She's Too Pretty to Burn

by Wendy Heard

The door to the men’s locker room opened, and Nico stepped out. He’d changed from jeans into American-flag-printed swim trunks, a red visor, and a cobalt-blue fanny pack, and he had an entire armful of bright blue and red ring toys, the kind you throw into the pool and retrieve, looped around his wiry arm from wrist to armpit. On the tan skin of his stomach, he’d painted USA in block letters.

“I’m a red-blooded American man, and I’m here to have some family fun.” He pointed to the letters on his stomach. “It’s waterproof paint.”

I said, while Nico gave a passing family a Disney princess wave. The mom clutched her toddler closer to her side.

Claudia presses her fingertips to her temples. “I can’t take you anywhere. Not even our own kitchen.”

“Why are you apologizing when you didn’t do anything wrong? That’s something we teach girls to do—always apologize, never be a burden. You have a right to take up space.”

I’m so glad I didn’t melt you down with steel and turn you into a lifeless, shining doll. What a waste that would have been. You’re too pretty to burn.