Dylan (4 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW

Wednesday, July 1

9 A.M.

Diiiing-donnnng!

The following morning, Dylan tightened the bow on her sunset orange silk Tocca for Kapalua Spa robe and padded across her and Merri-Lee’s bungalow. Her belly rumbled, knowing that the Salty Surfer Breakfast for two was waiting for her under a steamy silver dome on the room service cart. She was meeting Svetlana on her private court in an hour for their first practice, and she wanted to be well fueled for the workout.

“Alo-ha!” she blurted as she opened the door.

But a stack of boxes, not pancakes, stared back. A note on the cardboard, charcoal-written in happy loops, read:

For Dylan Marvil:

The most Marvil-ous muse ever.

XOX Winsome

“Yayyy!” Dylan tossed her long red side-braid over her shoulder, then dragged the boxes inside. Starting the morning with a compliment and new clothes beat a hearty breakfast any day. Was this how Massie felt
every
time she got her daily delivery of Glossip Girl? And if so, no wonder she always walked around with a today-is-my-birthday attitude.

Diving into one of the shoe-size boxes first, Dylan pulled out a pair of lavender heart–covered platform sneakers named Forty-Love. The second pair was pewter mesh covered with metallic-red letters that spelled out MARVIL-OUS. A third pair was light green satin with a brown leather toe. Winsome had named them Mint Chocolate Chip, after her and Dylan’s mutual love for the ice cream flavor.

For every shoe there was a matching outfit. A light lavender V-neck striped hooded dress. A red romper with tiny gray pinstripes. A green argyle vest with a tartan mini, intended to be worn over brown boy shorts.

Little Dylan-esque touches took each piece from adorable to utterly enviable: gray socks with peacock feathers instead of pom-poms, colorful satin headbands-turned-sweat-wickers, silver M FOR MARVIL-OUS hair pins, and a ruby red Swarovski tennis bracelet made to match her new, sparkling, custom-made red rhinestone racket! There was even a box of metallic gold tennis balls monogrammed with Dylan’s initials in green.

The only thing missing was
white
.

If only her mother had been there to witness this bounty. Maybe then she’d realize how important her daughter really was. But she had been behind closed doors on a teleconference call with her producers since seven o’clock and had given Dylan strict instructions not to disturb her. Dylan sighed. She hoped, at least, that the intentional smattering of boxes and Svetlana-embossed tissue wrap would tip her mom off when she emerged.

“Now, what to wear?” Dylan scanned the volcano of clothes, wondering what would capture J.T.’s attention the fastest. She decided on a Diane von Furstenberg–inspired V-neck wrap dress with yellow, blue, and green Missoniish zigzags. Once she paired the dress with M.A.C. Copper Sparkle eye shadow and sweatproof YSL mascara, Dylan knew she’d look tennis hawt and then some.

Forgetting all about the Salty Surfer Breakfast, she slid on her Mint Chocolate Chips and left the bungalow with red-carpet confidence. It was time for her first lesson.

As usual, the sky was deep blue and cloudless. The tropical flowers opened their vibrant petals for the buzzing bees and hummingbirds. And the soft onshore breezes carved row after row of smooth waves that reminded Dylan of a plus-size pair of sapphire-colored corduroys.

On the lush, flower-flanked stone path that led to the public courts, Dylan bounced past two spa attendants in matching whites and old-school Ray-Bans. They lowered their black glasses when she passed.

“Want me much?” she giggle-mumbled under her breath.

Securing her Dior wraparound sunglasses, Dylan pretended not to notice the multitude of double takes she got as she sauntered across the grounds. Blissfully, she inhaled the fragrant island air and exhaled everything else. She would not be overlooked anymore.

At the courts, she spotted J.T. leaning against a gleaming chain-link fence, dabbing sweat off his brow with a gray wristband. Then he shook hands with a cute college-age boy whose pit sweat–flooded Fila shirt seemed to say, “I ran my butt off and lost.”

Swinging her rhinestone-covered racket, Dylan mind-sang lyrics to J.T.’s (the famous one) “This Can’t Just Be Summer Love” and timed her saunter to the groove-steady beat. As she neared the tennis greens, she saw Aloha Open banners and Nike swooshes adorning the courts and their aluminum pull-down seats. But nothing was more captivating than J.T. (the hawt one) and his caramel-colored highlights. His bangs were side-swept across his forehead, the tips kissing his black lashes and surrounding his navy eyes like a tiger-striped picture frame.

“Hey, Dylan!” he shout-waved.

Dylan’s stomach lurched like one of those tennis ball–spitting machines. Her name coming from his mouth sounded eerie. Like when something you dream about actually comes true.

“Cool braid,” he called.

Dylan grabbed her faux hair with faux surprise, as if spending four hours extending and straightening it with a busty woman named Ingrid was so normal she forgot others might find it something to behold.

“Oh, hey,” she said, injecting her tone with just the right amount of never-expected-to-find-
you
-here.

“Are you playing today?” J.T. misted his rosy cheeks with Evian.

“Given,” Dylan said with plenty of
duh
!

“Wanna volley?” he said, his eyes on her red crystal–-covered racket.

“Um . . .” What did
volley
mean again? Dylan looked over at the courts and saw a group of seven-year-olds working on their serves. The serious players—the ones competing in the Aloha Open—practiced on private courts to avoid being studied by the competition.

“Is that a
yes
?” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, putting her sweatproof fabric to the test.

“I’d love to, but, um, I’m playing Svetlana today.”

“Wait. You’re
friends
with Svetlana?” His eyes widened and he gripped the chain-link fence.

“Totally.”

Behind him, the Pacific Ocean glinted in the sunlight.

“And you play together?”

Dylan nodded yes, as if this were something everyone wearing white had known for years.

“Wow. You must be . . . Wow . . . Do you think I could . . . Wow. I mean, could I just watch you guys warm up or something?” His voice cracked a little as he ran a hand through his adorably sweaty bangs.

“Oh, I’d love that,” Dylan lied to his hopeful smile.

Was he more obsessed with tennis or Svetlana?

Not that it mattered. He was the kind of guy best friends fought over.

Dylan clutched her custom racket for strength. “Well, actually, Svetlana’s feeling a little sensitive about her serve today. And it may be better if we just, you know—”

“Sure. Of course. I get it.” He waved the thought away like a smelly jockstrap. “But we’re still on for the Brady Erickson match tomorrow, right?”

Yes! Maybe he did like her after all.

But just in case, Dylan thought it best to end this before the sexy sports-model and her latest pleated mini came searching for her tardy pupil and proved Dylan wrong.

“Yup, see you at the match.”

“Oh, and um, one more thing,” he stammered to his Adidas.

OMG! Was he going to ask for her phone number? The name of her favorite flower? Her hand in marriage?

She casually wiped her clammy hands on her braid.

“Yes,” Dylan said sweetly, hoping to fill him with the confidence he needed to finish his question.

“Do you think you could . . .” He scratched his head and squinted against the bright sunlight.

“Yes?” Dylan took an encouraging half-step forward. He still smelled like coconuts. “What is it?”

“Do you think you could, um, wear something a little more”—he swallowed—
“white?”

Dylan’s insides gasped and her outsides blushed. “You didn’t seriously think I’d wear
this
, did you?” she managed. But she looked so hawt!

He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Puh-lease!” Dylan hate-gripped her red Swarovski crystal–-covered racket.

“It’s not me, it’s my dad. He’s so old school,” J.T. insisted. “Personally, I
like
your dress.”

“You do?” Dylan’s cheeks faded back to their natural pale state. “What about my racket?” She tilted it so the crystals caught the sun. They cast flecks of light on the thick green grass beneath their feet.

“Love it!” He grinned.

Love you, Dylan wanted to shout. But instead she said a quick goodbye and bounced off to Private Court One, where Svetlana was probably pace-waiting for her.

“You are three-and-one-half-minutes late.” Svetlana tossed a fuzzy yellow ball in the air and slammed it onto the red clay court with her racket. Her blond braid whipped against her T-back tank, and the pleats on her teeny-tiny kick-skirt opened and shut accordion style. “How are you going to be pro if so lazy? And why so colorful? This is not circus.”

But Dylan was unsinkable. Her crush was starting to crush back. And that’s what really mattered.

“I was with J.T!” She twirled, scuffing the dusty clay.

“Good. So we are done. Give me phone and I will erase.” She held out her callused palm and wiggled her fingers.

Dylan jumped back. “Not a chance. I may have the look down but I still have a lot to learn. We’re going to a match tomorrow and I need to know—”

“The junior club champion Brady Erickson?” Svetlana smashed another ball, narrowly missing a sparrow soaring overhead.

“Yup.” Dylan twirled again, loving the feeling of the Hawaiian sun on her face. “He asked me.”

“Dressed like
that
?” Svetlana snickered.

Yes!”
Dylan felt a surge of anger.

“Hardtobelieve,” Svetlana mumbled. “Now, let’s start.”

Svetlana stomped toward the center of the court, suddenly all business. “This is net.” She whacked the black mesh with the side of her Wilson.

“Nyet?”
Dylan giggled.

Svetlana rolled her blue-green eyes.

“And this is tennis court.” Svetlana kicked the clay. “This is baseline. This is ball.”

“Got it. Now let’s move on to the advanced stuff.” Dylan squatted over the baseline, bent her knees, and wiggled her butt. “Serve it up!”

“Oh-kay.” Svetlana jogged to the other side. She arched her back, threw the ball into the air, and swung. “Huuu-waugh!”

Dylan squeezed her eyes shut and waved her racket wildly in all directions. To her surprise, she made contact. Only, it felt like she had slammed into a speeding Hummer.

“Owie!” She opened her eyes, then wiggled her arm to make sure it was still attached. The clay around her was littered with red crystals.

“Whoops!” Svetlana smiled, not looking the least bit sorry. She took another ball out of her pocket and rocked back and forth on her heels, preparing to serve.

“Wait! Stop.” Dylan tried to lift her palm, but her shoulder rang out in pain. “I’m injured.”

“You’ve only hit one ball.” Svetlana lowered her racket.

Dylan feebly pulled her blackmail LG from the teeny-tiny pocket sewn into her colorful wrap dress as she stumbled over to the sideline. “Get me a masseuse, aysap!”

Svetlana released the ball. It rolled to the side of the court and slammed up against the cool metal chain-link fence.

Just like Dylan.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S PRIVATE COURT

Wednesday, July 1

11 A.M.

Dylan finally found the strength she needed to stand. She smoothed her skirt and caught a flattering glimpse of her toned quads. Amazing how quickly they were responding to her tennis training.

The Hawaiian sun reflected off the clay and into her green eyes. For a moment she couldn’t see across the court, but she could hear the ball whizzing toward her. She stepped back, pivoted right, pulled her glittering racket back, and swung.
Swoosh!
The ball glided effortlessly over the net as she completed her gazelle-like follow-through.

“Brilliant shot!” a male voice called.

Male voice? Where was Svetlana?

A cloud passed in front of the glaring sun. Dylan could see clearly now.

The voice belonged to J.T. His dimples deepened as he grinned in respect.

Dylan smiled her thanks. She popped a ball out of her dress pocket and whipped out her best serve. The ball shot to the exact spot that she’d hoped.
Ace!

J.T. returned it with a grunt, and they rallied back and forth, trading break points. The game was heating up, yet Dylan remained remarkably cool. Just before she could serve for match point, J.T. dropped his racket and bounded over the net.

“You know this is my side of the court, right?” Dylan teased, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s. What was J.T. doing?

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s mine.” He closed the gap between them, the tips of his Nikes touching her Mint Chocolate Chips.

Ehmagawd!

He leaned closer. Then closer . . . then . . . his Gatorade-soaked lips touched hers.

Her first lip-kiss tasted like a melted Creamsicle, just like she’d always imagined.

The next thing she knew, she and J.T. were walking on the beach drinking virgin Blue Hawaiis with little pink umbrellas and plastic monkeys that hung from the lips of the glasses by their curly brown tails. They crisscrossed arms and drank from each other’s straws. Then, with no warning at all, a huge burp blasted forth from Dylan’s glossy mouth.

J.T. spit out his straw.

“Ehmagawd, please pretend you didn’t hear that,” she blush-begged, contemplating diving into the surging ocean to hide her shame.

“I can’t.” He stepped back.

“No! J.T., wait!” Dylan felt her Blue Hawaii inching back up her throat. She couldn’t stand losing another crush to her mouth gas.

“Eccccccchhhhhhh,” J.T. belched.

Dylan burst out laughing, then burped again gleefully. He thought it was funny! “JAAAYYYY TEEEEEE!”

“DYYYYYY-LAAAAAAN.” He doubled over in hysterics.

Dylan dropped to the sand and rolled around clutching her abs, which were becoming tighter and tighter by the second.

“You’re so awesome.” He pushed his brown highlights away from his eyes. “I can’t believe it took me two whole days to realize it. I was so wrapped up in tennis I didn’t realize my perfect match was right here in front of me.”

Dylan searched the empty beach for a witness. Not that she needed one—this moment would be so burned in her brain she’d be able to relive it with vivid accuracy for years to come. It would be like pressing repeat on her favorite track, only better.

“How can I make it up to you?” J.T. dropped to his knees.

“What about a massage?” Dylan flicked off her red dress straps.

“Did I ever tell you how much I like your outfit?” He gripped her tanned shoulders. “It’s so vibrant.”

Dylan lowered her head, giving him complete access to her neck.

He rubbed. “It shows you have style and confidence. Anyone can follow the herd and wear white. But you’re a leader. And that’s hot.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Oh, J.T. . . .”

“Who is J.T.?” snapped a woman with a terse Russian accent. “I’m Simca.”

Dylan’s eyes flew open. The hand on her back wasn’t J.T.’s. It belonged to a big blond Amazon whose blocklike torso cast a shadow on the wall that resembled that of SpongeBob SquarePants. She was wide awake now. Gone were the secluded beach, the romantic burping contest, and her crushing-back crush. Instead, she was stretched out on her belly in Svetlana’s humid bungalow, wearing nothing but a towel. Her red braid had been tightly pinned to the top of her head and was pulling her raw scalp rawer.

“Count to three.” Simca hoisted up Dylan’s injured arm.

“Wait, why?” Dylan lifted her head, but Simca shoved it back down.

“Count!”

Dylan whimpered, “One . . . two . . .”

Crack!

“OWWWWWW,” she wailed.

She buried her sweaty face in the plush towel below her face and tried to catch her breath, shoulder throbbing and heart aching.