Page 24 of The Dixon Rule

Diana glares at me as if I’m personally responsible for Lynsey’s dance prowess. “Did you come all the way down here to flaunt that your ex-girlfriend is some ballroom prodigy?”

“No.” I roll my eyes. “I came down to swim laps. So chill out and go back to your water dancing. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”

“But we’re filming,” she complains.

“Great. Then your viewers can feast their eyes on the beautiful, godlike man in the pool.”

She stares at me. “Oh, you’re referring to yourself.”

I snicker. Arguing with Diana has succeeded in easing the lingering tension from my call with Lynsey. I was in low spirits before, but my chest feels lighter.

I saunter past the irritable blond and descend the steps in the shallow end. With the late morning sun beating down on us, the water feels like heaven against my skin.

“Do you go to Briar too?” I ask Kenji as I swim by him.

He opens his mouth, but Diana silences him with her hand. “You don’t have to answer that, Kenji.”

I chuckle and wait for him to speak for himself, but he simply gives me an apologetic shrug. Wimp.

Grinning, I slice through the cool water to start the first lap. It brings me deep enjoyment knowing Dixon doesn’t want me here.

I’m in a terrific mood now.

CHAPTER FIVE

DIANA

A good old-fashioned shunning

I’M RUNNING LATE ON WEDNESDAY, SO I TAKE A SHORTCUT TO THE BUS stop, cutting across the small parkette in front of Meadow Hill. The ground is still wet with morning dew, and a light mist of water sprays my ankles as my white tennis shoes drag against the grass.

I could walk, but I prefer the bus because it gives me time to edit my videos for Ride or Dance, the social media account I created for me and Kenji a couple of years ago. I use it mostly to post videos of our dance rehearsals, and then last year at NUABC, we posted a bunch of behind-the-scenes type segments. Somehow, we’ve amassed almost a hundred thousand followers. No idea how that happened, but I’m certainly not complaining. Unlike what Crystal thinks about our paychecks, the ad revenue from this account can be considered pocket change. Sometimes I even make enough to buy groceries for the month.

This morning, I find an exasperating number of comments about Shane under my latest rehearsal video, which makes me want to delete the whole account and then burn my phone.

At my stop, I hop off and walk the remaining hundred yards to the high school, where for three days a week, I mold the minds, bodies, and spirits of young athletes, guiding them along the path to achieving their dreams.

In other words, I teach cheerleading and basic gymnastics to eight- to twelve-year-olds.

This morning’s group of campers are ages eleven and twelve, their uniforms consisting of white shorts and yellow tees emblazoned with the camp logo. They’ll don their pleated cheer uniforms at the final event in August when each group performs two routines for the entire camp, one dance heavy, and one stunt based.

Our camp days are split into morning and afternoon sessions. Since my group is stunting for the first session, we gather on one side of the gymnasium, congregating on a sea of blue mats.

“All right, my little bunny rabbits,” I greet the girls. “Let’s get in position.”

Tatiana, the ringleader of the 11–12s, sticks up her hand. “Diana,” she announces. “We all took a vote and decided we don’t want to be called bunny rabbits anymore.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I see. Any particular reason?”

“Because they poop everywhere.”

The laugh slips out. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse my co-counselor, Fatima, grinning.

“I mean, that’s a fair point,” I acknowledge. “But the poop thing only occurred to you now?”

“My little brother got a pet rabbit this weekend,” Avery explains, her face glum. “I hate that thing with all my heart.”

“All right, then.” I mull it over. “How about…let’s get in position, my majestic eagles.”

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