The stars, so many of them, like holes poked in the atmosphere. The sky, a faded black t-shirt eaten up by pesky moths in the closet of your days. You look up out the window of your mother’s white Cadillac as she drives to the store for a late-night shopping trip. You are the little girl, her darling daughter. Your brother comes too, a package deal, both her kids separated by five years of age, an age gap with perks like getting the front seat. You feel strange being out in the world in your fuzzy pajamas. As you stare at the glittering cosmos above, you wiggle your tooth, the one that’s loose, the one that feels good when it bleeds a bit. You tamper with it until you know it’s ready. So many stars. Too many to be seen in the city. You are surprised by other kids in pajamas getting in and out of cars. You thought you were the only one who partook in such spectacles of nighttime travel with parents to various places in bedtime ensembles. You were not alone when you lost your first tooth. Your brother was the one who taught you the candy trick. He said to bite into the Starburst, the tooth would come out easy. You did this every time because it worked. Each time a new flavor. Blood was mixed with cherry, pink sweetness, tart yellow lemon taste. You imagine other kids losing their teeth. Maybe they tie strings to door handles, maybe they bleed on buses heading for school, maybe their parents perform bathroom surgeries. At the market, the aisles seem like tower walls. The floors are hot lava or an alien planet with the occasional safety zone. You keep one foot on the cart or a dark tinted tile. You want Fruity Pebbles, and your mother says no. Your brother vouches, as all siblings do, for strawberry milk. He supports more cereal choices. The cinnamon squares you both know and love do not gleam like the pebbles of fruit you saw on TV. As you know well—some efforts go in vain. The cashier says you are pretty. In a lifetime, so many cashiers, so many compliments. You no longer wish for such cereal. There is no candy trick to cure what ails your brother now. The clerk checks you out and you pause politely for your compliment, but could you be gorgeous with your hair in a bun on your head? Do you fool anyone?