Dylan (6 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW

Friday, July 3

2 P.M.

Dylan was wrapped up like a spicy tuna hand roll in her 100-thread-count duvet, longingly eyeing a banana split as it floated toward her dry mouth. Placed in the center of a shiny silver tray, it was surrounded by an aura of fuzzy light as if it had been sent from heaven just for her. Just as the angel—dressed in a burgundy room service uniform—set it down on the table next to the bed, a callused hand with square-tipped acrylic French-manicured nails waved it away.

“She’ll have ginger ale,” a commanding voice instructed.

The angel and her tray turned abruptly and headed for the door.

“Wait . . .” Dylan mumbled feebly.

But it was too late. The split had split.

“It’s all for better,” the voice boomed. This time there was no mistaking the thick accent or gruff delivery.

Svetlana was perched on the edge of the bed, stroking Boris, who was purring in her lap. She mowed her square nails through his fur, from butt to head, making it spike up like a Mohawk. A can of ginger ale was in her other hand.

“What are
you
doing here?” Dylan shot up in horror. The uneven bamboo slats on the headboard dug into her throbbing back and woke her pain, taking it from a seven point five to a raging nine.

“Open.” Svetlana poked the bendy straw between Dylan’s cracked lips, then crossed her legs. She was wearing J Brand pencil-leg jeans and a blue and red striped Vince tank. Her blond hair was in a loose side-pony that overflowed with deep-conditioned curls. She looked like a regular girl. “Sip.”

Dylan found the cold fizz invigorating and drained the can in a single gulp.

“Thanks,” she whisper-burped. But her relief was temporary. All of a sudden her heart thumped in a post-espresso sort of way and her skin prickled with the sting of adrenaline. “My phone!” She patted down her thighs like a frisking cop. “Where’s my . . .” The hard rectangular object digging into her hip meant it was right where she left it, in her side pocket. “Oh.”

Thank Gawd!
She pulled it out and gripped it between her stiff fingers.

“You know,” Svetlana said, tracing the beading on a ruby red Indian silk throw pillow, “I was not always this perfect. I had hard times training too.”

Boris yawned. Dylan rolled her eyes.

“Back in Russia, when I was six-year-old, Mom-Coach would pull me off cot at four in morning so we could claim public court before anyone else. This court had no room behind baseline, so if I swung wide I’d smash wall and break flesh. Then blood from my knuckles would freeze from cold.” She showed Dylan her scars. “But Mom-Coach made me stick with it. It was our way out.”

Dylan imagined little Svetlana in the dark winter mornings, bashing her fists into the cracked concrete while her frozen baby braid stabbed her hypothermic cheeks like an ice pick.

“So I didn’t think today’s lesson was hard. Because for me, spacious court in hot Hawaiian sun with proper-fitting shoes seemed easy.”

“Um, your cookie-covered Nikes should prove it was the opposite of
easy
.”

“Nyet.”
Svetlana placed Boris on the marble floor and dabbed her tearing eyes with the bottom of her tank top. “Opposite of
easy
is when Mom-Coach would chase me on Vespa, making me run ten miles every day in bitter cold along Neva River. I ate nothing but hard-boiled eggs and bread for eleven years. Friends, school, boy crushes, colorful clothes—I never had time.”

Dylan sighed, remembering that horrible afternoon in the sixth grade when she gave up carbs. Her energy had been super-low, and she’d snapped more times than a Splendid button-front cardigan. And what if she didn’t have Massie’s Friday night sleepovers to look forward to? Or the Pretty Committee’s GLU meetings? Or gossip points? Or crushes? Or shopbop.com?

“It can’t possibly be worth it.” Dylan siphoned the excess ginger ale from the straw. “Why didn’t you tell Mom-Coach you wanted to stop?”

Svetlana shrugged. “Every time I wanted to quit, I’d imagine winning and having money so family could move to America, get heated home, and train in real facility. It was only way that pudgy little six-year-old was going to make it to Wimbledon. And once I did, I—”

Dylan crushed the empty can. “Wait, rewind. You were
fat
?”

“Da. Svetlana could pinch an inch.” She placed her hand gently on Dylan’s duvet-covered knee. “See? You and me—we are not so different.”

“Why? You think
I’m
fat?” Her cheeks burned with trepidation.

Svetlana shook her head dismissively, as if that was so not the point. “When I made it to Wimbledon, I
had
to win. Not only for me, or Mom-Coach, or my country. But for all things I sacrificed along the way. Winning meant I didn’t give all up for nothing.”

Dylan was starting to feel for the tennis star. And then her stomach grumbled. Suddenly, all she could think about was that banana split and how if she were eating it she’d be a lot more captivated by this
E! True Hollywood
moment.

“I was
this
close to winning second year in row,” Svetlana continued, oblivious to Dylan’s hunger-rebellion. Her blue-green eyes darted back and forth as though she were watching the match in real time. “The ball had been served and I was in perfect position to slam.” Svetlana drew back her arm as though she were about to whack it. “Then, out of nowhere, random loserfan yelled, ‘Svetlana, you rock!’ I lost concentration. I missed ball. I lost Wimbledon.” Svetlana’s buff shoulders sagged. “And ball girl paid price.”

“Is that why you don’t like compliments?” Dylan wondered, recalling her earlier conversation with Winsome.

Svetlana sad-nodded yes.

Dylan reached out to pat her hand. She couldn’t help herself—the athlete looked so upset and vulnerable. Until now, all Dylan had seen was Svetlana’s utterly enviable life—filled with trophies, endorsement deals, personal stylists, and zero-percent body fat. But now she knew better. Svetlana’s knuckle scars, compliment issues, and egg overdose made her Dr. Phil–worthy. And that meant she was just as messed up as everyone else. It was a total relief.

“One question.” Dylan began nibbling on her pinky nail. “When you said we weren’t so different, were you talking about weight or—”

“Not weight.” Svetlana pulled her hand out from under Dylan’s and dried her moist blue-green eyes. “We both have things we want. And we both work hard to get them.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Dylan sighed. “There’s no way I’ll ever be good enough to convince J.T. I can beat you.”

“Good point.” Svetlana tucked American Boris under her arm and stood up. “So then we drop this whole thing, ya?” She held out her palm, as if Dylan would just slap her LG into it like a bellboy’s tip.

All four chambers of Dylan’s open heart slammed shut. If this sob story was just another attempt to get her hands on that video file, she was messing with the wrong girl.

“We drop nothing!” Dylan threw off her duvet and cracked her non-bloody knuckles. It was time to get serious.

Svetlana might have trained during the harsh Russian winters with Mom-Coach, but Dylan had studied under Massie Block. And that had prepared her for
anything
.

Even tennis.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
FITNESS CENTER AND SPA

Saturday, July 4

11 A.M.

Dylan pored over the Svetlana Way™ pamphlet like it was a
How to Get J.T. for Dummies
handbook.

Visualize.

Actualize.

Vocalize.

The mental exercises made her feel a little, well,
mental,
but she was desperate. As the July 8 tournament date grew closer, the resort was bouncing with toned and tanned she-athletes. And Dylan knew if she didn’t score J.T. soon, someone else would.

Reaching for a lemon yellow microfiber towel, she accidentally knocked the pamphlet to the ground. All she could do was grunt in frustration and swab her slick face. Still, sweat spilled over her arched auburn brows like the water that trickled down the spa’s pink travertine walls.

She was hot. She’d never been this hot, and she had to concentrate on every breath or she’d faint.
In, out. In, out. In, out . . .

Once she got a rhythm going, Dylan allowed her mind to wander.

How hard would J.T. lip-kiss her after she creamed Svetlana? How open would he be to a four-thousand-mile long-distance relationship? Was he a texter?

Throwing the towel aside, Dylan exhaled, utterly exhausted. It was taking every ounce of her will and concentration to keep from passing out. After a long sip of cucumber water, she decided to go for it. She reached and reached and reached . . . until her fingers managed to pinch the corner of the Svetlana Way™ pamphlet she’d accidentally dropped on the sauna room floor.

Got it!

She pulled it back up onto her steamy lap, careful not to let the fuchsia ink rub off on her sweat-drenched thighs. Not that it really mattered. It would rinse right off in the pool.

Once the hairy-chested man with the gold rings and red bathing cap was halfway down the lane, Dylan pushed off the slippery cobalt blue–tiled edge. The indoor lap pool was heated to bathtub temperatures and teeming with serious swimmers who slapped the chlorinated water with their tired strokes like mindless aqua-zombies. Splashes and random coughs echoed up to the glass roof and ricocheted off the limestone walls, making Dylan feel like an exotic fish in a very luxurious tank.

Gliding as hard as she could, Dylan finally reached the other side and burst to the surface. She wall-clung momentarily to admire the beading water on her silver Robin Piccone one-piece, which glistened like a sardine in the sunshine. If only J.T. were into fashion instead of tennis . . .

But the Svetlana Way™ emphasized not living in a fantasyland. Success was not about what ifs. It was about what nexts. So Dylan took a deep breath and submerged for lap number two.

The hollow sound of her underwater heartbeat provided a rhythmic backdrop for her J.T. musings.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Jyl-an
.
Jyl-an
.
Jyl-an
.

It didn’t have the ring of Brangelina or Tomkat, but it wasn’t awful.

Dylan straddled the black nylon workout bench. Her forehead crinkled under the strain of her task. Yet somehow, she managed to lift a bottle of SmartWater to her dry lips.

“Uggghhh!” she moaned. The angle ravaged her sore shoulder and sent shock waves of pain up her arm.

This warm-up session was o-
ver
.

“Did you warm up?” Svetlana asked when she met up with Dylan outside the fitness center. Dylan’s cheeks were flushed with post-practice sweat, and her chest rose and fell like a panting dog’s.

“I did.” Dylan squinted against the afternoon sun. She felt like she had just crawled out of a cave. The tropical grounds seemed saturated in color compared with the steel-gray and black weight room. Once again, she had to ask herself if J.T. was worth sacrificing sun, sand, and seafood. And once again, her answer was yes.

“Here is itinerary for the next two days. We have match on day three.” Svetlana handed Dylan a piece of hotel stationery filled with her slanted, all-caps handwriting. The back of the paper felt like bumpy Braille because the rage-filled athlete had pushed too hard with the pen.

THE SVETLANA WAY™ TWO-DAY SCHEDULE

Dylan was about to protest but stopped herself. For once in her life she would try. Really try. Relentlessly-refuse-to-fail try. The way Massie did. And her mother did. And Svetlana did. The way winners did.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
COURT ONE

Tuesday, July 7

9 A.M.

“I can’t believe you two actually
play
together.” J.T. looked shyly at the crushed seashell path that led to Private Court One. The collar on his white Lacoste was popped, surrounding his deliciously tanned face like a flour tortilla.

“Most people don’t challenge me the way she does, you know?” Dylan playfully kicked a peach-colored shell so J.T. could admire her taut leg muscles in action. After two days of enduring the Svetlana Way™, Dylan felt toned, slim, and 100 percent ready for her faux match. Her indigo puff-sleeved pleated minidress and flaming red extensions made her impossible to overlook. She was the color-soaked
Teen Vogue
version of a tennis player—a stylish poser in a beautiful location. All she needed to complete the picture was the hot boyfriend. And that was coming together beautifully.

“Wow. You’re cute
and
determined.” J.T. paused on the path and smiled. “Fierce combination.” He said
fierce
like he meant
sexy
.

If Dylan had known how to do a back handspring, she would have done one right then and there, even if it meant pressing her soft palms against all those jagged shells.

Mission Make J.T. My SBF was well under way. That morning, at
his
request, he’d picked Dylan up at her bungalow. Then he had offered to carry her glittery racket case. Even his DEC (Direct Eye Contact) was up 80 percent since the beginning of the week, indicating that their first lip-kiss was a mere match point away.

Now all Dylan needed to do was make the tennis game look believable. If she could pull that off, they’d be hanging a DO NAWT DISTURB sign on their poolside umbrella for the rest of the week.

When they reached the cliffside court, J.T. unhooked the fence. He held it open so Dylan could enter first—possibly a ploy to check out her new and improved butt.

“Hey, Svetlana! We’re here,” Dylan called.

Svetlana, in a white embellished tank and super-short shorts, was stretching on the far side. Dylan smiled to herself, loving how seriously the athlete was taking her role.

Svetlana wave-jogged over to greet them and gave Dylan a big, bone-crushing hug once she arrived. Over Svetlana’s super-sculpted shoulder, Dylan locked eyes with J.T. and grinned. She pulled away to make the introductions, and J.T. took it upon himself to extend his hand.

“It’s such an honor to meet you.”

“Believe me”—Svetlana winked—“the pleasure’s all mine. Now we play, ya?”

Once again Dylan thought Svetlana was getting a little too cutesy with her crush. But she refused to let it bring her down. Not when J.T. had escorted her there and offered to carry her bag. Those gestures screamed CRUSHING BACK! And she didn’t need
CosmoGIRL!
to tell her that.

J.T. unzipped Dylan’s glittering silver bag and presented her with her racket. She leaned in for one last yummy coconut-scented whiff before parting ways.

It was showtime.

Dylan sauntered over to her side of the court, allowing her diffused, glossy red locks to bounce in time with her custom-made, double-soled Nikes. She stepped behind the baseline, took a deep breath, and let her first serve rip.
“Huh-wah!”

Svetlana returned it easily, and just like they’d practiced, Dylan slammed it back. As planned, Svetlana attempted to return it but failed to make contact with the ball.

“Fifteen-love.” J.T. called from the bench. “Very impressive!”

Dylan dropped into a mini-curtsy and then served again.

Huah!
She’d practiced her grunt face enough to know it said, “I’m powerful
and
ah-dorable.”

Once again, Svetlana returned the ball and Dylan hit it back so that it sailed just past Svetlana’s outstretched racket. The game continued to go perfectly, and they hit the ball back and forth several more times while J.T. whooped and hollered from the sideline. Running back and forth, hitting backhands, forehands, and even one overhead smash, Dylan was in the zone. Meanwhile, Svetlana was proving to be a very convincing pretend-loser. Balls flew just out of her reach or landed just long of baseline. She even eked out a few faux-frustrated grunts to make it look real.

After the first set, J.T. shot Dylan the double thumbs-up, and, feeling brave, she blew him an air kiss. How cute was he, still holding her rhinestone bag?

“You know,” Svetlana called cheerfully from the other side of the court, “I think I’m in the mood for a bagel!”

“Me too!” Dylan’s insides soared. “But let’s play one more set.”

Ehmagawd! No more boiled chicken breasts? It was too perfect. J.T. and a bagel in one day! Would she have cream cheese or peanut butter and jelly? Maybe she’d get half and half. Or tuna and—

All of a sudden a ball sliced across the court. Had it been going any faster, it would have experienced time travel.

Dylan jumped out of the way just in time. She took a deep breath and then bent her knees, in preparation for Svetlana’s second serve. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready,” she called. Then she mouthed, “Take it easy,” when J.T. wasn’t looking.

This time, Svetlana served with less vigor and Dylan was able to return it. But the ball came back with a vengeance. Dylan swung her racket back, but when the strings made contact with the ball, the force sent her reeling backward. She landed right on her newly toned butt.

“Are you okay?” Svetlana jogged to the net.

“Thirty-love.” J.T. announced.

Dylan shot her opponent a threatening you-better-not-try-that-again look as she stood and dusted off her cotton indigo skirt. Svetlana assured her with a slight head nod that it wouldn’t happen again. Maybe she wanted to make the match look real so Dylan would have a come-from-behind victory, making J.T. fall even harder for her? That had to be it.
Right
?

Svetlana served again.

Pop!

The ball landed right on the service line.

An
ace
.

“Forty-love!” J.T. shouted, gazing at Svetlana with love in his eyes.

Dylan’s stomach churned. Something was off.

Svetlana served again, and Dylan stuck her racket out trying to save set point, but Svetlana was there with her hardest forehand yet.

“Owie.” The ball clipped Dylan’s shin.

“Oops!” Svetlana covered her mouth in mock guilt.

“You did that on purpose!” Dylan yelled. “Approach the net.”

Once they were practically nose-to-nose Dylan hissed, “What are you
doing
?”

Waves crashed ashore in the background and slight breeze ruffled through Dylan’s hair.

“Winning,” Svetlana said casually.

“This is
nawt
what we agreed to.” Dylan stomped her silver Nike on the clay court.

Svetlana shrugged.

“You asked for it!” Dylan speed-hobbled to her bag, which J.T. had finally set down behind him. She reached inside for her LG—this time she was fully prepared to push the button. But the phone wasn’t in the outside pocket where she’d left it. Her forehead began beading with sweat. After frantically rooting through the various mesh compartments, she turned the bag inside out and shook it over the clay. One tube of Nars Nude lip gloss and her black room card fell out.

“Looking for this?” J.T. stood above her, holding the LG.

He gave her the phone along with an adorably charming smile.

Dylan smile-thanked him, then scrolled through her files in search of the incriminating videos. But they were all . . . empty. She checked again. And again. And again.

“Ehmagawd, they’re gone!”

“
No
! That’s
impossible
!” Svetlana snicker-gasped, coming up behind her.

Dylan looked at J.T. He looked down at his navy Nikes.

“But how?”

“You didn’t believe cute boy-crush would choose Size Six Pimple Loserfan over me, did you?” Svetlana pivot-turned to retrieve her own bag and sauntered off the court.

“You set me up.” Dylan choked back her betrayal-barf once she and J.T. were alone.

“You
lied
to me,” he countered, tossing back his caramel locks.

“You used me.”

“You duped me.”

Dylan searched her reeling mind for something clever to say. But all that came out was the truth.

“You
hurt
me,” she whimpered as she tugged on the hem of her indigo skirt.

Without another word, J.T. turned to go.

“Wait . . .” Dylan begged.

J.T. whipped back around. “
What
? You blackmailed a tennis star.” His piercing blue eyes seared her tear-streaked cheeks. “The sport has suffered enough bad press already, don’tcha think?”

“In case you don’t remember,
Svetlana’s
the one who knocked someone’s teeth out.” Dylan mimed Svetlana’s highly documented de-toothing swing.

“She lost her temper out of love for the game.”

“Well, I lost my mind out of love for you!”
Dylan considered shouting. But that was too cheesy. Even for a summer romance.

Just then Svetlana returned to the court, swinging her bag and holding two bottles of Voss. She tossed one to J.T. “I know this is probably hard for Pimple to understand, but
bagel
is tennis term describing game where loser stays at love.”

“But—”

“You said you wanted love.” Svetlana smiled proudly. “Now you got it.” She linked her arm through J.T.’s and gave Dylan a big goodbye wave.

Left on the sidelines, Dylan hated herself. She hated boys, athletes, and bright Hawaiian sunshine. Why did everyone get to be happy but her? Even Tennis the Menace—a violent psychopath—found a crush who crushed back.

She whipped her LG onto the court and felt nothing as she watched it shatter.

Had she been insane to think J.T. would believe she was a tennis buff? Or had she been insane for
wanting
him to believe it? After all, those imperfection-loving Dove soap commercials told her to be proud of the girl she was. To own and luhv her flaws and quirks and wear them on her size-six sleeves with pride. If those ads had lasted more than thirty seconds, they’d have told her she was she was much better off alone. Because pretending to be someone you weren’t could never make you happy. And now she knew the truth about J.T.’s feelings, right? She should be relieved, right? Almost grateful she hadn’t wasted another second trying to be someone she wasn’t, right?

WRONG!

She was tired of being strong. Tired of smiling though the pain. Maybe one day
Maxim
would want a burping, size-six redhead on its cover. But until then Dylan decided to slouch back to her bungalow, order room service, and mend her broken heart with sticky butterscotch syrup and two scoops of French vanilla.