Page 28 of The Dixon Rule

CHAPTER SIX

SHANE

Five gold stars for women’s liberation

“AND THEN WE GOT TO SEND ACTUAL MESSAGES TO THE ACTUAL astronauts in the International Space Station! Can you believe it! And tomorrow we get to see their responses. Can you believe that!”

If she weren’t ten years old, I would question whether Maryanne snorted a pound of cocaine before I got here. She’s pacing the living room, talking a mile a minute, wearing a look that can only be described as euphoric.

Sadly, all this ecstasy is a result not of coke but space camp.

“Firstly, I need you to chill,” I advise her. “You’re making me dizzy. Secondly, what was your message?”

She offers a broad smile. “I asked whether farts smell differently in zero gravity.”

I gape at her. “That? That was your question? We’re talking about a real astronaut in outer space, and that’s what you choose to ask them?”

She shrugs. “I must know.”

“Also, I heard this camp’s got you making bottle rockets. What if you mix all the ingredients wrong and accidentally create a biological weapon?”

Maryanne thinks it over for a beat. “Then I guess we kill everyone at camp.”

“Wow. Kid. That’s dark.” Laughing, I shake off the fact that my little sister might be a psychopath. “All right, go change out of that uniform. Mini golf ain’t going to play itself.”

“Eeee! I love it when you’re home!”

Next thing I know, she throws her skinny arms around me. I lift her off her feet in a big hug, making her laugh in delight.

I love being home too. I love my family, and I especially love this geeky girl in my arms. Some kids might resent their parents for giving them a sibling after eleven years of being an only child, but Maryanne’s had me wrapped around her little finger since she was an hour old and I was a preteen. I used to race home from hockey practice and demand to feed her. At night, I would sing her lullabies until my parents sat me down one day, informed me that I can’t sing, and said they would prefer, for the sake of their ears, not to hear my singing voice ever again. Merciless, those two.

I can hear them chatting in the kitchen, so I drift down the hall toward the doorway.

Mom just got home from a meeting, and she leans against the white granite counter in her trademark business getup—fitted slacks and a silk blouse—with her curly black hair pulled into a tight bun at her nape. She always looks like she stepped off the cover of a corporate magazine.

Dad, meanwhile, is a perpetual bum. Even before he started working from home, he’d wear jeans and a T-shirt to the office. Now the jeans have been replaced with baggy sweatpants.

They make such an odd couple. They met in high school when Mom was the type-A class president and Dad was the laid-back hockey star. Now he’s the laid-back entrepreneur who sort of fell into a super-successful business after his NHL dreams didn’t pan out. And she’s the type-A town manager of Heartsong, Vermont, a position that works functionally as a mayor. She’s the first Black woman to ever hold the position, so it was a big deal when she was elected by the city council. Heartsong has gotten a lot more progressive over the past ten years. The townspeople adore my mom.

My parents glance over at my entrance, halting their conversation.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say.

“Oh, you’re not interrupting,” Mom answers quickly. “Just discussing work stuff. Where’s your sister?”

“Changing out of her camp uniform. I’m taking her mini golfing.” I gesture to my dad’s bare arms and ask, “You been hitting the course this summer? Your arms are looking less pudgy from the last time I saw them.”

He glares in indignation. “Pudgy? How dare you?”

“The truth hurts, bro. You’ve definitely been working out or something, though. You look great.” He must’ve lost a solid fifteen pounds these past few months.

“Trying to.”

“I probably shouldn’t have brought so much sausage, then,” I say with a grin. I might’ve gone a little overboard when I paid a visit to my favorite butcher in Boston on my way to Heartsong.

“Wait, there’s sausage?” His eyes light up. “Please tell me it’s from Gustav.”

“No, I went to some generic grocery store butcher. Of course it’s from Gustav.”

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