(I wrote a short story at lunch the other day.)

In kindergarten, I got shit for having a lithp. My clathmathes made fun of the way I thay wordth with the letter eth. They mimicked my thpeech. They athked me to rethite the thtupid tongue twithter with the theashellth. Of course, I never did it. Not out loud, but I rethited it in my head. She sells seashells by the seashore. My Reading teacher wath a thcary woman who loved wearing maroon lipthtick. It emphathized her nicotine-thtained teeth. At clath, she would athk uth to repeat the wordth after her. Each day wath devoted to a letter. I dreaded the day of eth. We that in the middle of the clathroom floor. When our name wath called, we thtood up to thay the wordth after her. Our voitheth trembled becauthe we were thcared of her. She shouted at kidth and ordered them out of the room.The wordth she athked me to thay were: sand, sell, sip, sorry, summer. All my clathmathes thnickered and then burtht out laughing. I felt like crying. Why didn’t they thay anything when Gary thaid ‘kelery’ inthtead of celery? Good thing my teacher glared at them, and even threatened to canthel retheth. She never did anyone that kindneth. My tearth didn’t fall, but my throat felt funny, like I wath about to laugh and cry at the thame time. Maybe my teacher knew my daddy knocked my teeth out with a hammer before he wath thent away forever.


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