Dylan (7 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW

Tuesday, July 7

2 P.M.

Still sad, Dylan pulled the white duvet over her head and squeezed her eyes tight, but the tears wouldn’t come: they were like the last bag of potato chips stuck in the vending machine—no amount of shaking could make them fall.

This trip was supposed to offer respite from insecurity, and here she was, shades drawn in the South Pacific, wondering if she should ask for lipo or a personality transplant for her next birthday.

Outside, the palm fronds waved gaily in the soft breeze. Young lovers crunched along the snaking seashell path, marveling at the cloudless sky and the singsongy calls of the island’s tropical birds. They argued playfully over who was cuter, who had the better spa treatment, who was more deeply tanned, who had a better lunch. These achingly cheerful snippets of conversation seeped though the walls of Dylan’s bungalow and stabbed her heart like invisible daggers. All she could do was hate-punch her pillow and pray for a hurricane.

More than anything, Dylan wished her jasmine-scented mom were around to make up a story about how she’d once been dumped by a hot tennis fanatic too. But right now Merri-Lee was in talk show–host mode, getting coverage of today’s matches. And maybe even breaking Svetlana and J.T. as the hot It couple of the Open. Dylan could see it now; their toned and tanned arms around each other, smiling for the paparazzi and inspiring made-for-TV movies
.

Now what? Fly home? Or do what a Dove soap user would do and drag herself out of bed, hold her head high, and strut across the resort like she hadn’t just gotten double-crossed and humiliated? The problem just seemed too big to remedy—like global warming.

Dylan considered calling Massie for advice. But that would mean admitting J.T. had chosen Svetlana over her, and who wanted to say
that
out loud?

Instead, she burrowed under the covers to wait for a revelation . . . or room service. Whichever came first.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
DYLAN’S BUNGALOW

Wednesday, July 8

9 A.M.

Dylan stretched her arms toward the bungalow’s thatched ceiling, her limbs finally able to move without aching. Apparently the Motrin plus nineteen-hour nap had done the trick. Now the only muscle still feeling the effects of the Svetlana Way™ was her heart. And wallowing was no longer acceptable. Feeling depressed in paradise was like wearing suede boots in the rain. It was just plain wrong. Besides, she was stahr-
ving
.

She padded over to the stainless steel mini-fridge in the kitchen. A half-full Styrofoam cup of spirulina green detox and a hunk of moldy Havarti stared back at her.

She pulled open the white Formica cabinets.

“Thank Gawd.” She reached for an orange box of Wheaties. An action shot of Svetlana midserve graced the front, and Dylan instinctively whipped the box into the sink. She was starving—not stranded.

Feeling empty in a way that had nothing to do with her rumbling belly, Dylan realized she could either sit in her suite or she could move on—preferably to somewhere that had a hearty brunch menu.

She spun around on her tennis-callused heels and marched across the cool black-and-white marble to her walk-in closet. Unzipping one of her many unpacked, colorful-clothes-containing Louis Vuittons, she grabbed a pair of electric blue drawstring linen pants and a matching Calypso tunic. Kicking her Nikes to the back of her closet, she pulled out her silver platform Havaianas, shocked to realize that her pedicure had barely touched sand since she arrived. Suddenly, a tingle shot up her spine. Now that she was back to being Dylan Marvil, tennis hater, she could do all the things she had missed out on. Tanning, swimming, eating, spaing, and getting fashion inspiration from something other than a hard-boiled egg.

Donning round black sunglasses large enough to make Nicole Richie jealous and a black floppy Chanel hat covered in gold
C
’s, Dylan presented herself to the mirror.

“Eight point five.”

She spritzed some Clinique Happy perfume, hoping the uplifting citrus-y scent would give her that final boost she needed to face her public. It did.

Once at Béarnaise, the spa’s five-star restaurant, Dylan force-smiled at the relaxed guests and strolled along the buffet, alternating between revenge plots and breakfast options. Her mouth watered at the sight of golden brown pancakes, fresh whipped cream, and silver-domed trays loaded with glistening breakfast meats. Pastries, bagels, muffins, and seafood omelets stared back at her, begging to be chosen like scrawny guys during a schoolyard kickball draft.

A long communal table on the sun-soaked patio was the only way Dylan could avoid the depressing table-for-one exchange with the hostess. So she grabbed the last open seat. Moms in various patterned sarongs occupied the other seven. They were already on their second round of coffees and well into their morning gossip session.

“Of course I saw it, Jayna,” said Red and Orange Paisley Sarong as she dumped a spoonful of muesli into her collagen-enhanced mouth. “It was so embarrassing.”

Her heart racing at full speed, Dylan turned away and gazed out at the cliffs. She scrolled through the mental image of her humiliating tennis match, wondering if anyone had been hiding out with a video camera.

“I’m telling you, if the Academy gave Oscars for ‘acting during an interview,’ she’d win a truckload,” noted Jayna, lifting her glass of fresh-squeezed papaya juice. “All that fake sweetness. It makes my blood sugar rise just thinking about it.”

“They should call her Splenda, not Svetlana,” added Brown and Yellow Batiked Sarong.

The ladies cackled with delight. Dylan sighed with relief. This was about Svetlana’s
Daily Grind
interview. Not her.

“Well, the ball girls didn’t buy her public apology,” announced Green and Blue Striped Sarong as she wave-asked the waiter to refill her cup of Kona.

“I think it’s wonderful that they’ve all suddenly come down with the ‘Russian flu,’” Jayna giggled. “Who says young people don’t get involved in politics?”

Wait! The ball girls were on strike?
What else had Dylan missed during her nineteen-hour nap?

“Serves her right,” Brown and Yellow insisted. “Get it?
Serves?”
She cackled.

Dylan joyfully buttered her Belgian waffle. It turned out she wasn’t the only one out to get Tennis the Menace. But she was the only who knew how.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS COUT
ALOHA OPEN: CENTER COURT

Wednesday, July 8

1:27 P.M.

When Dylan volunteered to be the only ball girl for the Women’s Final, the ITA chairwoman hugged her for an entire minute. Playing fetch wasn’t Dylan’s idea of fun, nor was changing back into her tennis whites. But it got her where she needed to be—on the court with Svetlana during her big comeback game.

Thanks to Winsome, Dylan took the court in a drop-waist skirt covered in hand-embroidered hearts to show the world she still had hope. Her scoop-neck tank showcased her now-toned arms, and the built-in boob shelf had just enough padding to turn her A-cups into A-pluses.

She paced the baseline, the focal point for hundreds of spectators and dozens of TV cameras, charged by the daring nature of her plan.

After a sweltering forty-five-minute delay, Svetlana stepped onto the court. She bowed humbly, graciously accepting the outpouring of love from her cheering fans. Dressed in a white tuxedo vest top, super-short satin shorts, and a fierce squint, she looked
Maxim
hot and
Sports Illustrated
determined.

Seconds later, perky newcomer and fellow redhead Lauren Shirley bounced onto the court. She was greeted with a smattering of applause, making it clear she was hardly the main attraction.

The game started, and Svetlana began annihilating her opponent from the word
go
. Dylan sprinted for each stray ball, speedily removing it so the match could continue at its dizzying pace. But still, despite her hair-tossing, sighing, and occasional throat-clearing, Svetlana didn’t seem to notice her. And if she did, she seemed the opposite of threatened. At this point, the only thing this revenge plot had to offer was a bad case of shin splints and sweaty pits.

Svetlana won her game, and the crowd cheered like football fans, ah-bviously suckers for a good anger-management comeback story. J.T.’s forehead was practically mashed up against the tinted glass of his family’s box. He was holding Boris, wiggling one of his gray paws so it would look like the kitty was waving.

From a distance, he didn’t look quite as ah-mazing as she remembered. His pretty-boy features were still intact, but they didn’t twist her gut her like they once had. The spell had been broken—not because he’d double-crossed her, but because he’d chosen Svetlana. And even though she was beautiful, toned, and world famous, that didn’t mean she was a better catch. The only thing it proved was that J.T. was a tennis stalker with a soft spot for psychos. And that was a major turnoff.

It was time for the players to change sides. Despite Lauren’s horrible score, she smile-waved at her mini cheering section as she passed. Svetlana ignored the crowd, her head hung low as if focused on the tips of her sneakers.

“Nikeeee,” Dylan burped as Svetlana approached the baseline.

She stopped suddenly, her I’m-in-the-zone squint quickly morphing into wide-eyed surprise. Her expression said, “What are you doing here?” while her blue green eyes scanned the court for some sort of explanation. When she didn’t find one, she drew back her racket, ever so slightly, to remind Dylan that she’d tooth-bashed once and wasn’t afraid to do it again.

Dylan mouthed, “Whatevs,” but her gums tingled with fear.

On the court, Svetlana took the fourth set with little effort, and Dylan was there to pick up every ball. At first she chalked it up to revenge adrenaline, but as her legs sprinted back and forth, she realized that tennis boot camp had left her in pro shape.

Merri-Lee gave her a proud smile from the press box, and Dylan beamed. Her mother had noticed her. In a resort filled with genetically perfect tennis superstars, her mother had noticed
her
! It was a moment fit for a Dove commercial. And it gave Dylan the push she needed to stay the course and finish what she’d started.

“Looks like Sizesix Pimple has finally found her calling,” Svetlana hissed when Dylan handed her two service balls.

“And you’ve finally met your match,” Dylan countered, wishing Massie had been there to applaud her speedy comeback.

“I certainly have.” Svetlana blew an air kiss to J.T., who annoyingly caught it and stuffed it in the pocket of his white loserfan shorts.

Almost instantly, Svetlana refocused on the game and began pacing the baseline like a caged lion.
“Huuu-agh!”
She tossed up one of the balls up and smashed it right into the net.

“Let!” the line judge yelled, indicating that Svetlana got a do-over.

Perf!
Suddenly, Dylan had the amazing opportunity she’d been waiting for.

Bounding to retrieve the ball, she skipped past Svetlana and whispered, “You’re on fire!”

Ignoring the jab, Svetlana pulled a ball out of her pocket and gave it a bounce. It appeared as though she hadn’t heard the forbidden compliment. And then she began running in place—a dead giveaway that she had.

The Svetlana Way™ suggested psyching out your opponent with a Sudden-Burst-Of-Energy Jog™ when you were feeling weak. And since Lauren wasn’t exactly threatening Svetlana, it meant Dylan was.

Pop!

Svetlana served an ace.

Hmmm.

She wound up again.

“Doing great, Svet!” Dylan flashed the thumbs-up sign while she ran to the other side of the court to retrieve the ball.

Pop! Swoosh.
Svetlana served the next ball straight out of the stadium. There was a loud thump, then the whine of a car alarm. The crowd ooh-ed louder than usual.

Svetlana’s nostrils flared as she missed not one, not two, but
three
of Lauren’s next service points. The crowd murmured and shifted uncomfortably in their metal seats.

Finally, a volley began, and it seemed Svetlana was getting her juice back.

It was now or never.

“You rock, Svetlana!” Dylan whisper-hissed as she crouched along the sideline.

Svetlana glared at her, but Dylan refused to let that trip her up. She had a mission and had to stay focused.

“Great form!” Dylan air-clapped as Svetlana swung back to return one of Lauren’s speedballs.

Pop
. . . right into the net.

“You’re still the best!” Dylan said just loud enough for Svetlana to hear as she ran to retrieve the ball.

“E-nuffff!” Svetlana smashed her racket onto the court.

Dylan immediately backward-jogged to the sideline. But she wasn’t fast enough. Svetlana grabbed a ball out of her skirt pocket and whipped it at Dylan’s calf. Hard. Then Svetlana chucked another, and another . . .

Cameras started clicking, and reporters rushed the court. Resort security pulled up on golf carts, and Svetlana’s mom-coach rose out of her chair. Still, Dylan managed a smile—done, done, and done! She danced around the court as Svetlana pelted her.

“Svet!” Lauren raced around the net to try and stop her, but Svetlana just grabbed Lauren’s racket and used it to smash more balls at Dylan. Luckily, the rainbow ball drill and a sixth-grade obsession with
Dance Dance Revolution
had taught Dylan a thing or two.

When a ball came right, she’d jump left. When one came left, she’d jump right. Forward, back, side, side . . . it turned into a fun little spectacle that had the crowd cheering and the calories burning. The cameras turned to her again. But Dylan hardly noticed. She just kept avoiding balls and giggling, feeling like her old self again.

“Svetlana, stop!” J.T. suddenly appeared, clutching Boris with one hand and trying to wrestle the titanium racket from her grip with the other.

Dylan’s insides soared. He
did
care about her after all.

“The
match
. . .” he pleaded. “You’re gonna blow it!”

It took all of Dylan’s willpower not to pick up one of the balls at her feet and whip it at his face. Then she realized it had never been Svetlana she was competing with for J.T.’s attention. It was
tennis
.

“Get offa me, Loserfan!” Svetlana swung around and smashed her racket into J.T.’s perfect face.

“OWWWW!!!” He dropped Boris. Blood began to gush from his nose, adding a much-needed splash of color to his boring white outfit. A swarm of paramedics raced to his side.

“Find my Boris!” Svetlana pleaded. But nobody tried to stop the gray kitty cat with the haunting blue eyes as he dashed off across the court in search of a normal life.

“SVETLANA!” Mom-Coach tried to grab her, but security arrived first. A cluster of stocky men in Hawaiian shirts and white slacks dragged her off the court.

Of course she kicked and screamed and threatened them in her mother tongue, but all they did was smile dutifully for the paparazzi, as if they were hauling Britney Spears back to Promises.

Dylan was looking on with pride when she noticed Svetlana squirm away from the guard and reach under her white tennis vest. In a flash, she turned back toward Dylan. Security tightened their grip, but it was too late. One last yellow ball shot out from her hand and hurled toward Dylan’s brow bone. The crowd, the cameras, the anxious announcers . . . everything seemed muted. The only sound Dylan heard was the
whoosh
of the ball as it Matrix-sliced through the air. Without a single thought, Dylan opened her palm and caught it.

“Aggghh!” It was like getting high-fived by a burning whip. The impact nearly took her wrist off.

The crowd erupted in cheers.

For her. Finally, they were cheering for her!

Dylan transferred the ball into her left hand and shook the pain away.

“Ball girl! Ball girl! Ball girl!” The chant grew.

As usual, Merri-Lee was barking orders at her camera crew. But instead of directing them toward Svetlana, she told them to focus on her daughter.

Dylan blew kisses. She waved. She smiled. She cried.

“Ball girl! Ball girl!”

Fans tossed flowers, teddy bears, and even a few phone numbers written on ketchup-stained Svetlana programs.

After a few minutes, the noise died down, but one voice kept chanting. It belonged to a boy.

A very, very cute one.