The Cut - The Rage My Father Gave Me

There were three boys ahead of me in the waiting room at the orthodontist’s. One wore a New Kids shirt, one was blasting Boyz II Men on his Walkman, and the third remained face down in his pocket Game Boy. It was thrilling to be in such proximity to so many boys. I hoped they found me pretty in my feathered bangs and Gap pocket tee. I was 12.

Waiting-room jazz pulsed through the office. Time passed. I got hungry.

It was taking forever for my name to be called. There was a copy of Rolling Stone magazine in the waiting room, and Madonna was on the cover. This was the Warren Beatty and Blonde Ambition era. Her prime. In all the magazines, Madonna’s teeth were shiny and perfect, so the wait, I figured, was worth it.

Eventually, my father appeared, briefcase in hand. His office was down the street, and it was dinnertime.

“Mom sent me to get you.”

“But I don’t have my braces yet.”

I looked back down at the magazine, bracing myself. I knew my father would be angry that I had been waiting so long. Please don’t make a scene, I pleaded silently, thinking about the three cute boys sitting next to me. No such luck.

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