emma Phillips lives by the M5 in Devon, which sometimes lures her away in search of adventure. Her words have recently appeared in Trash Cat Lit, Temple in a City, Raw Lit and Literary Namjooning.
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