Prank Call

Growing up, my best friend, Patsy, and I thought it was the most hysterical thing to dial random numbers and make fake phone calls. Of course, these were the days before caller ID, when everyone picked up their phone, not knowing who'd be on the other end.

We'd call neighbors, family members, or even made-up phone numbers and ask, "Is your refrigerator running? Well, you better go catch it!" We'd roll on the floor, hugging our stomachs, drying the tears streaming down our cheeks.

One day, I decided that I could make calls even if Patsy weren't around. I dialed a made-up number, and a woman answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. I'm Vero." For some reason, I couldn't carry out the joke without my partner-in-crime.

"Who? What can I help you with, mija?"

"Oh, nothing. I just came home from school. I go to Vista Hills. I'm in third grade."

"Where's your mom, honey?"

"She's at work. Do you have any kids?"

The woman on the other end kindly carried on a conversation with me, unsure about what exactly was happening. After a few minutes, I told her I had to go, and we hung up.

To me, there was nothing strange about what happened. I called someone, we chatted, and that was that. So the next day, and every day for a week after that, I called the same number after school and had a lovely little chat with the woman on the other end of the line.

The following week, as I got home from school, I went into the bedroom to make my call. This time, my mom, dad and telephone friend were in the room waiting for me.

"Why have you been calling this woman every day for a week?" asked my mom furiously. "What's wrong with you?" She pulled me in closer. "What have you been telling her?"

I was immediately embarrassed and ashamed. I stared at my feet.

"What's going on, mija? Are you OK? Do you need someone to talk to?" asked the friendly telephone lady.

"No."

My dad, as it were, stood quietly and didn't say a word. I couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable with asking me personal questions or if he was embarrassed by what I'd done. Whatever it was, it was awful.

I think the questions went on for several minutes, and finally, the friendly telephone lady excused herself and my mom walked her out. Days later, my mother approached me again, wanting to know why I'd made those calls. I desperately wished there was something deep and meaningful that I could give as an explanation for my behavior, but the truth was, I just wanted to make a crank call. For the next few weeks, I'd be mad at Patsy for not being there to make the call with me.

Short Teeth

News Flash: I'm self-conscious about my appearance. Overall, I feel pretty good about myself, but like most people, there are certain things about myself that really bug me. In high school, I didn't have very nice skin. No surprises there, since this is pretty common, I know. But the embarrassment of having poor skin doesn't go away once your skin clears up. As a grown woman, I want a flat belly. Equally shocking, I know, since it is likely that 99% of women would like a flatter belly. And thought these are areas I'll probably always be self-conscious about, I've gotten comfortable with my discomfort in these two areas. And I've grown to [mostly] like the way I look.

A few weeks ago, however, I added another annoyance to the list: short teeth.

I've had dental work my entire life. In my teens, I had too many teeth in my somewhat small mouth, so I had 4 removed and wore braces to straighten the rest out. In my early twenties, my wisdom teeth were severely impacted, so they were all removed. Last year, I had a root canal on one of my two front teeth, after learning that the nerve inside my tooth had died and begun darkening it. I brush and floss religiously. So after obtaining a near perfect smile, I decided that I wanted whiter teeth.

For my birthday this past year, I got little trays made by my dentist and started whitening. He even made me a special tray for the darker front tooth, which could be whitened all on its own. The improvement in my smile was addictive. I now wanted my teeth so white, they'd glow in the dark. Or something like that.

Last month, I went in for my yearly checkup. My dentist was pleased with the success of my whitening. We discussed a reasonable whitening schedule, to make sure I didn't overdo it. After some chit chat, my dentist stepped back and said, "Smile for me." I smiled proudly and waited for more praise.

Instead, he said, "You know what bugs me now?"

I stopped smiling.

"The gum line. You know, we could do a little gum contouring to lengthen your teeth a bit."

Jesus. I had no idea I'd been walking around with short teeth this whole time! Actually, I think I did figure it out recently, but dismissed the critique of my smile and chalked it up to neurosis. I remember looking at a picture of myself and thinking, "Why do my teeth look so small?" And then I giggled to myself and thought, "That's ridiculous. My teeth are perfectly big enough!"

But I'd been wrong. I have short teeth, and my dentist wants to lengthen them. Guess what I'm examining on a daily basis now? My tiny, tiny teeth.

My dentist and I politely discussed my [very costly] options and I left his office, knowing I wouldn't be doing any freakin' gum contouring. I mean, I know I'm vain, but I'm not that vain...right?

Chunks of Time

There are pieces I remember, and pieces I don't. I'm not sure if my 3-year stint with pot evaporated enough brain cells to erase some memories from my mind, or if I just chose not to hang on to those particular memories.

Here's what I do remember: Memorial Day, circa 1986. Driving to Mountain Shadow Lakes - a man-made lake in Horizon City, Texas. Giant dragonflies that I desperately swatted at. Hot-air balloons. Tension in the air. One minute, my dad was with us all. The next, he was gone. We solemnly made our way home from the man-made lake several hours later and I knew I was supposed to be sad, I just didn't know why.

Within hours of arriving at our house, drama ensued. My mom's sister arrived, my mom cried, my sister listened to their conversation. My mom and aunt sped away and were gone for hours. When they got home, they brought a locksmith with them.

"I saw you," my mom said in Spanish into the phone. "I saw you."

My dad no longer lived at home.

--

We drove to the church, actually it was a monastery, and asked for one of the nuns. We sat with her and my mom lowered her head and sobbed loudly as I sat in her lap. When she wept, she made soft, low sounds with her voice. They sounded painful and uncomfortable. It always made me want to tell her to stop.

When the crying subsided, my mom said gently, "Tell her. Tell her how you feel." I wanted to make my mom proud, and say something dramatic and heartbreaking, but I felt nothing. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be feeling, and honestly, I just wanted to get out of there and get back to playing or watching TV. Anything but this.

"I'm sad," I said.

"Well you're going to have to tell your dad. Tell him what he's doing to you. Tell him how angry you are for ripping this family apart, for not loving us enough to stay. You have to tell him."

I wasn't angry. I didn't feel like my dad didn't love me. I was mad at my mom for making me sit there and have this ridiculous conversation with a stranger.

On the ride home, she said, "Tell me what you're going to tell him." So I lied.