My best friends little sister just turned thirteen.
Jordan is the first in her grade to wear a bra. She used
to carefully select and lay out her outfit the night
before, usually a babydoll dress and a bow in her hair.
Now, she refuses to wear anything but XL sweatshirts.

Last week, she was at the waterpark with her friends
when an older boy yanked her bikini bottoms off
while splashing in the pool. Jordan clocked him right
in the face, imprinted a claw of red crescent moons
into his cheek. Afterward, she filed her fingernails.

Told the boy's mother about her son’s rowdy hands.
His mother told her she probably doesn't understand
because she doesn't have any brothers of her own
at home but boys will be boys, you know?

I should’ve worn a one-piece, Jordan adds
after telling me the story, smacking her forehead.
I didn't have the heart to tell her a one-piece
wouldn't have saved her. I didn't have the heart
to tell her womanhood is a disease with no cure.

When I tell my best friend what some fuckboy did
to her little sister, she shrugs her shoulders. She says
I don't know what to tell her, Blythe. I really don't.
The best advice I can give her is to get used to it.