Dylan (5 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
ALOHA OPEN VIP BOX

Thursday, July 2

10 A.M.

J.T. punched his fist in the air. “Another ace!”

Everyone in the Dalys’ box set down their mimosas and applauded while Dylan sighed and checked her LG.

Time:
10 a.m.

Google Maps location:
Hell.

She and J.T. were pressed up against the window in his family’s luxury box, surrounded by John Senior’s white-wearing cronies. To the fans below they must have looked like a cluster of cotton balls jammed inside one of those glass jars.

Not the most romantic setting or the best-dressed crowd or the coolest first-date activity, but definitely the cutest guy.

Definitely.

Dylan’s gloss was thick and reflective, and her long, super-straight red hair had been tightly side-braided thanks to Ingrid. She’d chosen a belted T-shirt slouch dress in bright ivory—a subtle attempt to stand out, not stick out. She’d even stuck crème brûlée–scented sneaker packs in her Forty-Loves so a waft of vanilla would follow her wherever she happened to tread.

But for some reason, J.T. was Brady-drooling much more than he was Dylan-drooling, which made posing as a psyched-to-be-here spectator extremely difficult.

This was even more boring than the Briarwood soccer games. At least there, the Pretty Committee would kill time gossiping and game-crushing on the players. But here, she and J.T. weren’t even allowed to whisper. Aloha rules insisted on absolute silence while the ball was in play. And thanks to Brady’s “Mach ten serve and slammin’ forehand” (J.T.’s terms, nawt Dylan’s), that ball was
always
in play.

Shifting in her Forty-Loves (and emitting a pouf of vanilla), Dylan decided to use the silence rule to her advantage. She leaned in close to J.T., inhaled, and seductively whispered, “Is that Dior Homme?”

“No, pomegranateproteinsmoothie,” he speed-whispered back, his eyes fixed on Brady as he raced to return Karl Sveningson’s powerful serve. “Ourboxattendantwillgetyouoneifyouwant.”

“Um, no, that’s okay. I’m good.” Dylan sighed and took a sip of her Perrier.

“Yessss!” J.T. happy-hissed, looking down at the court. “Beautiful!”

Dylan tried to imagine he was talking about her, but couldn’t manage to convince herself. Even her fantasies knew better.

Regrouping, she moved on to tactic number two. Petting her snake-braid, she lifted her elbow so that it grazed the side of his sweat-wicking Nike crewneck. The contact sent crush-shivers down her self-tanned arm and a shock of pain through her tender shoulder. Still, J.T. did not look away from the match. Maybe his shirt wicked away flirtatious advances as well.

Finally, Dylan tried to watch the game with the focus of a true die-hard. It would have helped if Svetlana had loaded her up with some in-the-know phrases, but Dylan wasn’t afraid to improvise. The more she watched Brady pivot his way around the clay, the more she understood the reasons behind J.T.’s athlete crush.

Brady’s curly black hair was tied in a mini-ponytail—an
ah-dorably
rebellious move for someone in such a J. Crew–-cut-loving profession—and his deep tan and sweat-slicked muscles gleamed like a patent leather Coach handbag. According to Merri-Lee’s info, he’d landed the Prince endorsement, a three-episode run on
The Young and the Restless,
and had been making the rounds of the talk-show circuit. But still, he was no Zac Efron. More like Adam Brody with a body. Which was far from a bad thing . . .

“Ughhhh.” He grunt-whipped the ball right into the net, which shook from the force.

“Yeah, Brady, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dylan banged loudly on the glass.

J.T. grabbed her arms and quickly lowered them, sneaking a quick look back at his dad. “What are you
doing
?!”

Dylan’s shoulder had flared up with fiery pain when he grabbed her. But so what? He was holding her wrists!

J.T.’s pearl-clad mother shifted in the seat behind Dylan.

“Did you see how hard he hit that?” Dylan beamed. “What a swing!”

J.T. looked confused, like he’d been suddenly roused from a deep sleep. “Brady
lost
the point.”

Uh-oh.

“I thought you were a
fan
!” Dylan tried, her mind running for an explanation.

“I am.” J.T. still looked confused.

“Then you should support him no matter what,” she whisper-hissed, rolling her eyes for added punch.

J.T. looked away for a moment, probably to consider this. Seconds later, a huge smile spread across his Twizzler-red lips. “Wow.”

Score.
Dylan had actually made him reevaluate the sport while forcing him to contemplate the true meaning of—

“Is that Svetlana?”

Dylan sucked in her abs and panic-scanned the spectators below. It wasn’t long before she spotted the blonde in her ultra-low V-neck LWTD. She was sidestepping her way across a row of bleachers, clueless to the tongues that wagged as she squeezed by. Stopping at the only empty courtside seat, she pinch-grabbed the warm-up jacket that had been intentionally left as a placeholder, released it to the ground, and sat. Once settled, she lifted the Aloha Open visor off her head and unleashed her flowing waves slow-mo style.
What happened to the braid? And the straight hair?
Svetlana looked like Dylan
before
the mind-numbing, four-hour transformation. And now it would be months before the chemicals wore off and her own curls popped back. Pure evil!

Svetlana’s eyes scanned the crowd. A devious smile cracked its way across her taut face when she located the Daly box and realized J.T. was watching her. She winked her faux lashes at him and crossed her oil-slicked legs with slow determination, as though they were underwater.

J.T. exhaled longingly, leaving a steam cloud of desire on the glass.

Opposite of acceptable! Svetlana was ah-bviously doing this to mess with Dylan. Well, a quick shake of her LG should put a stop to that. And it did. Svetlana’s shoulders dropped slightly. She put her visor back on, coyly lowered it over her blue-green eyes, and focused on the match.

Seconds later, the cheering crowd tipped Dylan off to a successful swing by Brady. “That was some backhandler!” she shouted.

J.T. whipped around to face her.

Direct eye contact. Finally!
She had his full attention now.

“Are you even watching the same match as I am?” His brow furrowed.

Nervous heat starting pricking under her pits, and Dylan hoped desperately that her freesia-scented deodorant would keep the crisis in check.

“Of course I’m watching the same match. Now
shhhh
!” she chided him, desperate to change the topic.

“You do know there’s no such thing as a backhandler, right? It’s called a
backhand
.”

Outside, polite applause followed a loud tennis-grunt.

“I
know
. That’s just our nickname for them back at the Westchester Tennis Club.”

J.T. crossed his arms. “You
look
like you’re really into tennis, but it seems like you don’t actually know anything about it. I mean—”

Dylan forced herself to face his disapproving eyes. “I’ll show you how into tennis I am when Svetlana and I play later this week.”

J.T. gasped. “Are you serious?”

“If by serious you mean
stupid,
then ah-bso-lutely,” Dylan wanted to say.

But instead she sigh-nodded yes
and smiled awkwardly, the way love-struck girls often do.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
SVETLANA’S BUNGALOW

Thursday, July 2

4 P.M.

“This will only take a sec.” Dylan pushed past Svetlana and charged into the tennis phenom’s humid bungalow that afternoon. An image of the athlete midserve, looking constipated, was frozen on the plasma.

“Ehmagawd!” Dylan giggled “No wonder you didn’t want me to come in. You were checking out your grunt face.”

“I admit nothing.” Svetlana held the remote over her white-robed shoulder and clicked the TV off.

“Whatevs.” Dylan helped herself to one of the Svetlana for Luna bars on the mahogany coffee table. “Anyway, we’ll be playing a match in five days, and I need you to let me kick your highly downloaded butt.” She admired her blue and silver striped tank dress in the star-shaped wall mirror. The slight A-line was perfect for size sixes posing as fours.

Svetlana took a hearty gulp of green Gatorade. “Ahhhhh!” She lobbed the empty jug into a wicker plant holder by the living area.

Gawd! Didn’t Svetlana need to burp after a chug like that? What was it about sexy blondes and their lack of gas? Maybe beauty wasn’t skin-deep. Perhaps it ran deeper.

“So, are you in?” Dylan asked.

“Hmmmm.” Svetlana lifted the napping Boris out of the white-brick fireplace and began scratching his tiny head with her ultra-square acrylic tips. “What is point of this deception?”

“J.T. will be watching. And if he sees me beat you, he will believe I am a tennis goddess.” She rubbed the dull ache in her shoulder.

“Svetlana has doubts.” She tucked a silky blond wave behind her ear.

Dylan tried to do the same with her stiff red braid. It was like trying to twirl raw spaghetti.

“I cannot throw a game.” She scratched Boris harder. “Even for silly pretend match.”

“Cannot? Or
will
not?” Dylan dared.

“Both. Is bad for career.” She stood firm, her unpedicured feet planted on the beige sisal rug.

“So is votive throwing in a meditation chamber.” Dylan waved her phone.

Svetlana closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. Dylan wiped her sweat-drenched palms on the side of her striped dress.

“Fine.” Svetlana hate-squinted, her taut lips flattened into a fine line.

Done!
Dylan stuffed the phone back in her silver sequin–covered tennis bag. Just as she was about to zip it shut, Svetlana tossed Boris on the bed and lunged at her with cougarlike ferocity.

Reee-owwwww!

“Back off!” Dylan quickly shielded her bag like a precious newborn. She shook her head in disgust while she waited for her racing heart to settle. “Try that again and your new sponsor will be
Done
-lop.”

Svetlana took a step back. “Fine. But I have three conditions.”

Dylan opened her mouth to protest, but Svetlana quickly covered it with her callused hand. “I have three conditions.” She held up her long index finger. “One. You erase the veedyo the second the match is over.”

“Agreed.” Dylan pushed down her finger.

“Two. No one will believe you can beat me if they don’t see you train.”

Dylan suddenly became painfully aware that her inner thighs were touching. “Point?”

“We train. Then, on the court, you do what I say when I say it. I have trademark-pending regimen to ensure success. So it will be the Svetlana Way™ all the way. Yes?” She handed Dylan a foldout pamphlet detailing the training philosophy.

“Yes.” Dylan rolled her emerald green eyes and stuffed the pamphlet into her racket bag. “And three?”

“No. Compliments. Ever.”

“You mean
complaints
?” Dylan asked, assuming Svetlana was still working on her three-syllable words. After all, compliments were the
only
reason to work out.

“No. I mean
compliments
.” Her nostrils flared slightly, showing that she meant business. “None. Not one. Ever.”

Dylan suddenly remembered Winsome mentioning something about Svetlana and compliments, but the details were fuzzy. She’d been in a color-induced haze that day. She considered asking Svetlana why, but decided against it. The opportunity to spend the day with a gorgeous, athletic superstar and not have to feed her ego seemed like a real bonus. “No prob. Now, do we have a deal?”

Svetlana flopped onto her bed and shoved Boris in the cubby of space between her neck and chin. They both stared mournfully at the rattan ceiling fan. “We have deal.”

Dylan smirked. She might not know a thing about tennis, but she was an expert at playing the game.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW

Friday, July 3

4 A.M.

Diing-donng
.

Dylan curled into extreme fetal and pulled the honeysuckle-scented duvet over her head. Did her early-bird mother have to catch the worm
every
morning?

Diiing-donnng.

She lifted the pink silk eye mask over her limp red hair and lifted her LG. Four A.M.! Dylan lowered the mask and turned her pillow over to the cold side.

Diiiiing-donnnnnnnng.

“Maaaaa! Cassidy’s here.”

“Who is Cassidy?” shouted a distant but familiar voice.

Dylan whipped off her eye mask and tiptoed out of her room. Merri-Lee was sound asleep in the master suite wearing giant Bose headphones, her silicone-filled chest rising and falling like the buoys that bobbed on the surf beneath their window.

Stumbling over the cool marble to the dimly lit foyer, Dylan reached for the door, accidentally knocking the continental breakfast menu off the handle.

“What?” She finally managed to open it.

Clad in white short-shorts and a puff-sleeved hoodie, Svetlana was tapping her foot, a silver whistle lodged between her pursed lips.

Purrrrp
!

“Shhhhhh.” Dylan searched the dark, secluded grounds. Not even the happy island birds were chirping at this hour. “What are you doing?”

“We train.” Svetlana had tied her damp, wavy hair into a high pony. “Let’s go.”

“Is this some kind of weird tennis hazing ritual or something?” Dylan grumbled. “What about breakfast?”

PUURRRPPPPPP!

The chain-link-fence door to the private courts slammed shut behind them, sending a reverberating
clang
through the lazy resort. The air was dark and chilly. In the distance the surf roared something that sounded like
sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . . sleeeep . . .
Dylan’s stomach grumbled, her eyes burned, and a screeching bat was circling her tangled red extensions. Just as she was about to call it quits, Dylan considered J.T.’s Efron-esque features and quickly concluded that this would eventually be worth it.

“Surrender!” Svetlana shouted as she bear-hugged Dylan and squeezed.

“Ahhhhhh! Helllllp!” Dylan pleaded, but her morning voice was hoarse and weak.

“Got it!” Svetlana triumphantly pulled a chocolate chip oatmeal cookie from the pocket of Dylan’s yellow cotton dress. “This is not part of the Svetlana Way™! Read pamphlet!” She tossed the cookie in the air and slammed it to bits with her racket.

Dylan’s stomach cried out in protest. She considered dropping and doing her best DustBuster impression when—

Puuurrrrrp!

“Do like I do.” Svetlana pushed play on her Bose docking station and began darting across the court. Classical music mashed with a thumping bass blasted at maximum volume.

Dylan stared longingly at the cookie crumbs.

“Now!” Svetlana barked from across the court. “Or I will tell everyone you are size
six
!”

“How do you know
that
?” Dylan jogged lightly. “My labels say four.”

“Winsome works for me, remember?” Svetlana smirked, clearly happy to finally have a leg up. “This is only way to be real four!” She lifted her whistle to her lips. “Now run, NoodleLegs!”

PUUURPPP!

“Fine!” Dylan began sprinting, fueled at first by humiliation and then by determination. Imagine! If she became a four, she could finally tell people she was a two.

The girls ran until the rising sun turned the sky orange—like juice and marmalade and cheddar. . . .

And then Dylan collapsed on the baseline, dry heaving and pinching up cookie crumbs.

Before she was ready to stand—
pop!—
Svetlana hit her first serve.

“Wait! I wasn’t ready,” Dylan yelled from the baseline

Pop!
Another ball whizzed by Dylan’s diamond-studded ear.

“That’s two,” Svetlana called.

Pop!
Dylan jumped up and swung blindly.

“Three.”

“Wait, why are you counting?” She lowered her racket.

“Every time you miss a ball, there’s a consequence. Clearly you didn’t read about the Svetlana Way™ carefully enough. For that, I add five minutes of sprinting. Now go!”

Dylan blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do you want boy or not?”

Dylan sighed and jogged to the net. She slapped its white plastic top, then headed back to the baseline—again and again and again.

The minute she was done, Svetlana wound up for her next serve.

Pop
!

This time, the strings on Dylan’s racket connected with Svetlana’s ball. It floated away from Dylan and sailed up, up, up in the air and over the fence.

“Sah-ree!” She turned back to Svetlana, who did not look amused.

“Drop and give me twenty-five,” she barked.

“But you told me to leave my wallet in the bungalow.” Dylan pulled out her pockets to show she didn’t have any cash, and a flurry of cookie crumbs dusting the courts.

“Twenty-five push-ups, Size
Six
!”

“Don’t call me—”

Puuuurp
.

Dylan sighed, assuming the push-up position. Her palms, which were unaccustomed to carrying anything heavier than a patent leather Chloé Paddington, were not prepared to handle this much Dylan. After two feeble attempts, her elbows buckled and her injured shoulder attempted suicide. She collapsed face-first into a Nike shoe print.

“All we have to do is fake a match. This is a little much, don’tcha think?”

“You can’t
fake
tennis.” Svetlana slammed her racket down on the net. “Now, twenty-three to go.”

Dylan took a deep breath, placed her palms back on the red clay, and pushed herself up twenty-three more times in the name of love.

“Now for the serve.” Svetlana pulled a ball out of her pocket and threw it at Dylan.

Miraculously, she caught the ball and began running in place like she’d seen Svetlana do before her serves.

“Weight on front foot, watch that stance, and breathe! Like this.” Svetlana tossed the ball in the air and whipped it across the court.

Dylan cheer-clapped. “Wow, that was amaz—”

PUUURP!

“No compliments!” Svetlana shouted. “Now you.” She aimed a speed gun at Dylan.

Dylan, feeling thinner already, dribbled the ball a few times on the clay. She threw it toward the cloudless sky and swung her racket up to meet it. “Huu-ahhhh!”

Pop!
The ball sailed over the net.

“Yay! That was pretty good, huh?” Dylan beamed, reminding her mentor that the no-compliment rule did not apply to her.

Svetlana checked the speed gun. “Eleven miles per hour. Unbelievable.”

“Almost the speed limit in a school zone. I must be a natural.” Dylan rocked excitedly on the heels of her silver Nikes.

“No, I mean it’s
not
believable. And we need it to be believable or no one will think you can beat me. I serve a 129. Now, again.”

From the baseline, Dylan could see surfers riding the shimmering waves. She wanted to be on the beach taking their pictures and forwarding her Roxy moment to the Pretty Committee. Instead, she sighed and threw another ball up in the air. Imagining Svetlana’s smug face on the fuzzy lime-green Wilson, she whacked it as hard as she could.

Pop!

Svetlana looked at the speed gun again. “Not as awful.”

They practiced serves for another hour under the hot Hawaiian sun.

“Enough!” Svetlana announced.

“Finally!” Dylan dropped to her knees. “I need some carbs and a wardrobe change.”

“Nyet.”
Svetlana tossed her a pair of white patent leather stilettos with rubber traction soles. “Put these on, Flatfoot.”

“
Nyet
way!” Dylan jumped back. “Those aren’t shoes—they’re
ews
.”

“You must. It will teach you how to stay on your toes.” She thrust the shoes toward Dylan’s face.

“I have some ah-dorable snakeskin Marnis that will do the trick.” Dylan waved the nurse-gone-naughty pumps away like stinky poi. She’d heard Svetlana’s mom-coach had unorthodox ways of creating the tennis terminator, but this was inhumane. “How ’bout we break for lunch and I’ll bring them for our afternoon session?”

“Marion Bartoli’s papa used to tape tennis balls to the soles of her feet,” Svetlana reported. “And Pussycat Dolls run on treadmill wearing four-inch clogs.”

“What?”

“No what.” Svetlana dropped the offending white pumps on the court. They bounced twice, then settled by Dylan’s feet. “Do you want this J.T. to think you are good player, or do you want him to know you are Sizesix Flatfoot NoodleLeg Loserfan?”

“I said, no more names!” Dylan grabbed the heels and jammed them on her swollen feet. The patent leather was hard and unforgiving, just like Svetlana.

She stood with the awkward wobble of a newborn giraffe.

“Break’s over!” Svetlana yelled from across the court, loading different-colored tennis balls into the serving machine. “Stand on baseline. Prepare to hit.”

Dylan assumed the position, doing her best to balance. But the combination of the springy sole, tough leather, and three-inch heels made her feel like she had two pogo sticks jammed through the soles of her feet. Tennis was hard enough in Nikes!

“Ready?” Svetlana pressed a button and a rainbow of balls shot directly at Dylan. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender. Pink. Blue. Red. Yellow. Orange. Lavender.

“AAAAAAhhhhhh!” Dylan racket-blocked her face. But the barrage of balls pelted her entire body and knocked her to the ground. She lay flat, spread out like a facedown snow angel.

Finally, the balls stopped. Dylan managed to stand back up, her entire body stinging and throbbing.

“Ready?” Svetlana yelled, not waiting for the answer. “Here comes red ball!”

Dylan swung but missed.

“Yellow!”

Dylan swung again and teetered. She missed the ball but didn’t fall down—a victory by her standards.

“Now green!” Svetlana pressed the trigger again.

Dylan stumble-ran for the ball. She missed this one, too.

“Blue!”

The balls came faster and faster, and Svetlana yelled louder and louder.

“Purple!” But she could barely swing anymore.

“Let’s go, you size six . . .”

Dylan could see Svetlana’s lips moving as she yelled, but all she could hear was a loud buzz. Her arms prickled with heat and her mouth felt like it was wrapped around a blasting hair dryer. She dropped her glittery racket and signaled
T
for time out before collapsing on the hot clay.

“Get up!” Svetlana called somewhere in the distance. “Up, up, up . . .”

But the only thing that rose were the illegal oatmeal chocolate chip cookie crumbs. They came up, up, up . . . all over Svetlana’s white Nikes.

“Ani-maaaal!” Svetlana roared, kicking off her shoes.

Beads of something wet trickled down Dylan’s cheeks. She was so spent she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears or leftover puke.

Finally, as she lay helpless on the steamy ground, she called out for something white. It was the flag of surrender. And in her buzzing brain she was waving it.

Hard.