Dylan (3 page)

“Ehmagawd—ouch!”

“Camera’s off, interview’s over!” Svetlana barked. Boris hissed.

“Woah—the devil wears Puma!” Dylan took a step back and rubbed her wrist. “What about everything you said about Zen and meditation and being sorry?”

Svetlana stared at Dylan’s mouth.

“What?” Dylan felt her cheeks burn.

“Are those teeth real?”

Dylan took a step back, her heels sinking in the spongy grass. “Of course they are.”

Svetlana swung an imaginary racket toward Dylan’s glossy mouth.

“What are you
doing
?” Dylan’s ears buzzed with fear.

“Why do you think you are worthy to touch Svetlana?” The tennis star cracked her hair-snake like a whip. “You are just loserfan, too sloppy to be an athlete and—”

“I am
nawt
a fan!” Dylan shouted, her forehead starting to bead with sweat as the midmorning sun warmed the lush resort.

“Correction.” Svetlana leaned forward until they were practically button nose to button nose. “You are a loserfan
stalker
!”

Then she head-butted Dylan.

“Ow! My skull!” Dylan grabbed her head, hearing a landline ringing inside her brain. “I think you gave me a concussion!” She whipped the empty Altoids tin at Svetlana, but accidentally hit Boris in the back left paw.

Without looking back, she scooped up her LG, put one silver Nike in front of the other, and ran as if her teeth depended on it.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
MEDITATION ROOM

Tuesday, June 30

2 P.M.

“Ah-
lo
-ha!” Dylan burped that afternoon, the heavy bamboo door of the meditation room slamming shut behind her.

Reee-owwww!
Boris meowed from somewhere inside in the dimly lit chamber. Svetlana’s jaw clenched.

She was sitting alone, legs crossed, in the center of a caramel sand–covered floor with her eyes closed. Rake marks and tiny paw prints swirled around her. The pink travertine walls oozed water, which trickled into a gardenia-filled pond that flowed along the edges of the room. Birds chirped, waves lapped, and a deep man’s voice chanted, “Ommmmm,”
over and over again, thanks to the sound effects that were piped into the candlelit chamber.

“Can we talk?” Dylan stomped over to Svetlana, leaving a Nike footprint trail in the sand.

“Nyet.”
Svetlana’s eyelids fluttered. She looked almost angelic in a white satin robe with her blond hair-snake wrapped around her head like a halo.

“Wrong answer.” Dylan stomped. A cloud of sand puffed around her yellow pom-pom tennis socks.

Svetlana’s eyes snapped open. “Back for seconds?” She reached out and pinched Dylan’s calf.

“Owie!” Dylan yelped. Her skin prickled with fear and adrenaline. No way was she going to endure another head butt. She backed up a few sand-print steps in case she needed to make another run for it. “You’re totally insane—I can’t believe you almost fooled everyone with your whole
transformation
act.”

“What you mean
almost
?” Svetlana smirked. “Everybody adores Svetlana again thanks to your mom-host.”

Dylan pursed her Nars Peachy Keen–smeared lips. “Puh-lease! You practically twisted my arm into the Nike swoosh.”

“So what?” Svetlana unraveled her braid-snake from its halo. “No one saw it, and no one will believe what a little red pimple like you has to say.”

Dylan pinched her hips with renewed hope. “Wait, you think I’m
little
?”

“Just the brain.” Svetlana stood, brushing sand off her slippery-smooth robe.

“Oh yeah? Then how do you explain
this
?” Dylan waved her LG.

“It’s called phone, Pimple.” Svetlana knocked it to the sand. “Now go. I must get back to meditation.”

“Not until I watch your little outburst under the candlelight.” Dylan held up the phone and thumbed through the buttons. Her hands shook, knowing they could get smacked or snapped at any given moment. “I want to hear the part where you called me a sloppy loserfan again. The acoustics in here are great and I—”

What?”
Svetlana released her honey-colored braid and clenched her fists.

“I wonder what the International Tennis Association will say when it sees you’ve fallen off the temper-tantrum wagon?” Dylan positioned her LG under Svetlana’s narrow blue-green eyes. A shot of the post-interview arm-twist was frozen on screen. “This little thing is amazing. It’s limited edition—Merri-Lee got it in her Oscar swag bag. It stores hours of video.”

“How did you—”

“Just before you knocked the phone out of my hand I pressed record.” Dylan winked. “Not bad for a
little
brain, huh?” Her heart thumped as Svetlana’s smug expression darkened like the Hawaiian sky moments before a tropical storm.

“Thanks to your backhand, it was lying in the grass, so I have a few nice shots of your frilly underwear and—”

“Give to me.” Svetlana swiped her claws Boris style as Dylan dropped the phone down the V of her lemon-yellow Fila minidress and folded her arms across her chest.

“After Nike sees this, the only thing you’ll be endorsing is kitty litter,” Dylan announced.

“How do I know you’re not bluffing?” Svetlana’s eyes flashed as she tightened the satin tie on her robe.

A new CD track blasted a series of loud, deep “ommm’s” through the room.

Dylan reached inside her dress and pressed play on her LG.

Why do you think you are worthy to touch Svetlana? You are just loserfan, too sloppy to be an athlete and—”

“I am nawt a fan!”

“Correction. You are a loserfan stalker!”

“Ouch! My skull! I think you just gave me a concussion.”

Dylan hit pause. Svetlana grinded her teeth, her dewy pink cheeks purple with rage. She muttered something in Russian that sounded a lot like “spit on your neck.”

“Should I rewind to the part where you twisted my arm?”

“Enough,” Svetlana demanded, clawing at Dylan’s built-in sports bra, trying to swipe the phone.

Dylan jumped back, sending granules of sand skittering around her ankles. “Did you know I can zap this clip to
The Daily Grind
with the push of a button? Isn’t that incredible?”

“You would not dare.” Svetlana sneered, lunging once again at Dylan’s chest.

Dylan pulled out her LG and mimed pressing SEND. “Or maybe Nike would like to see it?”

“Noooo!”
Svetlana bent down and whipped a votive against the pink travertine. Glass shattered everywhere, hot wax splattered across the wall, and something landed on Dylan’s head with a
thwack
. Sharp objects began ripping into her scalp.

“Ehmagawd, I’ve been hit!” she shrieked, then reached for her head, expecting to find a tangle of glass shards, red hair, and gooey brain-blood. But instead, she slammed into a four-pound ball of kitten fur.

“Ahhhhhhh!”
Dylan frantically tried to swat Boris off her head.

“Reeee-owwww!”
The cat dive-bombed into the sand and scurried for the nearest corner, hissing as his paw landed in a puddle of molten wax.

Svetlana was breathing heavily. “You will not do this to me,” she screamed, whipping another votive at the wall. Then another. And another.

Dylan simply stepped aside, pulled her phone out, and began recording it all. She couldn’t have planned this better if she’d tried.

After the last candle had been tossed, Svetlana dropped to her knees and ran her fingers through the sand, whisper-counting in Russian. Several calming breaths later, she stood up again and smoothed her white skirt.

“What you want from me? An apology? Because Svetlana really didn’t mean to—”

“I want a lot more than an apology.” Dylan tucked the phone back into the V of her dress.

“Anything.” Svetlana pulled each one of her long, slender fingers until it cracked.

Dylan put her hand on the bamboo door, just in case she needed to make a run for it, and then blurted, “Teachmeeverythingyouknowabouttennis.”

“You want . . . tennis lessons?” Svetlana’s flawless forehead crinkled.

Dylan nodded yes. “Times ten. I want to
become
the game.”

You?”
She rolled her blue-green eyes. “Mission impossible.”

Dylan made a move for her phone.

“Okay, wait! Svetlana is just joking.” A tight smile cut across her face. It looked like she had poo cramps. “If you could please share why you hunger for such knowledge.”

“Nawt that it’s any of your business”—Dylan twirled a strand of glossy red hair around her finger—“but it has to do with getting a certain crush to crush back.”

“You do this for a
boy
?” Svetlana flared her nostrils. “How pathetic.”

“Puh-lease! You’ve given up your entire life for a
sport
. How is
that
any less pathetic?”

Svetlana opened her tight-lipped mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

Fifteen-love, Dylan.

Finally, she swallowed hard. “How many lessons must I give?”

“Until J.T. likes me back—”

“J.T.?” Svetlana threw back her head and laughed.

“You know him?” Dylan’s cheeks burned.

“Nyet.”
Svetlana quickly sobered. “But you Americans have such silly names.”

Dylan crossed her arms. “Um, your nickname is
Sweat
.”

“And yours is Pimple Loserfan!” Svetlana air-popped an imaginary zit.

Dylan held up her phone and let the unspoken threat hang in the gardenia-scented air.

“Okay, okay.” Svetlana waved her palms in defeat. “I will help.”

“Good. I’ll be at your bungalow in two hours. Make sure your hairstylist is there, and pull out some of your cute dresses. I’m running low.”

Svetlana cocked her head. “Size six?”

“Four!” Dylan slammed the bamboo door behind her and hurried to the poolside café.

This LG Chocolate blackmailing was making her hungry.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW

Tuesday, June 30

8 P.M.

“Love it!” Dylan burped.

She had spent the last four hours in Svetlana’s bungalow, staring at her reflection while Ingrid, Svetlana’s busty personal stylist, wove extensions in her hair before perma-straightening it with chemicals that smelled like cabbage. When Ingrid left to ice her aching wrists, Dylan admire-stroked her twelve-inch, serpentine side-braid, wondering if J.T. would notice her striking resemblance to the Little Mermaid.

“Ariellllll,” Dylan burped again.

Boris opened his haunting blue eyes, yawned, then curled back into his sleep-ball on the dirty-clothes pile in the middle of the room.

“Why must you belch words like a man?” Svetlana hit pause on the remote and sat up on her white (of course!) satin–covered bed. An image of herself midserve was frozen on the giant flat screen across from her.

Dylan considered answering but decided not to bother. How could she explain humor to a girl who chased balls across hot clay courts for
fun
? Instead, she crossed “Get hair like Svetlana” off her list and moved on.

“Now show me how to get that ah-dorable braid-swing you get when you’re hitting a ball.” Dylan grabbed Svetlana’s boar-bristle paddle brush off the mirrored vanity. She swung her arm back, then whacked it through the humid air.

But her new braid hung limp. Nothing could swing in this heat. “Any chance of putting the AC on in here?”

“Nyet.”
Svetlana stood up and padded across the moist marble floor to jack up the thermostat even more. “Humidity keeps muscles limber. Get used to it. If you want to be world-class athlete, you have to suffer.”

Dylan thumb-typed “extreme heat” into her LG as Svetlana looked on.

The mere sight of the device clearly put Svetlana on edge. She crossed the room and climbed the two limestone steps that led to the frosted glass spa-Jacuzzi nestled in the corner by the French doors. The glass doors opened to a lush garden, which was now drenched in the light of the pink Hawaiian sunset. Standing next to the tub, Svetlana powered on the jets, which burst to life with a frothing grumble.

“Where is my Epsom salt? WHO TOOK MY EPSOM SALT?” Her callused heel smashed up against the off button. The tub water rippled before going flat.

“Tem-puur.” Dylan waved her phone at Svetlana from across the room. “Anyway, forget the bath—we still have wardrobe and tennis lingo and diet to cover before bed.”

Svetlana spun around and hurried through the open French doors behind her. “Ugh!” She grabbed a handful of pink plumeria blossoms off a budding tree and crushed them between her fists. Mangled petals slipped through her quaking fingers as she paced the patio, mumbling in Russian.

“Hey, Svet,” Dylan called from the safety of a white satin ottoman at the foot of the bed, “did you say your designer was in the suite next door?”

“I have idea.” Svetlana turned, her rehearsed media smile hard at work. “Why don’t we just go out to court and volley?”

Dylan grinned. It was nice to see her embracing their partnership. “Is there a mirror out there?”

“Nyet.”
Svetlana unzipped her white Nike warm-up jacket and fanned her reddening cheeks.

“Well, how am I going to see how I look swinging and playing if I don’t have a mirror?”

“Dee-lann, this is silly waste of time.” Svetlana marched over to the ottoman and peered down at Dylan’s newly straightened hair.

“No, it’s not.” Dylan stood. “I saw the way J.T. looked at you. I want
that
.” Her voice trembled, struggling to support the weight of her words: words heavy with humiliation and frustration and LBR potential.

Because seriously!
How pathetic was this whole blackmail scheme?

Most normal girls would down a dozen Entenmann’s cookies and come to terms with the fact that their crush was already crushing on an international tennis star. And they’d move on. But Dylan refused to give up that easily. Those days were over. She was tired of stepping aside. Tired of the spotlight passing by on its search for someone better to illuminate, like Massie or her mother or Svetlana. For once,
she
wanted to shine. And not because she craved attention, but because she wanted to know that someone special truly believed she belonged there.

Someone other than herself.

“He was looking at
me
?” Svetlana’s smile softened. With an extra spring in her stride, she bounced toward the mirror-covered door that connected her suite to the adjacent one.

Who?”
Dylan followed the leggy blonde, her stomach sinking when she realized what she’d just revealed.

“This J.T. you are talking about—he looked at Svetlana in certain way?” Her blue-green eyes widened, making her look her real age of fifteen, as opposed to her rage-age of twenty-five.

Dylan tugged her hair-snake and waved away Svetlana’s question. “So not the point. Now, let’s talk outfits.” The last thing she needed was to make Svetlana aware of J.T.’s irresistible hawtness. Because if she liked him and he knew it, Dylan would be playing singles for the rest of the summer.

“Fine. Now, enter.” Svetlana held open the door and waved Dylan through.

The connecting suite was just as humid, but there was no canopy bed, spa-Jacuzzi, or fireside sitting area. Instead, bolts of varying shades of white, sweat-resistant fabrics were stacked along the walls like contestant finalists, all vying for the chance to become Svetlana’s next tournament fashion statement. Eight rows of tennis shoes covered the marble floor, each one sprinkled with mentholated Gold Bond foot powder, ready for battle. And a gallery of plastic Svetlana look-alikes—each frozen in a different action pose—donned custom-made outfits. There was a new one for each of the tournament’s seven rounds.

The suite was a seven-thousand-dollars-a-night walk-in closet.

“Ehmagawd, these are ah-mazing!” Dylan said, fingering the rice paper–thin fabric of a backless shift dress.

Svetlana brushed past her and stopped in front of the second mannequin, which was wearing a ribbed tank with a built-in navy ribbon belt and tulip-shaped skirt. “Does
amazing
mean
awful
in your country? If it
does
, then, yes, you are right. It is
amazing
.” She yanked the ribbon out of the top and cracked it Catwoman style. “Winsome, what did I tell you about colors?”

A petite twentysomething in an orange tank dress emerged from behind a mountain of fabric. Dozens of pins pierced the rubber toes on her lime green Chucks, as if she were some sort of voodoo doll. Winsome was the first person Dylan had seen in two days who wasn’t wearing white. She felt like Dorothy landing in Oz.

“Hi, I’m Svetlana’s designer.” She even had a high-pitched munchkin voice that complimented her shock of platinum Gwen Stefani–meets–Marie Antoinette hairdo.

“I’m Dylan. I luhv your—”

“And what is this?” Svetlana gut-punched a mannequin wearing short shorts and a glitter-covered sports bra. “Where is the belly chain?”

Winsome quickly caught the dummy before it toppled over. “Cartier is sending it over this aft—”

“And
this
?” Svetlana bared her fangs at a hippie-chic eyelet dress. “I asked for
eyelet
!”

“That
is
eyelet.” Dylan had to correct her with an eye roll.

“No,
this
is eyelet.” Svetlana picked up a black Sharpie and scribbled bold flowers all over the pretty white mini.

“Svetlana, those are
rosettes
,” Winsome said evenly.

“Maybe in
your
country!” Svetlana wrote
NYET across the dress and slammed down the marker.

“Svetlana, stop! These are cute times ten!”

Winsome shot Dylan a grateful smile.

Svetlana towered over the designer, her blond braid resting on the girl’s bare shoulder. “I said I wanted the skirt shorter,” she hissed.

“Right. You did. And you’re right.” Winsome pulled a pin out of her shoe and speed-fastened the hem an inch higher.

“So, Svetlana, tell Winsome why we’re here.” Dylan tapped the screen of her LG with a French-manicured nail tip.

“Tennis clothes,” Svetlana managed. “Anything she wants.”

“Of course!” Winsome finished the hem and then reached for her sketch pad, pulling a charcoal slab out of her platinum updo.

Their words washed over Dylan like the spa’s luxurious Vichy shower. Was this how alphas were treated
all
the time?

“Sooo, what’s the fantasy?” Winsome hopped up on a tall sealed box marked WORN ONCE. DESTROY. She knocked the heels of her custom-made platform Chucks against the cardboard with glee. “I can do anything but beading. My fingers are too plump for detail work. Luckily, there’s a woman on the mainland with baby hands. She’s old but fast.”

“I don’t need beads.” Dylan sat down next to Winsome. She peered over the designer’s bony shoulder at the fresh page in her sketchbook, hoping it might be the last white thing she ever saw. “I want color. Lots of color. Ella Moss meets Puma with vertical stripes. They are slimming, don’tcha think?”

“Ab-so-luuuut-leeee!” Winsome narrowed her eyes and began sketching like a girl possessed.

“Arrrrrrrrrrr,” Svetlana yawned with her entire face. She was standing among the mannequins, looking just as bored as they did.

“This heat is making me thirsty,” Dylan said to Svetlana, loving the power this little blackmail scam was giving her. “I’d like a mango smoothie. Winsome?”

The designer immediately put down her sketch pad and stood up. “What can I get you?”

Dylan shook her head no. “
We
should keep working.”

Winsome knit her platinum eyebrows in confusion.

“Svetlana will get them.” Dylan stroked her red braid with the confidence and composure of a mob boss.

“I am no waitress!” Svetlana smacked one of the mannequins on the neck.

Dylan walked over to Svetlana. “Not yet. But you will be when I destroy your career,” she whisper-hissed. This constant battle was trying her patience. Why couldn’t Svetlana accept her role as a slave and just go with it?

Winsome glanced from her boss to Dylan back to her boss, as if she were watching a heated match in a game she barely understood.

Svetlana stepped away from the dummy. “Fine, what would you like?” she growled through clenched teeth.

Thirty-love, Dylan!

“Um, whatever she’s having?” Winsome said like she was asking a question.

Svetlana spun on her Nikes, her blond braid slicing the humid air and slap-landing against her bare back.

“And don’t bother spitting in it, ’cause you’re taking the first sip,” Dylan called after her.

As soon as Svetlana slammed the French doors behind her, Winsome turned to stare at Dylan in awe. “That was epic. She never listens to
anyone
. See this scar?” She pointed to a raised line above her brow. “I designed a Grecian dress that made her look like a goddess. I told her she looked beautiful, and she threw her championship ring at my eye.”

Dylan leaned into get a better look at the damage. “How
come?”

“She can’t take compliments. She
hates
them. They make her violent.” Winsome charcoal-drew a sad emoticon on her bare knee, then quickly smudged it away.

Dylan raised her eyebrows. “Why stay? You could design for anyone!”

“She’s a walking ad for me.” Winsome shrugged. “And if I want to start my own label one day, I need to . . .” Her voice trailed off. “You know, you’re the first friend she’s ever had on tour.”

“Really?” Dylan wanted to point out that she was hardly a friend, but suddenly she felt an odd tug of sympathy for Svetlana.

Winsome grabbed a bolt of purple and yellow Pucci-esque fabric from the discarded-color pile in the far corner of the suite. “Now, let’s make you even more gorgeous than you already are!” She charged toward Dylan with vigor, but stopped short. “Wait. You don’t mind if I call you gorgeous, do you?” She shielded her face with the fabric, just in case.

“Not even a little bit.” Dylan beamed.