Dylan (8 page)

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
ALOHA OPEN: CENTER COURT

Wednesday, July 8

4 P.M.

The arena was empty now except for Merri-Lee and her staff, who had built a charming little interview set in the center of Court One. The cleanup crew had been ordered to leave her daughter’s flowers and teddy bears exactly where they landed, because Merri-Lee thought it added ambiance. Dylan happily agreed.

“This is Merri-Lee Marvil for
The Daily Grind,
coming to you live from the Aloha Open with this year’s men’s champion, Brady Erickson. He’s an amazing player, and quite a heartthrob.” Merri-Lee gave her audience a flirty wink. “Congratulations on your big win.”

“Thanks, Merri-Lee.” Brady swung the Aloha trophy like a beer stein with his beyond-ripped arms. His dark wavy ponytail was partially stuck to his salty, sweaty neck in that ah-dorable Gatorade commercial sort of way. And his chocolate brown eyes, which kept wandering over to Dylan, made her feel sauna-warm. They seemed kind and sincere and . . . honest—qualities she’d never sensed in J.T.’s flashy electric blues.

“This is your first time out of the juniors and into the men’s draw. And you won. What’s it like being the youngest male to take the Aloha Open?” Merri-Lee crossed her cocoa butter–slicked legs, revealing a pair of tanned calves that had obviously spent the better half of the week on a surfside chaise.

“I just got out there and made my shots. Cartwright played an awesome game. He had me on the run in that first set, but I just dug deep and came up lucky, I guess.”

Modest.

“This puts you within striking distance of the tennis gods, Federer and Nadal. What’s next?”

“Honestly?” He smiled with a trace of guilt. “I’d like to take a short break from tennis and enjoy Hawaii. Maybe even try one of those butterscotch sundaes everyone is ordering by the pool.” He licked his cherry-red lips.

Dylan slid off the director’s chair and inched a little closer. Was this guy for real or just an Adam Brody look-alike robot with muscles that had been programmed to say all the right things?

She stared at him with shock and awe. He stared back, nodding, ever so slightly, assuring her that her suspicions were right—he
was
perfect. The intensity of the moment made her stomach lurch in a good way.

“So,
Brady
, what do you do in your free time?” Merri-Lee ech-hemmed, indicating this was not the first time she’d asked him.

“Oh, sorry,” he snicker-blushed. Several of the crew smiled too. “I, um, I love hanging out with friends, eating, laughing, and rock climbing.”

Well, three out of four isn’t bad.

Re-glossing her lips, Dylan felt a surge of self-anger. If only she had noticed his hawtness earlier, she never would have wasted her time on . . .

She shook the thought away. It wasn’t
her
fault. She had always been a sucker for packaging. And J.T., with his caramel locks, was shinier.

Merri-Lee leaned into the tennis champ. “I can’t let you go without asking this. You’ve been on the tour with Svetlana since you were both tiny tennis tots. Do you think the ITA made the right move in banning her from the sport until further review?”

Rubbing her still-sore hamstring where one of Svetlana’s well-placed shots had nailed her, Dylan wished
she
could answer that question.

He shrugged. “Last time I checked, tennis was not a contact sport, so yeah.”

His publicist, a short-haired brunette with black plastic–framed glasses and not enough makeup, folded her arms across her chest and huffed. Then she gave him a deadly I-canNOT-believe-you-said-that glare.

Brady shrugged unapologetically and mouthed, “Well, it’s true.”

Dylan was officially back in summer-crush mode—v. 2.0.

“One last question.” Merri-Lee hooked a chunk of burgundy hair behind her diamond-studded ear. Then she winked at her daughter in a this-one’s-for-you sort of way. “Is there a lucky girl who you’ll be celebrating with at the ESPN party tonight?”

Gawd! How did her mother know? Was Dylan drooling? Panting? Foaming at the mouth?
Not that it mattered. All she really cared about was his answer.

“Well, I’d be the lucky one if I could get the real star of the Aloha Open to do me the honor . . .” Brady extended his hand toward . . . Dylan.

Ehmagawd!
Dylan wanted to freeze time. She needed to re-gloss, fluff her hair, nervous-puke, change into something with color, and call Massie to brag. But all she could do was dry her clammy hands on her white skirt and join him under the bright klieg lights.

Where she’d known she belonged all along.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB
POOLSIDE ICE CREAM BAR

Wednesday, July 8

5:18 P.M.

A wonderfully shirtless Hawaiian waiter wearing board shorts and a red and white striped apron slid a smile-shaped bowl down the polished mahogany bar.

“One butterscotch sundae, two spoons,” he announced.

Brady’s brown eyes widened when the guilty pleasure stopped in front of him.

Without a single self-doubting thought, Dylan grabbed both spoons, loaded them up with gooey ice cream, and stuffed them both in her mouth. “Didn’t you order one?” she managed through the onset of brain freeze.

Brady giggle-pulled one of the spoons out of her mouth and stuck it right in his. He didn’t even wipe it off.

It seemed like everyone by the pool was envy-staring while Brady and Dylan swapped stories about their lives and friends back home. They were probably wondering what it was like to be highly attractive famous sports icons:
BALL GIRL AND RACKET BOY: THE
LOVE
STORY.

“Is this what life without tennis is like?” He licked his lips and dug in deep for another taste. “It’s enough to make me give up sports for good.”

“Really?” Dylan beamed. “You’d do that?”

Before he could answer, Mom-Coach appeared, her rectangular head eclipsing the bright sun. Dylan groaned. It was a total Netflix moment—just as the movie was getting good, the DVD broke.

Dylan pulled her black chiffon wrap off the back of her bar chair and draped it over her berry red Juicy one-piece. For some reason, Mom-Coach’s chilly stare made her feel exposed.

“Sign, please.” The barrel-chested blonde-from-a-box troll slammed a document on the bar. She clicked a fake-gold Parker pen and handed it to Dylan. Everyone on the deck turned to stare.

“What’s this?” Dylan inched closer to Brady’s strong arms, just in case Svetlana was lurking.

“Confidentiality agreement,” she said as though she were chewing chunky beef stew.

“Why would I sign this?” Dylan looked at Brady as if he might have the answer.

“I can have my manager look it ov—”

“No manager!” Mom-Coach stomped her yellow Crocs. “Read and you will understand.”

Dylan took another spoonful of ice cream, removed her silver square-framed Marc Jacobs sunglasses, and lifted the document to her heavily mascaraed eyes.

Brady leaned in. He smelled like peppermint from the complimentary special-edition Aveda sports soap in the rooms.

“Confidential!” Mom-Coach pushed him away. “Now read! I have international flight to catch.”

Dylan did her best to focus on the confidential, eight-point font on the bright white letterhead. But it was hard, because Brady was inhaling the sundae, and she wanted to get back to both of them before they were gone.

For Dylan Marvil:

Svetlana Slootskyia is sorry for damage caused to you (by her). She is going back to treatment facility to work on anger. When she returns to sport she will emerge with new name and hair color to signify fresh start. Ilana Bravya Slootskyia will be of brown hair with much patience and kindness. And she would like your help. This means no mention of the “episodes” you recorded (twisting wrist and smashing votives). No interviews to talk about how she bashed you with tennis balls. No bad words about her at all. If you do this, we will give you first dibs on all free clothing and merchandise she gets from sponsors for the next ten years. And American Boris when we locate him.

X_________________________________

(Dylan Marvil)

Dylan put a big X through the part about Boris and signed. She knew she could probably ask for more, but why bother?

She had everything she wanted.

Now that you’re clued in to the confidentiality contract, you’re another step closer to being IN.

In the know, that is. . . .

SUMMER STATE OF THE UNION

IN

• Purple hair streaks

• Confidentiality contracts

Euro pop stars

Shark-tooth necklaces

Massie & Claire in Orlando

OUT

Summer secrets

Five girls. Five stories. One ah-mazing summer.

THE CLIQUE

SUMMER COLLECTION

BY LISI HARRISON

Turn the page for a sneak peek of Alicia’s story. . . .

THE CLIQUE

SUMMER COLLECTION

ALICIA

BARCELONA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
CUSTOMS GATE

Tuesday, June 8

1:45 P.M.

Alicia Rivera stuffed her purple-and-turquoise vintage Pucci silk wrap in the side pocket of her Louis Vuitton carry-on and wheeled it toward baggage claim. She could practically
hear
her mother scolding her for treating the delicate, wrinkle-prone fabric with such reckless abandon. But she opposite of cared. Nadia was back in Westchester and Alicia had just arrived in Spain. Thanks to an all-consuming lipo-gone-wrong trial, her attorney father and supportive mother had to stay home. And that meant
she
was parent-free for the first summer of her entire life.

And the rules were about to change.

The Barcelona International Airport (or
Barth-eh-lona,
as the locals called it) was another reminder that Alicia was a world away from home. Women whizzed passed her, smelling like musky cologne and wearing brightly colored pumps. Men wore hair gel that shined like M.A.C. Lipglass and loafers without socks. College kids with bulging backpacks that had been sloppily stitched with American or Canadian flags shuffled by in Tevas, their expressions a mix of airplane-groggy and let-the-games-begin psyched.

If Massie had been in the overly air-conditioned terminal, she’d have been rolling her eyes at the “poor taste parade.” But Alicia had a secret appreciation for variety. Light denim washes and sneakers that looked like bowling shoes weren’t exactly her thing, but they were different—a welcome change from the usual. And wasn’t that what summer’s all about?

A loud girly squeal, the kind perfected by
High School Musical
fans, forced Alicia’s attention to the orange wall of billboards to her left. Between the faded ad for a Goya exhibit at El Prado and some sugary cereal made of red marshmallow–shaped bulls were five Euro tweens giggle-posing next to a poster of an overly Photoshopped, deeply bronzed, hazel-eyed, black-haired boy.

After their picture had been taken, they each kissed his bleached, bathroom tile–like teeth, leaving behind cherry-red lip prints and a citrus-floral medley of the different perfumes they must have been sampling in the duty-free shop.

Alicia stopped in front of the billboard and tried to decipher the yellow all-caps font that shouted: SI ERES UNA VERDADERA BELLEZA ESPAñOLA TE QUIERO PARA MI PROXIMO VIDEO MUSICAL. EL BAILE RECREADO PARA LA CANCIóN “RAIN IN SPAIN.” LAS AUDISIONES SERAN EN EL HOTEL LINDO. ¡I! TE HARE UNA ESTRELLA.

Alicia had learned enough Spanish from her mother and their six previous visits to know that the pop star on the poster was looking for a real Spanish beauty to be in his new music video. And—from what she could gather—his name was ¡i!.

Instantly, a vision of herself in a swiveling makeup chair being blushed, blow-dried, then whisked off to wardrobe made her chapped travel-hands slick with excitement sweat. After the Spanish paparazzi had made her a household name, she’d return to U.S. soil ready to claim her seat on the alpha throne. She’d hold a private viewing party in her father’s screening room, where the Pretty Committee and their new crushes (TBD) would admire her on the big screen as she played her international music video for them over and over and over. Every time she’d turn it off, they’d beg her to run it again so they could admire her beauty and study her advanced dance moves one more time. It would be the perfect way to start the eighth grade. Massie would envy her times ten. And
that
would give her a surplus of confidence that would fuel her until Thanksgiving, if not a week or two longer.

So what if she wasn’t a
real
Spanish Beauty? Her mother was, and that made her half. And
half
of Alicia was better than anyone else’s
whole,
at least from what she could see in the airport: Her slick dark hair was the shiniest, her Dior’s were the roundest, her navy Ralph Lauren shirtdress and wide gold belt were the most stylish, and her wood-soled Miu Miu wedges were the highest. Besides, she was trained at Westchester’s prestigious Body Alive Dance Studios. And there wasn’t a purebred in all of Spain who could claim that.

She may not have been an alpha yet, but becoming a Spalpha (Spanish alpha) was totally doable. And once she ruled Spain for a summer she’d have enough experience to dominate OCD. From the moment Alicia stepped off the plane, twenty-seven people—wait, make that twenty-eight—had checked her out. And she hadn’t even arrived at baggage claim yet.

When she did, she spotted her sixteen-year-old twin cousins, Celia and Isobel Callas, sitting in one of those long golf carts used to transport luggage, teasing the driver by repeatedly knocking off his black patent-leather cap. They threw their long, tanned necks back and cackled as he feigned frustration. It probably wasn’t every day—or every decade, even—that the pint-sized porter had two leggy, raven-haired socialites ravage him for free. The scene made Alicia’s exfoliated feet tingle with joy.

“Yippeeee!” Celia—or was it Isobel?—hollered as she tossed the driver’s cap like a Frisbee. It landed on the moving conveyor belt and began making its circular journey. He rolled his eyes playfully and hopped off the cart to chase after it. Isobel—or was it Celia?—jumped in the front seat, gripped the wheel, slammed her metallic gold espadrille on the gas pedal, and began doing doughnuts across the shiny beige floor. Alicia couldn’t have been more proud to call them family.

“A-lee-cia! A-lee-cia!”
they shouted as they sped toward her.

“Hola!”
Alicia beam-waved, then jumped out of the way. They screech-stopped in front of her, leaped out, and planted a series of double-cheek welcome kisses on her blushing face.

“So great to see you, cousin,” said Celia, tugging the massive gold
C
on her massive gold chain. It hung below her barely there cleavage and knocked against the stiff edges of her fuchsia denim vest. She wore it with a burnt-orange taffeta bubble skirt and lace-up gold sandals. Her hair was slicked into a tight bun that reflected more light than the porter’s patent-leather cap. “You look very stylish.”

“Grassy,”
Alicia chirped, putting her new abbreviation for
gracias
straight to work.

“I love how you say ‘
grassy’
! May I borrow?” asked Isobel, who was wearing a Mediterranean-blue tube top, white short-shorts, and oversize blue-plastic-frame Ray-Bans.

They made those?

“You
can borrow grassy, Iso—I want to borrow that gold belt.” Celia reached out and poked Alicia’s braided Ralph Lauren belt.

“Given.” Alicia smiled, thinking of her new summer wardrobe and how much her cousins were going to worship it. “My closet is your closet, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered their thirteen-year-old sister, Nina, and her passion for stealing designer clothes.

The Spanish Loser Beyond Repair had spent a couple of weeks at OCD last semester and had not only tried to steal the Pretty Committee’s boyfriends but also half of the girls’ wardrobes. So far there was no sign of her. Alicia crossed her French-manied fingers and prayed it would stay that way for the entire summer. Hopefully she’d been shipped off to a reform school for kleptomaniacs, because there was nothing less Spalpha than a SLBR tagalong with theft issues.

A loud, New York Stock Exchange–type bell rang, then bags started to appear on the conveyor belt. One by one, they floated by like pageant contestants, sporting pink bows, plaid scarves, and neon tags to ensure they’d be safely reunited with their loving owners. But no one turned to claim them. Instead, the weary travelers could not take their eyes off the three dark beauties and their bright summer clothes. Already Alicia could feel her Spalpha stock rising.

Isobel lifted her blue Ray-Bans, narrowed her almond-shaped brown eyes, and turned to Celia. She said something quickly in Spanish to her sister. Alicia only managed to pick up the words “borrow,” “cousin,” and “audition.” Determined to make this a no-secrets summer, she spoke up:

“Are you talking about the video audition?” she asked, proud that she was already in the know.

“Si,”
Isobel lowered her voice and her glasses.

Alicia forced a smile, while her dream of becoming a Spanish star collapsed like a snaking wall of dominoes. How was she supposed to compete with the gorgeous-times-two twins?

“Your American clothes will be perfect for the audition,” Celia offered.

“I heart that.” Alicia rocked back and forth on the wood heels of her Miu Mius. She felt beautiful and bouncy, like her entire body was made of Pantene-commercial hair. “And maybe I can try out in some of your—”

“You can’t!” Celia snapped, her gold necklace swinging back and forth. “You are not true Spanish.”

“Puh-lease!” Alicia rolled her tired brown eyes. It was bad enough when Massie called her Fannish (fake Spanish) just because her father, Len, was American. But it was quite another thing to hear it from her own flesh and blood. And no self-respecting alpha would stand for it. The old Alicia would have admitted defeat and resigned herself to a summer of cheering on her cousins while she envy-watched from the sidelines. But the new Alicia was going to fight for her rightful place in the alpha kingdom. And she was going to win.

“They asked for a true Spanish beauty, right?” Alicia pressed.

The twins nodded, barely noticing as the porter snuck up behind them, reclaimed his cart, and sped off.

“Well, what I don’t have in
Spanish,
I make up for in
beauty
.” Alicia tossed her hair. She was acting the part now—soon she would become it.

“Point,” Isobel nodded, still using Alicia’s expression from last summer.

“I say we sneak out of the house tonight and go to the Hotel Lindo. We will party there and search for ¡i! and his entourage and—”

Sluuuurppppp. Sluuuurppppp.

The sound of someone straw-draining the last drops of liquid from a glass bottle put an instant hold on their scheme session. Alicia turned to see why and came face-to-face with Nina, who had been lurking behind her, an empty Orangina in hand. She was still tall and thin. Her boobs were still massive. But she no longer posed a physical threat, thanks to her new hair-
don’t
. Thick platinum bangs and a bowl-bob grazed her rounded jaw. On a supermodel in New York who only wore skinny jeans, tight black turtlenecks, and matte red lipstick, this look would have been hawt. But on someone wearing a ketchup stained turquoise racer-back tank with yellow linen pants, it came off like more of a dare.

“Hola,”
Nina hissed, offering no embrace. She was obviously still bitter that the Pretty Committee had publicly busted her at the OCD Valentine’s Day dance for stealing their stuff. They’d then had the police escort her off campus and dump her at the airport.

“Hola,”
Alicia responded coldly. In the split second since Nina had appeared, it seemed like everyone who had been watching them turned away. She was terrible for business.

“I know what you were talking about.” Nina rubbed her heavily lined brown eyes like she’d just woken up, smudging blue kohl under her bottom lashes. “But no one has ever seen ¡i! in person. What makes you think—”

“Go get Cousin’s bags.” Celia stomped her gold sandal.
“Ándale!
Papa is waiting in the car.”

Nina chucked her bottle in a metal trash can and stormed off to retrieve the only set of Louis Vuitton suitcases in the mix.

Isobel leaned in toward Alicia, surrounding her in the unmistakable scent of Bobbi Brown’s Beach. “We must not let her know what we are up to. She is a—how you say . . . tagalong! And will make us look bad in front of ¡i!. If you want to have fun with us this summer, you must avoid Little Sister.”

“No prob,” Alicia sighed, relieved that they were all thinking the same thing.

“Ready?” Nina asked, wheeling two brown-and-gold suitcases, one in each hand. She led the way through the sliding glass door outside to the pick-up area.

It was humid and sunny. The foreign smell of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes wafted around them, reminding Alicia that she was entering an alternate universe where anything was possible. Betas could become alphas, Fannish could become Spanish, and Nina and her “rob hobby” could be easily avoided.

Suddenly, Nina stopped walking. She turned around and smiled her toothy Julia Roberts grin at Alicia. “Did my sisters tell you we’re sharing a room this summer?”

Celia and Isobel quickly turned to face each other, as if they were deeply involved in a telepathic conversation and couldn’t be interrupted.

Alicia’s heart thumped to the beat of the salsa music blaring from a blue MINI Cooper that had just passed them. “What do you mean? I always get my own—”

“Mama is renovating the guest wing.” Nina licked her puffy lips with delight. “So we will all be together. You, me, my graphic-novel collection, and your precious American clothes.” She winked.

“Wait!
What?”
Alicia checked her pink, crocodile-strap Gucci watch, wondering if there was time to catch the last flight back to JFK.

Just then, Nina rolled one of the suitcases through a steaming brown clump of . . .

She stopped to examine the stinky wheel. “Uh oh,
perro
poo!”

Celia and Isobel gasped while Alicia buried her face in her hands, knowing exactly how her poor Louis felt.