Page 25 of The Dixon Rule

“Love it,” Tatiana says emphatically. The other girls are nodding.

“Excellent.”

Fatima and I share an amused glance before splitting the campers into groups of three. I’ve choreographed four routines this year, two for my 8–10s group, and two for the 11–12s, who are my favorite by far.

Since these are children, we keep all the stunts fairly simple. The 8–10s are doing mostly doggy sits and knee sits. Cartwheels and roundoffs for the beginner tumblers. With this group, we’ve been working on double thigh stands, which is what we start with this morning. Fatima and I act as spotters, keeping a close eye from the back and front.

“Chloe, your lunge needs to be deeper,” I tell the freckled redhead. “Otherwise Harper doesn’t have a stable base.”

“Why can’t I be a flyer?” she whines.

“Because right now you’re a base,” I answer with a patient smile. “We talked about this—everyone will have a chance to be a flyer in the final routine. Right now, we need you as a base.”

She nods sullenly. Some kids are such brats, holding a sense of entitlement that they should be the star. Others are terrible at stunts but so darn happy to be here; they possess the necessary spirit, which is the most important part of cheer.

I help the two bases get into position. The flyer, Kerry, climbs onto her teammate’s thighs.

“Step, lock, tighten!” I remind them.

The bases hold the flyer’s legs. Fatima steps in to lightly support Kerry’s waist as the young girl extends her arms in a V pose.

“Perfect!” I exclaim. “Careful on the dismount. Feet together, Kerry.”

She flawlessly lands in front of the stunt, feet closed, face beaming.

“Excellent. Next group!”

At noon, we break for lunch. We usually eat outdoors, under the covered pavilion near the football field. I join my 11–12s at one of the long picnic tables and pry off the lid of my Greek salad. The girls are giggling to one another, casting peeks at one of the other tables.

“Share with the class,” I chide.

Tatiana smirks. “Crystal has a hickey.”

I smother a laugh. Lindley leaving his mark, I see.

I glance over, but while I can’t spot this alleged hickey, I do notice Crystal seems subdued. She’s completely zoned out as fellow counselor Natalia babbles obliviously.

“It’s rude to stare at people’s hickeys,” I inform Tatiana. “We only stare at their pimples.”

Everyone breaks out laughing.

“Kidding. I’m just kidding. You should never zit-shame. Also, fun fact—those things never really go away. My mom is in her forties, and she still gets zits. The rumor that they leave you after your teen years is an urban legend.”

The girls are horrified. They should be. Puberty hasn’t done its damage yet, so all of them still boast that smooth, unblemished skin I use hundreds of dollars’ worth of products to achieve.

After lunch, the campers have fifteen minutes of free time before the afternoon session starts, so I wander over to Crystal who now stands alone, engrossed with her phone.

Her head lifts when I walk up.

“You okay?” I ask. “You seem down.”

“I’m fine.” Then her jaw hardens bitterly. “Actually, no. I’m not fine. You were right about that jerk.”

I sigh. “Lindley?”

“Yeah. He’s such a dick.” Her body language is stiff as she lowers herself onto the top of the picnic table with her feet planted on the bench. “And no, I don’t particularly want an I-told-you-so.”

“I wasn’t going to give one.”

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