A few days ago, my 10-year-old sister, Perri, called me with a pressing problem.
My best friend has really bad breath,"" she told me. ""I don't know what to do about it. If I tell her, she'll get really mad at me.""
I contemplated this for a moment. I was expecting her to confront me with a pissy school librarian, having fallen victim to the dreaded prepubescent silent treatment or a rotting body in the basement, but this was just dull. As much as I enjoyed being hailed as the social wisdom guru by my sister, I doubted anyone received this title from solving halitosis.
""Can't you just deal with it?"" I asked her, really wanting to get back to my Sunday night chips and salsa binge. ""Your options are sort of limited here.""
""Kiera,"" she said, slightly annoyed. ""It's really gross.""
""How about gum?"" I suggested.
""Not allowed in school.""
""Slip a note anonymously into her locker?""
""She knows my handwriting.""
""Teach her sign language?""
""I don't think the teacher would let her speak in sign language if she's not deaf.""
""Oh. Do we own a foghorn?""
""Kiera!""
This was immensely frustrating. I had already taught her to gracefully end a burnt-out relationship. I had shown her the art of convincing our parents to let her see PG-13 movies. I had even explained that it's not feasible to answer the question until we know how Sally came to acquire 21 apples and what sadistic ritual inspired her to divide them into seven equal piles.
Yet, after all my immeasurable accomplishments, I was unable to turn fish breath to minty fresh. The whole thing seemed so trivial. If I had the mental capacity to make it through four years of high school and two and a half years of college, fourth grade should be a cinch.
In one last attempt at wisdom, I tried to recall what the fourth grade was like for me. I remembered failed plots to secure a seat at the cool lunch table, desperately trying to hide the fact that I wore a bra from the boys in my class and wondering if Sam Johnson's ambiguous gender would be more apparent after puberty hit.
Things are undoubtedly more complicated for me now. Now, I have to make sure I'm marketable for a job in a year, figure out where to bury that body and solve the phenomenon of how to get along with my roommates.
But these aren't the things that occupy my mind day-in and day-out. That morning, I was debating how badly yesterday's socks would smell if I wore them again today. I was constantly worrying that someone would notice how hard I laugh when people slip on the ice. And right now, I was contemplating whether or not my friends would notice/ridicule me if I ate the entire 16 oz. bag of potato chips by myself. And that doesn't seem much different than a best friend with rancid breath.
Even though the big things change with age, the little things tend to stay the same. So, I could stop beating myself up for my lack of prepubescent insight.
""The way I see it,"" I said, ""you have two choices:
Either tell her you'd rather hibernate in Mick Jagger's armpit than come within three feet of her open mouth, or just suck it up.""
""Really?"" she asked, disappointed.
""Sorry Hun,"" I said. ""It's all a part of growing up. I have to go. I have more important things to think about, like my future.""
As I curled up in front of the TV and finished my chips, I felt guilty about lying to my sister. But she doesn't need to know things never really change. At least not until she's old enough to pretend that they do.
If you know of a remote area with loose soil, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
