Baby Teeth
I don't know why I remember one of my baby front teeth getting pulled out. I was six. It was December — everyone on our block was feeling festive because of the Christmas party. A bunch of kids were playing games: musical chairs, "bring-me", pabitin and more. The adults were grilling barbecue, laughing and drinking while watching the games. There were banderitas and parols around the compound and the air was filled with music. There was karaoke somewhere. I remember the last game of the night involved an apple on a string. The first kid to eat the biggest chunk of the apple in a minute wins.
I remember hearing the "ready, set, go!" and off we go. A line of children trying to bite an apple hanging on a string without using their hands. Everyone on the sides is screaming now, cheering us on. I take a bite. Unsuccessfully. The apple keeps moving, swinging on the string. I need to find a good angle to take a firm bite. Crunch. Crunch. This is good. I'm making progress. Another crunch. My baby tooth is moving. I run my tongue over it and confirm that it is, in fact, loose. That doesn't hold me back — I'm in it to win it anyway, so I take another bite. Crunch! The apple tastes a little different now, a little metallic. I look at the apple, and between the bite marks are red streaks of blood. My front tooth is very, very loose. One of the adults notices and takes me out of the game.
Later that night, someone takes a string, puts it around my loose front tooth and tugs it until it falls off.