Baby Teeth
By Sarah Brown
The eggs for the girls came from far away. Those girls with their unpressed seams, their loose threads—they looked like they were sprouting pink thread from their armpits. The skirts they made didn’t even cover their underwear. In the heat I could hear their bare thighs on the plastic seats, the squelch of their skin’s release. It truly made me shudder. Our school made do with whatever second-rate air conditioning was available, but we all knew the ozone was failing and our town was crumbling up along with it. But these girls were going to waltz into the end of the world wearing salvaged rhinestones. They didn’t care! Principal Wes didn’t care either, but he was sent here from the big city, thirty years my junior and with a sincere belief that one day we would all be saved and taken to a moon colony. He said prayers in our morning announcements and wrote polite critiques of my “old-fashioned” curriculum. I didn’t trust him when he said eggs were not effective or modern anymore. I knew those girls needed to learn a thing or two about reality. They were fifteen, the same age I was when I met Charles, for goodness’ sake.
It was Taylor A. who had spurned my plan into action. Never in my teaching career had I witnessed anything this flagrant. We were sewing solar blankets, and she’d brought in a swath of stained monocrystalline—a faded pale patch, some speckled rust. She was smirking as she showed it to the other girls. Oh, she’s pleased to help patch together the fabric of society, I thought, and for a second I felt hope, for Taylor A. was not the type to get excited about assignments. But then I caught wind of what the girls were whispering.
“So we had sex on my period, ‘cause you don’t get pregnant that way,” Taylor A. said. “We put this stuff down so the blood wouldn’t stain the sheets.” They all cackled.
Well, I nearly upset my pincushion. I had so much to say, the words swelled up and got stuck. I even thought about summoning Principal Wes in, but he would likely just preach something about silkworm eggs growing successfully in space. All that came out was me calling, “You girls ought to mind your manners.”
“Okay, Mrs. Prude,” Taylor A. said. Jessica poked her in the ribs. “I mean, Mrs. Peters.”
Now a few days later, in front of them all, I opened a carton. The eggs sat neatly in their pockets like a set of teeth. It felt appropriate because these eggs were going to be pretend babies, and a baby’s skull contains all the teeth they will ever have in life. It’s not like they grow them later, their adult teeth. Those ones sit up in the bones, big teeth under a tiny nose, waiting for the right time to come into their own. Throughout human history, from the Paleolithic hunters to the modern astronauts, this is the way we’ve been made. I told this to the girls, but they weren’t impressed.
“Come up and choose one,” I said. “Consider this your baby now. You’ll be responsible for caring for it for a short time. You’ll carry it around with you wherever you go.”
They rolled their eyes and snapped their gum, as usual. I cleared my throat.
“If you break it,” I said, “you will fail home economics.”
“Fail home economics?” said Emma, whose topstitching was atrocious. “Is that legal?”
“These are special eggs,” I went on. “All the way from the big city. They came from real hens instead of being grown in a lab. These eggs are more fragile and prettier than anything you’ll find here. If you replace yours with another egg, like the stamped ones from the rations, I’ll know.”
“So we’ll be held back?” said Rachel, incredulous. Just last week she had broken my surger, clogged it up with a mess of industrial thread. “If we break an egg?”
I merely raised my brows and held out the carton.
The girls came up and each took one, shuffling. Their hands were greasy with contraband lotion and glittered inappropriately. Despite that, they did not slip. I watched their steps become more cautious on the way back and felt vindicated already.
“I’d suggest you use the rest of the period to construct a safe place,” I said, “for when you can’t be holding it. There are soft materials like cotton batting in the scrap drawers.” They exchanged their customary sighs but eventually complied.
It was nice to see them working, backs bent over their tables. The beginning of a project was always the best, because I had a brief period of time to attend to other matters. I found my stitch ripper at someone’s station — I always had to lend it out, the girls were forever losing theirs — and I ripped seams from bungled items, the silver tip wrenching out each bad stitch, as I listened to them make their plans for going forward. The sun stretched its flaming rays through the window like it was watching us.
I might’ve been imagining it, but I swore that once the girls were given eggs, the halls became alive with a sort of buzzing. It was late spring and burnt dandelion wisps blew through the vents of the air conditioners. Birds beat themselves desperately against the old glass windows. I spied girls from my class sitting behind boys during assembly, giggling amongst themselves, the eggs tucked gingerly between their knees.
“O Lord, give us the strength to withstand this next summer,” Principal Wes said, his head bowed over his microphone. “Bless us with water and bountiful sunscreen and a safe passage to the colonies, when it’s time.” I watched as two girls drew a heart in the air behind a boy with floppy brown hair.
I’d sat behind Charles in this very school itself. Times were so different then, of course, but some things were the same. I loved to look at the whorl of hair at his crown, the slivers of tanned scalp showing through. It was a soft part of him, something not many people could see up close. I was so shy around him, but he was eager and gallant, even buying me flowers—real ones, lilies, purchased with his paper route money. I still remember holding those firm white bulbs in my hands, wondering what shape they would blossom into. We married right out of high school, like so many did once the forecasts started changing, and many years later we had attained the comfort of siblings, sort of, each with our own well-worn side of the bed.
The girls feigned indifference, but I could see them staring at the boys, all skittish and giggling, and I could sense they were starting to care more about their eggs. For instance, they wouldn’t leave them behind if they went to the bathroom—they would cart them along with practiced obligation. They would talk quietly to their eggs while studying from their home economics handbook. I heard Alicia mutter, “Ugh, that’s how my mother does laundry,” to her egg as we read aloud a page on solar thermal collectors.
“Now, remember, class,” I said, “you’re doing well, but you haven’t passed yet. Your contribution to society as young ladies is essential. Don’t get complacent.”
I had dismissed class and was heading towards the cafeteria for my afternoon cup of water when I heard my name called. There was Principal Wes, that perpetually eager expression upon his face. Something about him reminded me of a golden retriever panting behind a picket fence.
“Hi, Mrs. Peters. Say, you didn’t add that egg activity to your curriculum, did you? I’ve been seeing students carrying them around. It sure doesn’t sound like the best use of...”
“Oh, those eggs?” I said. “I’ve heard they’re all the rage in the big city. It’s a new trend, like friendship bracelets or something. I don’t know much more about it.”
“I suppose I’m not as trendy as you,” he said good-naturedly. “But, really, Mrs. Peters—”
“I’m more old-fashioned than you think,” I said. “The school flag hanging above the gymnasium? I stitched it when you were in diapers.” At times like this it was useful to remind him of my seniority.
Accordingly, he chuckled. “Big plans for the weekend, then?”
“Well, Charles may venture outdoors briefly. He’s found a little part of the woods that’s still good for foraging. Mushrooms, mostly. I like to pickle them with some dried sage. So I’ll be getting my cans ready.”
“Oh, I know the area! I scoured the maps when we moved here for an outdoor spot to take my daughters. They’re five and seven, and they just love getting covered in dirt. Of course, their mother scolds me, they need a full bath afterwards—but why not live sometimes, you know?”
“Why indeed.”
“You have grandkids? It makes for a fun afternoon.”
“No. We don’t have children.”
“Oh, gosh, that’s right, I’d forgotten. You know, you just seem like the type.”
“How nice,” I said. “I’ve got to be on my way, Principal Wes.” There was a girl with an egg down the hall, balancing it atop her textbooks with a nervous expression.
The girls had achieved five days with all eggs still accounted for. They were tired, complained of headaches and wrist cramps. This type of responsibility had not been placed on their shoulders before, it was clear. They were reaching the stage where exhaustion could bleed into carelessness, so I had to regain their attention. “Clothes!” I said. “We can make clothes. Won’t that be something?” I knew girls liked the idea of making small things prettier, outfitting them in special concoctions of their own. I showed them tiny patterns, spread out vintage fabric bolts in tasteful prints—blue poplin, pink floral, polka dots.
“It’s cute!” Larissa squealed when I held up a little pinafore, and I felt vindicated. They spent the rest of the morning cutting and pinning, and even the most cynical girls looked enthused as they sorted through the scrap drawers.
Later, in those same halls, I was pleased to see a girl taking her time to get to class, cupping an egg fastidiously in her palms. I was pleased to hear girls in the water line comparing the shape of their eggs, their various methods of tucking them securely into backpacks—scavenged Styrofoam, nests of discarded lightning cables. I was not pleased to see Taylor A. against the bricks outside, egg tucked into the back pocket of her cutoffs, kissing a boy underneath the clattering air conditioner.
I walked up to their sweaty bodies and tapped her on the shoulder.
“Good morning, young lady, how is your beautiful baby,” I said.
It provoked the desired reaction. “Holy shit,” the boy said, and he quickly got out of our way. Taylor A. frowned at me.
“I need to see you in my office,” I said.
“Your office?”
“The sewing room,” I snapped. “You know what I mean.”
The girls had left the room a mess in their excitement to sew egg-baby clothing. Bobbins were strewn across tables, ribbons curled like burnt paper on the linoleum. I sat at my sewing table. Before Taylor A. took her place across from me, I nearly screamed. “The egg!” She jumped, her buttocks a mere few inches from the seat. She stood and removed it from her pocket, though not as carefully as I would have liked.
“So,” I said, taking her in. She was blue-eyed with a sunburn sprayed across her forehead. Her contraband mascara was crusted, but she didn’t look like the type to cry easily. “I take it you’re not doing very well in school outside of this class.”
“So?”
“Home economics could provide an easy A for you,” I said. “Improve your average. Do you know what you’d like to do after graduation?”
She shuffled. “My sister’s gone to work as a water collector. I might do the same. Or, I mean—well, I always liked the idea of being an astronaut.” She looked flushed, but it could have been the sunburn. “I guess everybody does.”
“Well, it’s nice to have high hopes. Certainly you wouldn’t want to damage your future opportunities by failing a class.”
“No,” she said, “I guess not.”
“Then do well on this assignment. Take proper care of it,” I said. “You might even learn to enjoy yourself along the way.”
“I’ll get a good grade if I do? Even though my sewing’s no good?”
“If you prove yourself, I can overlook certain things.”
“Okay.” She picked at a blister on her hand. “I just wanted to say, you know, when we were working on solar blankets. I’m sorry I called you Mrs. Prude. It’s just all the girls do. I got accustomed.”
“Well, I suppose I should be happy you’re mature enough to apologize. But you should know I’ve had sexual relations before, young lady.” I ignored her expression. “You aren’t the first to embark on such an adventure.”
“Um. Still, there’s like, no reason to worry. This whole egg thing...” She sort of laughed. “My boyfriend and I are pretty careful. We’re not ready for a baby.”
“Perhaps the world isn’t either, dear.”
Taylor A. looked taken aback.
“Trust me,” I said.
“Okay. I guess. Can I go?”
“Of course. Now, just keep that egg nice and intact a little longer so you can pass this class. No more stuffing it into tight shorts.”
She nodded. Now she held her egg with a steadier palm. The eggs truly were frail as a fetus. If you held one up to the light it looked nearly blue, like thin milk, and you could see the tiny threads in there, the veins, tethering everything together.
On the hottest day of the year thus far, we reached the end of the project. Glittering beads of condensation bubbled out from the walls. Principal Wes caught me as I was supervising cleanup. He called my name several times, then actually slapped the doorframe to garner a reply. His palms left sweat lingering on the paint.
“Mrs. Peters,” he said, “I’ve gotten several eyewitness reports that students of yours are carrying eggs, real eggs, not a product of this region. Contraband. And that some of those eggs are wearing...clothing?”
“Hot out there, isn’t it,” I said as the class tidied their stations.
“Yes, we’ll need your girls to construct more cellular shades,” he said. “I expect the materials soon. But please don’t change the subject, Mrs. Peters. I don’t mean to offend but I can’t possibly see any other explanation.”
He was positioned in the doorway so that the noon sun angled in and hit him straight in the eyes. Try as he might, when he looked forward at the girls all he could do was squint and grimace.
“Nothing to see here, Principal,” I said, and shut the door in his face.
Then I instructed the girls to bring their babies up to the front for inspection. It was miraculous. Every last egg was intact. Some girls had even named theirs things like Brock or Humpty or Della-Marie. I overheard that Taylor A.’s was named Destiny, a terrible name, but a name nonetheless. Moreover, the eggs now had penciled dots for eyes, dashes for noses, thin inky mouths. Some were wrapped in fat ribbon, loosely-stitched silks, heinous overalls. The garments were constructed with the care of a mother: imperfection with enormous effort, a difficult thing to replicate. You knew it when you saw it, though. And there they were, back in their carton like little teeth once again.
“You’ve done very well, so well,” I said. “I am truly impressed with you all.” I had never praised the class like this before and the air became thick with pleasure. The loud girls exchanged satisfied glances and the shy ones smiled at their hands. Each kept an eye on their egg as they waited for my grade.
It was time. I took out my stitch ripper and smashed each egg with its sharp pointed end. The shells cracked instantly, the whites flew everywhere. Yolks slopped out onto the ground. There was a gasp. A girl’s chair squeaked back. There was a shriek! Yes, that was right, that was appropriate. I felt the horror in the room without looking up.
From the corner of my eye I watched Taylor A. rub a splatter off her cheek, her mouth slack.
I had a lot of things to say but they weren’t coming out. Nobody said anything, either. But Principal Wes did; he’d managed to open the door and now was surveying the mess.
“Come on, girls, out, out, follow me,” he was barking. “I fear Mrs. Peters is suffering from a heat-related illness. Her mind’s not working quite right now. Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ll be back to help her. But first let’s get you into the gymnasium, where you can work on something appropriate.”
The girls looked around at each other wordlessly. One by one they just peeled themselves off their seats and left, their thighs making that horrible sound against the plastic. I couldn’t stand it because it sounded like their flesh was leaving their bodies. What I mean is it was the sound of something leaving a body, permanently, forever. A sound of removal.
I walked out into the sun, leaving the mess of shells and guts to roast on the floor. I felt guilty about it but when all was said and done I couldn’t look at those broken parts anymore. The girls needed to see them, though. Every girl needs to learn these things. I should have said more, I supposed. I should have said: Look, you need to know that anything so fragile can slip away, though you held it with both hands.
ABOUT THE CREATOR
Sarah Brown’s writing has previously appeared on the Bronwen Wallace Award shortlist and in publications such as the Journey Prize Anthology, Prism International, and Room. A graduate of Concordia University’s Creative Writing MA program, she works as an English instructor in New Westminster, BC.