By Divya Rejeev, grade 6, California

When I arrived home after a vigorous session of P. E., I could barely walk straight. My legs felt like noodles, and my stomach was doing somersaults. I headed straight to the pantry and spotted a lone granola bar sitting like a hidden treasure in the corner. Famished, I tore it open, collapsed onto the jet-black leather couch, and took a massive bite.

Crunch

Not the satisfying crunch I expected. My mouth froze. A sharp jolt shot through my gums—my already wiggly tooth now hung by a minuscule string of my gums.

Looking back, I admit that as a child I was a tad bit dramatic over even the smallest scrape, sting, or bump. When I was five, I tripped over a stepping stone one fateful afternoon, cut my knee, and had to be carried to urgent care. To be fair, it wasn’t all in my head—I ended up with five stitches and a follow-up visit the next week.

After that, I began expecting the worst in every situation. I screamed at the sight of spiders no bigger than a breadcrumb, hollered if a honeybee came within a foot of me, and treated paper cuts like full-blown injuries I’d now brush off without a second thought.

So when my first loose tooth arrived, I didn’t exactly handle it with grace.

With a mix of euphoria and fear, I rushed towards my mom. “Mom, it’s loose!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down on the plush off-white carpet. My mom hastily turned off her favorite Netflix show, Designated Survivor, mid-episode and stared at me with wide eyes. “Okay… I guess I’ll have to pull it out! Then the tooth fairy will come!” she said, motioning for me to come closer as she was heading to the closet for the mini tooth-shaped container in which she said she would put my first pulled-out tooth.

But the thought of my tooth being yanked out sent me into full panic mode. “No! Anything but that!” I cried, flailing like a fish out of water, my arms and legs thrashing in every direction.

My mom’s eyes widened as she watched me thrash around the room. For a moment, she looked caught between stifling a laugh and offering moral support. She took a steadying breath and said, “Oh, Sai,”—using my nickname with a warm smile—as she knelt down to my level, her hands outstretched like a warrior bracing for a fight. “This is a big moment! However, if we don’t pull it out now, it’s only going to get worse—and the tooth fairy might not be too happy if it’s still hanging on tomorrow.”

Her voice was gentle, but there was a familiar sparkle in her eyes—a glimpse of nostalgia, remembering the excitement and chaos of when my older brother lost his first tooth.

Six-year-old me wasn’t having it. “Don’t, don’t!” I hollered. “Get away from me!” Exasperated, my mom sighed. “How about this, show your fingers from one to ten when I pull. The higher the number, the greater the pain.” Reluctantly, I agreed, and prepared for bloody doom.

Then, I saw my mom’s finger reach towards my mouth, hearing her say, “I’m gonna pull in 3, 2…1…”

Plink

I blinked, surprised at how painless it felt. I stared at that tiny tooth, the perpetrator of all my panic. I wondered, how could I have been so scared of that little thing? I figured that I was more grown up than I’d thought. After all, I had just survived losing my first tooth with absolutely no tantrums. Lost in thought, I headed towards the bathroom, put some ice in my mouth, and went on with my day as if nothing happened.

By Divya Rejeev, grade 6, California. Divya comes from a South Asian ancestry, and  aspires to become a writer.