Baby Teeth

There’s a rip in the fabric of the universe. She knows it. Her younger self knows of it. Others probably don’t understand what they’ve stumbled upon yet. It’s inconspicuous. She can’t even describe how it works; just knows that years ago she got off the four-o-nine, a pitstop on her way to Ann Arbor and there she was, already at the corner.

Autumn thinks this might mean that Blue Benn’s Diner in West Virginia is at the center of the galaxy. Or the edge of it. Maybe that’s why or how it happens. How they’re able to meet at the same place, the same time, every year. One older, one younger. 

She steps off the bus, takes in what her younger self is wearing as she bounces from one foot to the other beneath the plastic shelter that’s littered with delicate raindrops. Her wrists are choked with macramé friendship bracelets. The lining of her pockets is showing through the rips in her jeans across the upper thigh. Her white sneakers are streaked with faded doodles of lightning bolts and hearts. And oh god, how could she have forgotten about the pink hair and the face jewelry. No. Not forgotten. How could she have thought that she could skip the blip that was bad summer dye jobs and awful music choices. Lacy Michaels’ cramped bathroom with the beautiful stained-glass window and the smell of ammonia. 

So, so sunset pink. The memories of her roots plague her. It’s embarrassing how long it will take for her to decide to re-bleach and choose something else. In about a month Little Autumn will walk around, half dark brown, half strawberry. Shameless. Like a Neapolitan ice cream bar. She loathes it. Why did she think she looked cool?

“Looks cool,” Autumn says as she wraps her arms around her own neck. Can’t help it. And maybe that’s why she thought she could pull it off. Years before the older version of her had been a lying, empowering asshole. The cycle continues.  

Little Autumn laughs her way out of the embrace, “you kind of look like a spy.” This earns her a dramatic slow twirl. She’s not going to tell a seventeen-year-old that black is slimming and now makes up a good portion of her wardrobe. 

Once a year she comes up here and buys her younger self a bacon double cheeseburger, medium rare with barbecue sauce. A side of extra crispy unsalted steak fries. This is what Autumn has deemed self-love to be. Spars, unforgiving, and distant. She doesn’t want to spark a codependency. She absolutely isn’t going to divulge anything that will throw the timeline into a tailspin. Hollywood likes to crank movies out about that specific scenario as of late. So, before she came all this way, she made sure that the printed dates on her coins and bills wouldn't complicate matters. She’s thought about the finer details. Nothing flashy or branded. Doesn’t even take her phone out of her leather tote bag. 

This was how her older self had taught her.    

She listens to the animated way the younger one talks. The impressions. The wild gestures. The older woman doesn’t miss the excitement of first loves. What she misses is the unbridled careless devotion. She could tell herself to channel that enthusiasm into a hobby or study, but what good would it do? She’s young. Let her have this the way she had it, silent encouragement through a hug or a pat on the back. All she needs to do is be an ear and reassure her that they are good. 

She’s not going to clue her in. Younger Autumn probably already feels it in her heart; she and Warren Montgomery aren’t going to work out.

She’s not going to tell her that she shouldn’t compromise for anyone. Not if it’s to take your top off for a boy or tell a friend’s dad ‘those cigarettes are mine’. She’s not going to tell her to stick up for herself any harder than she does already- which is to say that she cowers. She’s not here to criticize. She’s here to cheer her on.  

But

She wishes the people pleasing was like a helium balloon, a simpler unburdening.  

In this long chain of Autumns she can’t say, ‘look kid, it must come from somewhere; so, I’ve decided that you’re the problem with us. Here’s how you can stop making us miserable.’ To insinuate that it’s solely her fault. That it’s up to youngest one to work at emotional maturity. There’s a laundry list of tasks she could give her though.

Start regularly doing cardio. Don’t be such a doormat. Excommunicate their mother in the spring before her first semester of college. Make a genuine effort to visit Zara regularly once you’re out of the house. On and on. They might be better off for it.  

Autumn could say to her younger self, ‘I want you to stop loving people…’ And because she’s her, and must be obstinate, needs an explanation, voices will get raised. Under the glow of the diner, she’ll argue with herself. She’s mastered using the knowledge about others against them, and she will make it hurt. 

‘Because you’re not good at it! You don’t know how and I sure as hell can’t teach you. There’s- it’s this hole. And it just keeps getting bigger, and things keep falling in. People. Fall in. We fall in. WE are the hole. We’re not. I don’t know. Why can’t you just listen to me and…not. Be. You.’ 

There. Now insides are bleeding. 

The older woman continues to smile at the unsuspecting naivety of her former self droning on about what she’ll see at the drive-in this week. It could be so easy. To be the black hole. To consume. To pull light from. Fighting with herself has always been the easiest. She loves herself the least. She’ll call it love when she’s serving something else entirely. She’ll trick herself or she won’t. Be completely honest. Or not. Should really, really stop loving people because the Autumns are getting it the worst.